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 HOW TO RECEIVE CRITIQUES, A THUNDERDOME GUIDE:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wBqTng4c2iU&t=135s
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Dec 31, 2014 22:59
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Martello posted:farts forever an ever amen 
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Jan 1, 2015 03:03
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Jan 3, 2015 00:44
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these some really effeminate and limp-wristed burns here, bro. we're asking for insults not your lovely life story fyi
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Jan 3, 2015 03:23
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leekster posted:I'll also crit the first three people who ask for one. You should prob start by critting your own piece,
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Jan 5, 2015 14:25
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Doing a line by line of your own story is pretty dumb! So I'll do a line by line of yours if you get my next one, you dingus
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Jan 6, 2015 02:19
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THUNDERDOME IS DUMB AND LAME (I am in)
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Jan 6, 2015 14:14
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CRITS Schneiderheim, “New Habits”: Starts off with a lot of garbage exposition and dialogue, then keeps going. I see what you’re maybe trying to do, introduce us to weak characters that turn out to be superhuman, but at your halfway point all we’ve learned is a bunch jargon and some half-baked ideas about that one guy’s past. The whole time I read the story the characters just seemed like British upper-crust twinks. Nothing happens except for men reminiscing about other men. The story veers dangerously close to fanfic, since if I wasn’t accosted by god awful superhero bullshit day in and day out I wouldn’t have the faintest loving clue what you’re talking about. Cacto, “The Will”: I’m sure there are grammatical errors and what have you, but I’m not the sperg to consult on that. I sort of have a love/hate relationship with this prose. On the one hand you’ve got this Victorian period piece thing going on which you pull off quite well, but then you shoehorn elements that really don’t fit: A/C and television. It sort of ruins the immersion, but the piece is tongue-in-cheek enough to handle that if this work is part of a larger fictive universe. The biggest failing of this story is the almost Deus-Ex ending. You could have turned this into a sort of whodunnit, but there’s absolutely not enough character development to even try and pin the blame on someone. Nethilia, “Out of my life”: Wow, a strong contender. I don’t understand one part, though. You seem to introduce a whole host of characters that never get explained. The husband walks into the room with “five guys” but who they are and what they’re doing remains a mystery! The only real issue I have with this is that you use the word “backseat” (which I’m surprised is actually a word and not two!) twice in the same sentence. You managed to write characters compelling enough to make me read the whole story and actually care about the ending. Sledghammer, “Two Bullets”: A somewhat competent story about two bloodthirsty cops. Seriously, what police force on earth is going to let a cop keep the bullet casings he used to shoot a guy? Who the gently caress is going to shoot a guy and then be chipper about the same day? These cops, apparently. Also, a rookie named Ramirez? Really? I personally found the “then” and “now” breaks infuriating, but at least they managed to tell a story. No new ground broken anywhere here. Fumblemous, “Football and Fireworks”: pretty good, but the whole time I read it I was sure the girl was a ghost and that this story would have a bittersweet ending. Turns out that nope, it’s just some fantasy bullshit and you go off on a tangent about adventures and a gate or something. Sittinghere, “Touch and go and touch again”: I’m not sure how I feel about this. I’m not sure if there IS anything to feel about this. A series of overly florid discordant images strung along on some quasi-religious mythos. Too many pretty words, too many abrupt transitions and you actually, honestly loving managed to cram the word whimsical in there. WE ALREADY KNOW IT’S WHIMSICAL WE loving READ IT DIDN’T WE???? LOU BEGA’s etc, “Penny Puncher”: It starts. With sentences. Too short. Holy gently caress though, are you SERIOUSLY sidestepping the chance at opening with a boxing match and instead writing a few lovely words about pennies and mats? Jeeeesus. Surprisingly little action in a story about MMA, and with the title I was really hoping that Sayid would be bested by trickery, like, say, a roll of pennies concealed in a fist or something. But this story pulls no punches (get it? GET IT?) and winds up flat on its back (GET IT!?) Walamor, “Decisions”: You’re lucky there are worse entries, but this is some serious horse poo poo. It doesn’t really meet the prompt; we have NO IDEA who these fuckers are or what they used to do. Maybe if you’d actually used more words like you were supposed to there’d be something to critique. Actually, who am I kidding. It would be another few hundred words of absolutely nothing loving happening. Anomalous Blowout, “When you need it most”: I don’t think this would have won in another week, but your prose was tight and you did tell a story. I wasn’t totally satisfied with the depth, though. The arc is fairly shallow, the story doesn’t build as much as it ends. You show us two vignettes to establish a precedent then the story resolves on the third. A solid system and you gave us a decent ending, but I still want more, dammit. Docbeard, “Good night miss Miller”: Spies and a confusing ending Ironic twist: Some sort of confusing rehash of telltale heart or something like that. There’s too little character development and far too much focus on the lump in the floor. I didn’t come here to read about lumps, dammit. jonked, “ The Pearl”: A very strong start to the story, I love breakfast fic! You lose points for not involving buttermilk or maple syrup, though. It’s a decent story with an awful ending and bizarre tense shifts. I don’t know what the gently caress happened! I sort of care, but the wife is some kind of weirdo caricature of a woman, barely even human. It was getting pretty intense up until he found the pearl, but then instead of some kind of tragic ending or some sort of coming to God moment you decided to give us margaritas and INTRODUCE CHARACTERS IN THE LAST loving ACT. Kurona bright, “stump talk”: Way, way too many characters. Confusing relationships. Some of them aren’t even needed in the story. You spend a lot of words describing two guys kissing when it’s not important to the plot. I’m guessing the “twist” here was supposed to be that Andrew is her brother, and not (as the reader is supposed to assume) her boyfriend? I got the vibe that maybe she was using one of the two guys as a beard and vice versa and the brother thing was supposed to be a twist? Either way, nothing loving happens. Crabrock, “waves”: I devoured this story in the hopes it would be about dicks, but what I got in the end was a sort of sadness. I liked the reference you made to light's beam/wave duality, but I fear it was lost on other domers (because they are not as smart as us, you see). Actually, I'm not sure how I feel about all that exposition right at the end and with those final facts in mind, what sort of friendship was there? It seems ShittyBecky was just a burden SmartBecky. Benny the Snake, “the Christmas truce”: Is this supposed to be historical fiction? It really seems like you’re gunning for the ww1 Christmas truce, but it doesn’t make the least bit of sense. Charlie Brown came a long time after that war ended, the uniforms weren’t just green and brown and I’m like, 80% sure it wasn’t a civil war. More to the point, you waste a TON of words just copy/pasting bible verses. What the gently caress? OH wait, okay, I got to the end and welp, you done hosed up. There’s not enough pointers here to tell us this was an alternate universe or set in some distant future. You could have set this during the civil war by simply replacing the uniform colours and the word “airstrike” with “artillery barrage”. You didn’t bother trying to establish the setting or the characters, and what's worse you didn't even give us a plot! You did, however, have those bible verses. Maybe God will have mercy on you, because the judges won’t. Tyrannosaurus, “teeth and time”: Hits the prompt, but it didn’t blow my balls out of my pants. If you’re gonna wave your dick around and only use 700 words they better be loving poetic. It’s a vignette, and I’m not sure if you should even expand the story as is, or if it should be relinquished as a passing thought in some sort of delightful magical surfer universe. Bad Ideas Good, “charolette”: You misspell the name in the title and you don’t even bother to try and make the snake sound like he’s hissing. You should definitely take this to the farm. It shows some promise as there are glimpses of a narrative voice and a few humorous touches. There are problems that kill this story, though. First off, you’re like the THIRD loving PERSON TO START THEIR STORY WITH BREAKFAST. Second, your scene breaks are brutal. Third, the middle part might actually be a story and is the only part worth reading, but you ditch it. Fourth, the beginning and end are confusing because of the surreal aspects. The actions aren’t clear and the setting is bizarre, mainly the part about 50 witnesses. Alright, I know some of you aren't up there, but that's because I'm gonna do line by lines. Also, some of you that are up there are also getting line by lines, but I got too excited when I was writing crits so I guess y'all get two??!?!
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Jan 6, 2015 14:25
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Screaming Idiot posted:Like Old Times
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Jan 6, 2015 14:32
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I know I'm always pushing for action in the openers, but this is almost cheesy and over done as a hook. Besides, you had a much better place to start your story, but we'll expand on that later. 
pretty good until this point
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Post that godawful story in the farm, S.I. TD has enough bad fic as is.
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Jan 6, 2015 19:03
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Sitting Here posted:Touch and Go and Touch Again
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Jan 7, 2015 03:25
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docbeard posted:Good Night, Miss Mason
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Jan 7, 2015 03:39
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leekster posted:Injury Reserve
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Jan 7, 2015 03:51
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Vacation 897 turds Tires screeched and gravel peppered the plane’s aluminum skin. The pilot took off his headset and gestured at Daniel to do the same. Daniel winced, the roar of the ancient Yakolev’s motor was deafening. “Welcome to Tuva!” the pilot yelled, flipping switches without even looking. The roar subsided, but Daniel’s suspicion of the Russian’s sarcasm did not. Endless grassy steppes, raging rivers and no electricity were not his idea of a vacation. He blushed at the last thought, embarrassed and angry. The sound of dirt hitting her coffin drowned out the propeller. He remembered his last visit. She was mute, voice taken by cancer. She reached out for him – or maybe she didn’t. Memories and feelings converged. The plane pulled up alongside a brick and tin shack stencilled with a hammer and sickle. Daniel grabbed his luggage and stepped out of the plane. “You wait inside, bus be here soon. They say on radio they have trouble with tire. Is normal, here,” the pilot said, laughing. The pilot wheeled out a barrel of fuel and filled his plane by hand, but Daniel didn’t notice. His company was in the final stages of designing the first market-ready portable computer. He let the project consume all of his thoughts; it was easier than actually thinking. He sat Indian style in front of a metal box. After undoing a few clasps, a specially designed keyboard folded down exposing a tiny cathode ray tube. He flipped the power switch and the machine emitted a series of beeps. The readout displayed hexadecimal digits, Daniel stared in silence. This was his native tongue. The self diagnostic sequence checked off the systems. He held his breath, there was always an issue loading the volatile memory, something they hadn’t quite fixed. Everyone else suspected software, but Daniel was sure it had to do with the circuits. Too many things in too small a space. The moment the computer pulled more power the software went all wacky. He brought it up at a meeting once, the other guys just laughed and pointed at data sheets. There wasn’t anything nearly powerful enough to mess with a chip, they’d said. The hex readout slowed down, the computer was loading his custom software into memory. Daniel held his breath. The screen went dead. He slammed the computer shut and put it away. An ancient bus pulled up and sputtered to a stop, empty save for the driver. Tuva Wilderness Group read the stencil, beneath Cyrillic he couldn’t discern. The driver greeted him in Russian, Daniel nodded in response. A stilted back and forth let Daniel know he’d be in for a long haul, six hours at the least, if Daniel’s shaky grasp of the language was to be trusted. He sat behind the drive and tried to relax. The horizon didn’t seem to change, keeping track of time was impossible. Infinite hills punctuated with scraggly tundra brush and white water rivers. Sleep came softly, sneaking up on him between the chugging diesel and raging waters. Arguments flashed by like a film reel. She always wanted him to take a break, he kept promising her a trip after the next project was done. Months slipped by, turning into years. Just a few more weeks was always his excuse. That was before the endless string of doctor’s visits. Brain tumour. Malignant. Terminal. Words that would never again leave his vocabulary. The smell of rubbing alcohol and latex had replaced her delicate cinnamon scents. Her eyes were sunken and bloodshot. He remembered the tears when her hair was falling out. She spoke to him then, that dream-self, though speaking would have been impossible. “You have to promise,” she said. He nodded, reaching out for her hand. It was clammy and frail. “There are two tickets in my night stand. I’ve been saving up. There’s a travel agent’s phone number, I want you to call it,” she said. “Where am I going?” he asked. “On vacation.” Firelight flickered against his eyelids, jostling him into a place between wakefulness and sleep. A sound filled the bus, echoing off the steel. It wasn’t the motor, too quiet for that. A melody emerged from the pulsing tones, sounds that weren’t quite words drew pictures of wild horses in his head. He remembered the tape he’d promised to listen to but never did; the handwritten label had read throat singing. One voice faded and another one took over. This one was louder, livelier. The song went on for what seemed like ages, conjuring images of frozen steppes and warriors by firelight. This voice too faded, and a third voice took over. This one was deeper, older. The song shifted from melody to melody, notes blurring together. Daniel saw a mighty river breaking up on rocks, saw an empire rise and fall. This voice faded into clapping. The men had a winner. The singing started up again, all three voices at once. The notes converged and a fourth voice emerged, a sound that lived in the place where all sounds intersected, the same space occupied by Buddhist prayers and capacitors. Overtones. Harmonics. His circuits made sense now, the diagrams were all wrong. They hadn’t put the pieces at odd angles. Each stray charge amplified another, created a noise larger than the sum of its parts. He stepped off the bus and took a seat beside the fire.
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Jan 11, 2015 23:30
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Thanks for the crit! I was trying to show the similarity between vocal harmonic overtones and harmonic resonance. It's a really neato thing where mysticism and science meet up and hold hands.
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Jan 13, 2015 05:12
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okay after some deliberation I'm in. Prompt me, you shitloving turdhuffer!!
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Jan 14, 2015 04:12
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Agitated hunger of the kittens of grandiloquent infinity The places you walk (950 words) Daylight sent all but one of the rats scattering into the crevices of her cesspit dungeon. Crow leaned forward pulling the shackles taught until she was looking the creature dead in the eyes. “Is Horace ready?” she said without speaking. “Man. Forest. Horses.” The rat’s whiskers twitched. She licked her canines. This rat was duller than most. She beckoned it closer, until its whiskers were touching her face. With one quick snap she had the rat in her mouth. She threw her head back and let the blood drip down her throat. ### Horace sharpened his blade then strung and restrung his bow. Time creeped slowly here outside the city’s walls, in the shadow of the Majjistrum’s tower. Worries tarnished his thoughts like rust. There was a sense of dread, a terrible energy outside the city. He stared at the towering stone walls as the sun slid down over the horizon, wondering why she’d asked him to wait opposite the city gates. ### Darkness enveloped the dungeon and a fierce energy pulsed through her veins. Vengeance. She heard men nearing the door they’d sealed shut so many moons ago. “All this trouble to fish a corpse out of a cesspit, eh? Old man’s mad,” someone said, before an axe shattered the door. She feigned weakness and went limp in the shackles. The nightsoil farmers stepped aside, letting the prison guards through. “If she ain’t dead yet, she will be soon,” one said unlocking the shackles. They half dragged, half carried her out of the dungeon. They kicked her to her knees in front of the Majjistrum’s desk. She’d have felt fear before, fear and shame at her nakedness; instead she was calm and cold like the depths of a well. He rose and ambled towards her, holding a mirror to her face, smiling. She turned away from her reflection, knowing that’s what he wanted. She knew what she’d thrown away, how the skin hung off her bones now and her eyes were sunken and jaundiced. “And to think…” he started, but trailed off. She’d have spat at him, before. Told him he’s hornier than a satyr and twice as ugly, but she waited. He beckoned for her to stand. She lifted herself slowly, steadying herself on his oaken desk. “Now, my prodigal child, do you understand your crimes?” She nodded. “You’ve stolen from the Majji. Upon you we’ve imparted the greatest gifts – years of schooling, upbringing, the finest amenities we could provide.” He gestured wildly as he spoke, his purple cape shimmering in candlelight. “And yet…and yet, you’ve chosen to steal. What’s worse, you’ve chosen to eschew the morality we’ve attempted to instil! Quite a ruse, yes, quite a ruse! Usually we find the dangerous ones early, when they’re still young…” “But what’s this?” he ran his hand along a set of rough stitches in her side, near her breast. “Those barbarians are butchers! They call this medicine?” He spat. “Serves you right!” He turned, cape fluttering, and sat down at his desk, satisfied with his speech. He closed his eyes momentarily. With inhuman grace she tore the stitches open and whipped out the machination she’d carried under her skin. Her bony fingers clutched the blood-tarnished gold, finding all the right grooves. Click. A roar like thunder filled the Majjistrum’s office, his skull shattered by a sharpened steel point propelled by the barbarian’s black powder. She drank from the spurting vessels before collecting the larger pieces of skull. Wrapping his cape around her body she threw herself from the window, hitting the battlements with a crack of bone but feeling no pain. ### Horace went pale, barely able to control the horses when the ghoul came crashing through the forest canopy. Black bile seeped from a deep wound in her side, her eyes flashed with an eerie energy. Bones cracked and snapped as she threw her battered body atop the saddle, the horse calmed. Its breath became shallow and rattling. Horace crossed himself. “Ride!” the ghoul hissed. ### The altar was set up just as she’d demanded. Kittens, freshly weaned, hung by their hind legs at each point of a pentacle. They mewled hungrily as she entered the sanctum. At the pentacle’s center lay the tome with its binding of human skin. She kneeled and grabbed the book. It radiated a warmth that she hadn’t felt in a long time. She pressed her palm flat against it and swore she felt a heartbeat. Memories flooded back, her dying heart quickened its cadence. The taste of her lover’s breath and the unions they ought to have never formed, what was his name? The smell of those ancient books in the library she ought to have never found. The words that held such might that she was able to ply the Majjistrum’s mind, that first rush of power she’d felt. The escape, the mad dash through the forest and the fears she’d carried with her. Those nights spent contemplating death after the barbarians had found her, how they’d thrown dice for her. How with a flick of her fingers the dice did her bidding, how she poisoned the Headman’s body with arsenic and his mind with her words. He’d given up four men to the Majjistrum’s guards just so she could rot in a cesspit. None of that mattered now. She lay the book down and opened it to the familiar spot. She rose, clutching a sharpened piece of the Majjistrum’s skull. She slit the kitten’s throats, one by one, and let the blood drip onto the pentacle points. She lay down and slit her wrists. The life seeped out of her body and the transformation was complete.
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Jan 18, 2015 21:20
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Muffin-san I unironically love you~
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Jan 20, 2015 02:35
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i loving love spaceships so me and my raging space-boner are IN
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Jan 20, 2015 03:52
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Jan 20, 2015 03:57
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Thanks for the crit, leekster! The story takes place in Canada, however. We have forests *and* rangers too! I didn't actually mean to write "four by four" in a strange way, it's just in Canuck, a "four-by" denotes a vehicle with four wheel drive. The twin suns rose over the spaceport, the needle-like control tower cast two sets of shadows. Alarms sounded somewhere inside the tower, men rushed to their posts. A giant cockroach-shaped vessel breached the mercury-laden clouds. It was coming in too fast. Rosa Flores activated the descent thrusters, flipping biomechanical switches in the stolen alien ship. The control tower hailed her, but the ship's bio-radio only emitted a series of whistles and bony clicks. She said to herself "I'm Rosa Flores, Paranormal Investigator from L.A. and I can land a ship!" <--- teaser for this upcoming week, just for you crabs
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Jan 20, 2015 14:23
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Mr. Crabrock? Umm...Mr. Crabrock? I know I didn't raise my hand b...but can my spaceship also be a bong??
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Jan 21, 2015 01:20
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I had uh, important things come up so I couldn't finish...or even start my submission. I took a pic of what I did instead, though!
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Jan 26, 2015 04:07
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I'm in, with a  I guess...My God shall be the blind God of Winter and failed harvests.
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Feb 17, 2015 04:09
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Benny the Snake posted:I'd love to use your God, NH, but there doesn't seem to be a name. What's your God's name? Being blind he's always listening. Waiting for someone to speak his name so that he may turn towards them, open his ancient hands and blow plagues and poison seed across the land with his icy breath. His name has been purged from human history...mostly.
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Feb 18, 2015 03:07
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IdiotHellFucker69 669 words In with Broenheim's Inanis The blind and nameless God of winter and some other morose and morbid poo poo sat sulking in heaven or whatever the gently caress. “Being blind loving blows. Who the gently caress wrote me like this? This doesn’t even make any sense. Vision never had anything to do with fertility, you moron,” he said. The only other person that wanted to hang out with him was the Goddess of nothingness, Inanis, probably named after how inane her loving powers were. They didn’t really hang out by choice, though, it was more like they were stuck together because the other Gods were busy wearing vibrant colours and playing sports and loving. “Why you always gotta be such a downer?” She asked from somewhere behind the blind God of Winter or whatever. “Why do you always gotta talk to me from odd angles? You know I can’t loving see.” “It’s because you always wander in front of my loving spinning wheel before you start sulking, you moron,” she said. “I mean, I don’t even know how to use this thing and I don’t remember ever having any wool or anything. I’m pretty sure it’s just a prop…and aren’t there supposed to be three fates with me or something? Whatever, gently caress it,” she said. “Well, I sure would love to have a literate conversation with you but apparently no one’s given enough of a gently caress to bring Braille to Heaven or whatever,” the blind God said. “Plus, I wish I had a name. This is loving stupid. What’s the guy that wrote this doing?” Inanis used her God-vision and telepathy to create a narrative that made sense. The guy that wrote the story was sitting at his computer, logged in as IdiotHellFucker69 and masturbating furiously to transvestite pornography that could only be described as “off putting”. Inanis used her fuckin awesome God Powers to discern that he was indeed an idiot loser hell fucker that lived in his mom’s basement and made up lovely excuses instead of putting in a legitimate effort. She delved into the deepest recesses of his atrophied mind and found reasons for not writing a good story like “I worked a few twelve hour shifts and didn’t have time”, “I’m very drunk and it’s only a quarter past noon”, “I was too tired to write a few hundred words every day” and “I am pretty much like a love child between Hemingway and that one loving guy from Fear and Loathing so anything I write will be awesome and will win at any contest”. Inanis sighed and spun her empty wheel. Even though time had no meaning to a being as infinite as she was, she hoped his death would come swiftly and painfully. Because writing the conversation between the Gods would be something that takes effort, I want you, the reader, to pretend that they read each other’s minds or maybe they just talked, I don’t know, but I’m going to keep using commas, okay? “So, you mean he’s just some idiot jizzing all over his mom’s carpet?” The Blind God asked. “Sure looks like it,” said Inanis. “Though I did see some fledgling idea about us and about winter in some feudal Slavic poo poo hole. I’m sure there was an idea about a witch and an only son and the crushing poverty brought on by feudalism. Though it was hard to see between what I’m pretty sure were transvestites flogging each other on his 42” monitor. Did you know earthly taxes paid for that? Can you imagine?” The nameless God guy just sighed, sending an incredible chill over the idiot hell fucker’s home in a stinking bog of a flood plain. Snow fell and birds died, but the idiot hell fucker barely realized this as he was barricaded in his mom’s basement. He ate cheetos, farted and drank lovely whiskey while pretending to have autism so that he could get his mom to stop vacuuming so that he could better focus on the weirdo porn he was watching. autism ZX spectrum fucked around with this message at 03:47 on Feb 22, 2015 |
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Feb 21, 2015 19:53
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I'm gonna edit my post to include that info. So don't DQ my story because I really feel like I have a winner this week. The timestamp for the edit should more or less match this post's.
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Feb 22, 2015 03:46
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i am in this week u scrubs, clench ur buttholes
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Apr 21, 2015 02:45
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dude cache cab you can't even write a compelling boast-post but you're bragging about some bullshit small town self pub where your application process involves the use of a glory hole?
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Apr 23, 2015 02:30
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Sorry, here is a list of my works
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Apr 23, 2015 02:49
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Wizard 1300 words Thick clouds of ganja smoke hung near the ceiling of his one room basement apartment. Tendrils of Seattle sky clawed their way through the barred windows, settling on a ragged carpet, threadbare couch and a stolen spool of industrial cable. It was the best he could find in America on such short notice. He tapped his pipe twice on the spool-come-coffee table. This pile of ash marked the fourth point in a pentagram. The clatter roused his friends. A great scratching and scurrying erupted in between the ancient lath and plaster. A few moments passed and a plump young vole scurried across the carpet, up the cable and over to the pipe. It stood on its hind legs, twitched its whiskers and left him a gift – a dry green nug sparkling with THC. When this too was smoked he emptied the charred remains onto the final point and connected the points with a finger. “Ubi est meum denari” he spoke, softly, and a greasy pile of twenty dollar bills appeared on the table. Enough to cover the rent, anyway. This place, it was always raining. Incessant drizzle mixed with car exhaust, splashing up out of too-deep puddles and slowing down the constantly clicking wheels of consumer driven capitalism. Maybe it had been a mistake coming to the New World? Maybe he was just getting old. A truck roared past and knocked him out of his reverie, just before the muddy tsunami knocked him off his feet. A woman reached out and helped him up. They locked eyes, her smile faded. Not again… “Holy. poo poo. Ten years! Ten years and not so much as a single phone call! Do you know how much child support you owe me? John’s almost eighteen now, you better pay up!” He broke into a run. She shrieked behind him “Cops! Help! Anyone! He owes me money!” Casting fortify he didn’t stop running until he was miles away. He swore at himself for smoking that cursed gypsy weed all those ages ago. Turns out the only thing more powerful than that Arab indica was Arab magic. He spent the remainder of the day testing the power of his curse here. The barista broke down in tears showing him the tattoo of a dead bird she’d got when he’d divorced her. When he bought clothes at the mall hordes of women caused a minor riot when they tried to claw their way to him, each brandishing court summons or love letters or both. At least in Europe there was a certain kind of politeness about things. Sure there were more heartfelt speeches and long walks along the beach, often at knife point, but it was the kind of thing one could, in retrospect, grow used to and even miss. Not here. Maybe there was something more powerful then the curse here in America? Something so absolutely degenerate that no woman could ever admit to associating with it? He laid out the things he’d dug out of the dumpster on the way home. He inhaled and blew a lungful of smoke onto them, transmogrifying them into the summation of American Culture: a television with an internet connection. The next weeks went by in a haze. He caught up on the century or so of pop culture he’d so arrogantly dismissed. Time dilation spells, cheeto spells, poopsock and mountain dew spells all crackled like lightning out of his bony fingertips. An entire culture’s worth of T.V. seeped into his ancient brain. Slowly a picture formed. Neon letters on white wife beaters, tanned skin and rippling muscle; giant trucks, protein shakes, cheap malt liquor. The word came from deep within and his lips spoke as if it was the first word they had ever uttered… “bro” Filled with a new confidence and padded out by buff-as-gently caress spells he ignored the rain that soaked his ALPHA MALE poo poo wifebeater and beaded off his shades. Sure, the megablunt and half liter of cough syrup might have added to his mental state, but he was sure it was mostly confidence. He floated down the subway steps on a cloud of smoke, a homeless guy taking a dump looked up in awe. A flick of his bony wizard fingers and the poo poo was instantly turned into rainbows, sending the homeless guy flying in a foul smelling arc right onto the tracks. He landed with a thump and a sizzle. “Watch that third rail, bro.” Someone started screaming. He furiously cast a terror-to-opera spell but the panic was growing too fast. He was lost in his casting, in step with the bass beats coming from his rap-brand headphones. He didn’t notice the teeming mass of black rats that had picked the homeless guy’s bones clean. Having given up on converting the terror solely to opera he began casting other spells, somehow forgetting any memory erasure spells. Instead he cast spells like embaldment, hand-to-foot, mule’s head, pet rock mania, sweater-to-hoodie and moustache of bees. Someone grabbed him from behind. “Yeah that’s him! He owes me like ten grand!” A lady was yelling over a group of bewitched countertenors. “That’s it bud, you’re coming with us,” one of the policeman said before punching him in the gut. Red cough syrup shot out of his mouth and splattered all over his Air Jordan’s and the world went black. He woke in a cell with a splitting headache and only the faintest recollection of what happened the night before. He checked his pockets. The magic had worn off and his Bro gear had changed back into his wizard’s robe. Either way, they’d taken his weed. He sighed, not remembering how to cast a spell if he wasn’t high as balls when he did it. He lay down on the concrete bed and tried to keep from thinking, finally realizing why most people only chug cough syrup once. There was a rattle at the door. He groaned. A guard slid a tray of food through a slot, but it only made him want to dry heave. Whiskers brushed his cheek. “If you want the food, it’s yours,” he said. Before he’d even finished the sentence a great number of tiny feet scurried across the concrete and carried off everything the tray had to offer, leaving only tiny turds. It may have been a week or a maybe just a day before they dragged him out of the cell. Without his life-giving vapours he was getting frail. The courtroom was oppressively bright. The prosecutor smiled when he saw him, knowing that he’d make history for being the first ever lawyer to win a divorce and child custody class action case. He was representing no less than seventy five women that day. The wizard’s public defender stumbled into the court room, spilling the contents of his briefcase. Turns out he’d mostly brought hard candy. The judge was tired of waiting. He raised his gavel and struck it down thrice. The wizard swore he heard a rustling in the walls. The judge began reading out the charges, having to raise his voice over the growing groans and tremors in the courthouse walls. He glanced nervously at the deputy, who could only shrug. The room began vibrating slightly, a great wall of sound was descending on the court room, or would have been if humans could hear the frequencies. The floor underneath the jury box caved in, the walls began to crumble and a great roiling sea of rodents descended on the court room. There was no time to even scream before thousands of the tiny animals had eaten everyone’s tongues. Before long there was nothing left but gleaming skeletons and piles of mouse poo poo. The wizard walked out the back doors, bowing as he left. The new world had been a mistake.
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Apr 26, 2015 15:49
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Mrenda posted:A Funeral for a Dog, A Young Murderer, and The Aged Bad Boy of Directing
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May 5, 2015 03:49
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OK you limp dicked baby retards I'm back to bring some stomping on your idiot faces until they fit neatly into a jar and all your stupid baby words are leaking out your idiot broken skulls I guess I still gotta say in because reading between the lines would be too much for you poor pissbabies
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Jul 15, 2015 08:24
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in with a toxx I guess
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Jul 22, 2015 07:58
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I've got a new piece of technology to help me focus
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Jul 22, 2015 08:18
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Low Effort Bullshit from an idiot baby-man, 912 words “The supply drone’s accelerating sir! It’s not responding to any frequencies!” “Suits, now! Private, move the sector’s oxygen into holding!” “Sir, there’s no-” The drone tore through the station’s outer shell, thrusters igniting the streams of oxygen venting into space. She heard the sizzle of burning flesh as her shock-capsule slid out into the smoldering control room. She wasn’t conscious, not yet, but her body moved with animal grace. It would be a few minutes before the microchip would cede control back to her brain, well after her bloodstream was full of adrenaline analogues and synthetic endorphin. Until then she was on autopilot, one simple instruction controlling her every move: Kill. Sirens blared, the station entered lockdown. The emergency bulkhead slid open. Crisis team headlamps cut through the smoke. The tiny chip at the base of her neck assessed the situation before the first beam of light even hit her. She thumbed a selector on her pistol and clicked off six shots in one fluid motion. The crisis team collapsed as a unit, jugular veins neatly severed by AP sabot rounds and blood filling their helmets. She took off running down the corridor *** “As a doctor I’m supposed to tell you that this is a terrible idea.” “I’m not paying you to lecture, no matter what your invoice says,” she answered, laying down on the operating table. “Where do you even get a rig like this, it’s loving ancient. No one in their right mind uses a circulatory cooler anymore. You don’t even know if it works. Do you even realize what “total neurological degeneration” or “stimulant psychosis” mean?” “You seem a little wound up doc, and I’m not appreciating the guilt trip.” “Guilt trip!? You find me God knows how, show up with this piece of kit and a bottomless cred chip and you’re surprised I’m wound up?” “Heard you could do the work, doc. Heard you done it before. Kuiper belt, was it? Hostile repossession of an outpost that wasn’t paying its bills. They had you outfit the guys with rigs like these ones. Strictly off the books.” He handed her a mask. “Breathe in.” Sweet bursts of warm scented air filled her lungs, the world got a little fuzzy. “You’re never making it up there. Security is just too tight.” “Everyone needs spare parts, doc…” She trailed off into a deep sleep. ******* Her pistol was still warm when she came to. She’d just armed a shaped charged, suited bodies lay limp around her. Reams of information slipped through her mind: station diagrams, access codes, approach vectors. Everything was measured in microfragments, accelerated by the humming of her mechanical heart. Her actual heartbeats felt few and far between. The LCD readout quivered at 60hz, far too slow for her now. The first second ticked by, but she was already running. Delicate fractals formed in her vision as her brain filled each moment of consciousness with information that wasn’t there. Two, three, four-hundred metres she counted off as she ran down curved corridor. The next airlock would lead to an access hatch, a maintenance tunnel to the AI cores housed at the toroid’s center. The door came into view. She stopped, unholstered the other pistol before the motion detector tripped. They were waiting on the other side. The door blew open, a machine gun roared to life. She ducked before the bullets left the barrel, kicking off into a backflip as the shaped charge severed the main power bus and dropped the station into zero-g. She raised both guns and fired, blowback sending her into a wall. She pushed off again, rounding the corner, looking for movement. Something flashed past her – that green jacket she knew too well. She turned to look. Rounds tore through the air around her, one ripping through her suit and grazing the circulatory cooler. Warnings flashed across her HUD: system(s) compromised: internal temperature regulation. “gently caress!” She emptied the clip in the direction the rounds came from, soft thuds letting her know she’d hit the mark. “Keep it together Constance, you know this poo poo’s gonna make you loopy. That was too loving close.” Sweat dripped off her face and onto the visor, the suit’s tiny vent fan kicked into high gear. Gliding she dropped the pistols and reached for the machine gun and fired a round. Inertia pinned her against the wall. She held the trigger down and shot the hinges off the access hatch. She was panting now, sweat pouring out of her every pore. Her teeth were clenched tight, vague pangs of pain reverberated somewhere far away. “Tony! Hey Tony! Are you playing or what?” Tony came to, another idiot story had taken hold of his imagination. The heat was unbearable. “How come you guys don’t have A.C.?” he asked.” “We do have A.C. you dipshit,” answered Tim. “It’s like the third time you’ve asked today you fat poo poo. You already ate all the popsicles too. It probably feels hot because you’re so loving fat you idiot. Now, are you gonna play Mario Kart or not?” “Huh? Yeah I guess…” “What’s wrong with you today, Tony?” “I dunno Tim, I was just thinkin’ y’know like, what if we hung out at an abend er…abonded…abonened bunker? What if we like built bikes together n stuff? I could write lovely stories then and we wouldn’t have to spend all day playing Mario Kart.” “Dude, you’re a fag”.
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Jul 26, 2015 08:06
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I'm willing to do a few line-by-line crits if anyone's interested
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Sep 1, 2015 11:10
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Alright shitbags, here's the initial round of crits before I start doing some line-by-lines. Cingulate: absolutely awful. You manage to use up all your words with confusing actions and completely fail to develop any characters. You try to give us some explanations for the dead bodies raining down but it’s all stupid. Too many commas, too much punctuation. Your entire first paragraph is about a character who has nothing to do with anything and he has THREE names. Why would you waste words like that? Scridiot: Not bad. The action is well paced and there’s enough to keep the reader interested. We get a decent picture of the hive but a few more details about the universe would make a huge difference. Not great, either, and it's thoroughly middle of the pack because it's hampered by all this missing information and an idea that's not novel enough to be interesting in and of itself. HopperUK: It’s like, too many commas, and a plot that’s, on rails. We’re sent plummeting towards the conclusions without time to eve raise our own suspicions. Instead of a whodunit, you drop us into some ideation about stained glass by a nun who sounds like she came out of that movie where Whoopie Goldberg got sent back to Ye Olden Times and was having none of it. Chairchucker: Cars, ballet, matrix fights…I don’t know why this works but it does. Is “leant” actually a word? Microsoft seems to think so. That being said, the whole story riffs on the same joke and doesn't manage to keep the adrenaline rush of the first paragraph. It gets a tad tedious and dare I say boring later on. J.A.B.C- ghost of regret: Well written, but I'm really not sure what's actually going on by the end of it. Nikaer Drekin: you’re not doing yourself any favors by starting off with tea time then launching right into a huge, boring monologue. But no worries since you launch into a totally climactic ending scene of “native man jumps up a building”. Massive pacing issues, action sequences that were sort of boring. The entire wall climbing part felt video-gamey and not at all edge of my seat. You could have used the intro to show us the main character freeclimbing canyons or some poo poo, y'know? Halbey- the hunt of poor bb codes: You introduce a lot of characters fairly late in the game. Hard to follow, not enough foreshadowing. If you had more expertly introduced your elements or focused on what was really not a bad father/son tale then you would have had my vote for HM. The images stuck with me, I really like the creepy as gently caress universe you’ve got but why would you drop it on us like that? Epoch: a matron’s murderly monologue WLOTM: This was a strong contender for winner and quite a good read. This might need revisiting in more words to elaborate the selfie's existence. Jon joe: A tight read but not enough rising action to be a serious contender. Thranguy Before you rest on your laurels please note we found that your protagonist's lack of agency in the second half of the story was a little bit of a let down. Docbeard: NOT BAD Morning bell: I don’t like this gimmick, I don’t like your mystery fog mechanic and I don’t like this story World’s best author: GREAT STORY I SURE LIKED THE PART WITH THE MIND READER AND THE MEXICAN FOOD Jonked: decent buddy cop space western, good enough to get my vote for HM. Anderson appears at many points in the story but nothing really tells us anything important about him. A lot of dialogue wasted on other stuff, also a love interest so paper thin you can cut yourself on it. C7TY1: a one note joke that doesn’t play up on any of its strengths and succumbs to the many weaknesses in the story. lovely, unresolved plot. Absolutely no imagination and the fantasy elements were hamfisted and out of place, barely having anything to do with the story. Thank your lucky stars someone wrote a worse piece than you did because I wanted this to lose. Broenheim: I noticed some kind of twist ending but I could barely be hosed to take note of the humour because the action sequences were such poo poo and the story didn’t have a leg to stand on. Most boring chase scene ever? I think so. Meinberg: A writer posts and a turd floats. An ending is tacked on, words are arranged to woo the reader. A judge reads a story and weeps. SlipUp: Pretty sure this violates the no Fanfic rule. Either way I liked Event Horizon better as a movie when Duke Guncock wasn’t starring in it and fighting monsters in a video game level. Muffin: dece, but a tad light on supernatural maybe? 420 smoke ghosts everyday Djeser: This would be an HM but the ending just fell the gently caress apart Grizzled Patriarch: you almost had something here. Almost. No discernable moral makes this fall short of a fairy tale and decidedly not “punk”. Obliterati: I don’t understand a loving word of this Kurona_bright: what in the making GBS threads gently caress happened here, son? Spectres of autism: you call this spooky? Forest nymph rehash of cthulu is supposed to make me feel uneasiness or fear? The fuckin’ leaf lady didn’t even make the kid kill a thing. What a crock. You were close though, the first part did make me feel slightly uncomfortable, but gently caress did you let us all down. Fumblemouse: Hits the prompt but gently caress man, nothing really happens. Yeah the great thirst we get it. Kaiju15: hits the prompt but it’s overly simplistic and doesn’t make up for it in entertainment Ovaltine: Something happened here but I’ll be damned if I actually know what it is Entenzahn: Why would you craft a tale only to introduce a whole bunch of characters in the last act? This is the mystery of the thunderdome. What starts off as a lone wolf out for revenge ends with the heroes seemingly outnumbering the villains. Killer of Lawyers: pitiful Thyrork: This was the most boring thing I’ve read all week. Nothing HAPPENS. I was almost going to let your self referential mention of “lol I’m so weird” slide at the beginning but you don’t have the chops to pull off this kind of humour WHEN NOTHING HAPPENS. Nothing funny, scary, strange…NOTHING. How do you write so many words that DON’T MEAN ANYTHING. You too should thank the heavens someone wrote something we liked less than this pile. Bompacho: Well written, wasn't visceral enough to stick with me. Might have been a winner in another week. Skwidmonster: This was pretty bad Sebmojo: political figures do not an intrigue make
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Sep 2, 2015 09:25
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