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Here are some abandoned judge-thoughts from Pokeweek. This week's crits will come in a timely manner. Just Business- Meinberg There are some really nice lines in this. The problem with this story is that it doesn’t actually get moving until it is about 60 percent complete. There’s nothing in that first 60 percent that is absolutely essential. I don’t mind the conflict one bit, even if Meyers is a bit stereotypical as a character. The problem is, again, since everything is occurring so late because of how everything is paced, the introduction of the conflict and Isa’s response both seem unfulfilling. I’d like to see the story that was written if this started with Isa being discovered. And Edward Would, Too.- Tyrannosaurus I don’t really need to say much about this. Ty knows how to plot/pace a story. All of my concerns with regard to this story have to do entirely with miniscule stylistic decisions which would be unfair to hold against you. The only legitimate complaint the judges had was one that you’ve heard before, the accents made your story tough to comprehend occasionally. Still, this would have probably won if we weren’t so delighted with Seb’s story. Charged- Ironic Twist I love the setting in this story. In a week filled with interesting set pieces, this story was the one that sat in the forefront of my mind at the thought of revisiting this week and finishing the crits that I had shamelessly abandoned. Harmonized perfectly with your chosen topic, the biggest problem with your story was one of verisimilitude, namely that the decision that Zain makes to walk into the energy field is baffling and seemed nonsensical to the judges. The reversal at the end of the story also seems to come out of nowhere, and as a result I remember feeling confused about where you were trying to go with the story. There are some really cool things here, however. Energy- Sebmojo “Olaf Berger saw his new boss for the first time at 8.15 AM Monday morning. By two o’clock that afternoon he wanted to eat him.” I love it. This is also incredibly smart, because you won this week by writing the most simple character out of every story submitted. I know exactly what Olaf wants, and over the next 600 words you explain why he can’t have it. This was a a bit of a risk; in the hands of a lesser skilled writer, the setup might have seemed too ridiculous, but you pulled it off with style. The change of pace really helped you as well, as your entire story reflected the punchiness of your opening line. The Desert's Milk- Jonked “Recruited?” Roy shrieked, incensed. “Into WHAT? Your barbarian death cult?” This is the line that lost me. I really enjoyed the setup of this story, but, like many other during the week, it took far too long to get moving. Then, once it does start to pay off, you have this line, which is a bit too on the nose. The rest of the story feels unmotivated. It’s hard to be entirely constructive here because the plot would be difficult to revise, but you should try to give your characters at least one point in each story where he or she has at least two viable courses of action. Reading about a prolonged death march isn’t the most engaging, even if there is cool stuff sprinkled on the edges. Give Me a Home- Bompacho The judges had an agreement that if your story lacked conflict, we would call it out, which is why you DMed. Again, there is a neat setting at the core here, but this story was perhaps the most forgettable of the entire week. You burn half of your word count describing a chase that has no stakes. When the protag loses his ear there are no stakes either because he immediately passes out and wakes up in utopia. It’s hard to care when there is no gravity in the story. Signor Ugolino Sings the Blues- GP This story definitely has your mark on it. That’s a good thing. I really did enjoy this story, and personally I had it rated pretty highly, but there were two main problems with it. First, there was a lack of urgency to anything, which I think resulted from a lack of any clear and immediate conflict. There are other conflicts on the fringes of the story certainly, the relationship conflict, the conflict of Man v. Nature, but there was nothing that had a clear priority. I also struggled with understanding the connection to your chosen pokemon. Ultimately this left me with more questions than I started with, but I would 100 percent read a longer story set in this world. Haunted- SoA This is a cool story, and I appreciate many of the things that you do. Ultimately, it feels as if your conflict is lacking, even though you do have some resolution. I’ve learned that it is really hard to just have an emotional conflict payoff and feel rewarding with these super short stories. I would have liked to read a version where there is more physicality to the conflict, because some of your images in this are really cool. “One day, she thought, there will be a world where everyone pays attention. I’ll be a part of it. My eyes will be black like everyone else’s. My head will be a hole and I’ll fill it with everything around me. With everyone.” love that line. Bone and Stone- Killer of Lawyers I think the primary issue with this story is one of pacing. You start off with a little character interaction, which is good. What follows is exactly 662 words of action written in summary. This tells me two different things. First, a lot of time is passing. Secondly, none of it is that important. The winning story for the week was comprised of fewer words than this section. That much summary and description, without any real dialogue, robs your story of any momentum. A Flour-Type Bug- KB You have characters and a conflict, which is good. The problem here is that everything in this world, the characters, the conflict, lack weight. Everyone is just sort of floating. Characters get angry and yell at each other, but there is no force to their punches. This isn’t to say that a character has to be in mortal danger or anything like that, but it is difficult to care when everything seems so carefree. Maybe a little more attention to the conflict would have served you better. It’s hard to say for sure. The rest of life- TheAnomaly I think I made my thoughts on this clear in the judgment post. You can simply look at the shape of the story and see that there are fundamental issues with the story. Lack of dialogue, giant blocks of text. This needs major revisions to be workable. Sealskinned- Blood Queen This is a story that is trying to do too much for how it is focused. I love the opening line, but it informs the reader as to the seemingly epic scope of the story, and I’m not sure such epic-ness was afforded by the wordcount. There is a fable like quality to this, which I don’t mind, but I think the more interesting story in this case would involve just focusing on one little encounter during Meera’s journey. Some of this writing is straight gorgeous though. Ink Clouds- Kaishai I love the premise of this and really wish that you would have used the full word count. There’s a whimsey to the message in a bottle aspect that, while still being fantastic, has the potential for real weight and consequence. And it does have real weight and consequence. The problem for me was just that I wanted to know more. I would have loved to get more on Hughes’ father and his relationship with Lucia. Only having some hazy bits of information regarding the initial conflict that lead to Lucia’s escape made it difficult to connect fully with the conflict in the present of the story. Hidden- Swarm I’m not sure if you are still lurking in thread, but you should come back to TD if you are. There isn’t anything terribly wrong with this story, but like many others it lacked weight. What does your protag actually do in the story? He hides. It’s hard to make that compelling. The writing here is solid, and I would like to see you write some more on different topics.
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Nov 15, 2015 21:08
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Something something five hours something something submissions due
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Nov 16, 2015 04:04
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Submissions are closed!
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Nov 16, 2015 11:39
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 Results for Thunderdome CLXXII 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 00:42 on Nov 17, 2015 |
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Nov 16, 2015 23:55
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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.
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Nov 17, 2015 00:42
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Lazy Beggar posted:In. And I'll take a pre-crit, WeLandedOnTheMoon. Please. Whenever you want! I sit around on the computer all weekend. Hopefully before Sunday morning, but whatever works.
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Nov 17, 2015 12:47
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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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Nov 18, 2015 03:48
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ATTN THUNDERDOME: feeling an emotion is not the same thing as acting on it. Let your protagonists do things, holy poo poo. Here's the crits from last week. A Sealed Fate The part about the zombie seals is confusing. Are they undead? A human wearing the bloodied pelt of a seal like a coat? I’m pretty sure I understand what is going on here, but it could be more clear. A lot of the detail in this story could be more clear. I like the strangeness of this, but leaving it hazy as to whether or not the protag is crazy is a little unfulfilling, especially since he has so little agency in the story. That is the main problem here, all throughout the story your protag almost makes decisions, but then he doesn’t change anything. He picks up a gun, but he doesn’t use it. Also, he allows himself to be trampled. USE OF PROMPT: Clever CONFLICT-O-METER: Low Church Wedding Intro is okay and has me reasonably interested in continuing. Some of the wording is awkward, but nothing is egregious. This feels like Halo fanfiction, but I don’t recognize any of the proper nouns specifically, so it’s not being held against you. Dialogue is stereotypically space-marineish but it’s snappy and fine. Minus the dialogue formatting and occasional unattributed speech, this is okay. Just okay. USE OF PROMPT: Okay CONFLICT-O-METER: Mid The Title Opening is cheesy, but it doesn’t have to mean bad things. This is a story that moves, and I am liking it, but I also have a thing for faustian stories. I don’t like the scatalogical gags about the janitors. The line about firing the janitor was funny though. Ends on another joke that had me giggling, but perhaps because it was all so silly. I quite like this story; it’s well written and everything is clear, no lingering questions. USE OF PROMPT: Good CONFLICT-O-METER: High Mister Rogers Questionable placement on that first section break. I like the setup here and some of the descriptions, but it just isn’t hitting as hard as I would like. “I thought we were just playing detective.” She lit up a cigarette. I didn’t know she smoked. “We’re doing that, too.” I love those two lines. This is a fun story, but there are some disconnects. Let’s see how or if it comes together. Eh. Really not a fan of the ending; it’s too easy. The narrator just gets what she wants even though she broke into an apartment? Also, you are missing an antecedent in the last sentence of the story that makes the whole thing even more confusing. Is the he Roger or the boyfriend? Does the boyfriend even have a name? He should have a name. Im hot and cold on this. Why is the narrator so passive? There are some nice pieces of writing amongst the mess, however. USE OF PROMPT: Good CONFLICT-O-METER: High (Ending- Low) Sleepover and Out Is this a stealth sci-fi week? Obliterati will be happy. Why is Low Earth Orbit capitalized? Writing is fine, but it is taking a while to develop thanks to all the space descriptions. One of your characters is vaping. He sucks. Eh, this story isn’t bad, but your protag doesn’t really get to do much. Credit for having him smash the Oculus though instead of crying like a little bi-atch. I like the dads, but I’m not crazy about this story on the whole. USE OF PROMPT: Fine CONFLICT-O-METER: Low-Mid Current Playlist: All The Worst Songs, Ever Setup is efficient. Background info is delivered efficiently as well. I admire the dickishness of your protagonist, but the story isn’t resonating with me. Maybe if we had a little bit rationalization for trying to ruin the wedding? I can piece it together easy enough, but I don’t connect with him. I enjoy the cheeky descriptions of the pranking, but I think that having the protag. flee at the end is a bit of a cop-out. He is never really challenged in the story, and I think that it does the whole thing a disservice. Speaking of disservice, why the random time jumps? They don’t add much here in my opinion and just look like an attempt to make a boring story more interesting. USE OF PROMPT: Mostly CONFLICT-O-METER: Low K9: Genuine Canine The story title made me laugh, I don’t know why. Another sci-fi story? Weird. “It was almost as if someone had slipped a lifelike dog suit around the dog bot.” LOL at this loving sentence here. I don’t have much to say about this. It was boring. Again, a problem is when the protag doesn’t get to do much, and here we have the same story. His only real course of action is that he gets mad, but he hardly acts on the emotions. Sadly, this story doesn’t do much for me. USE OF PROMPT: Yes CONFLICT-O-METER: Low A Little Bird the Ants Have Gotten To Love the descriptions and the setup here. I’ve felt more dread in the first section than during most weeks of TD. The writing is really nice and somewhat haunting. Still, this is more of a character study than anything else. The character isn’t challenged, just slow in exacting his revenge. I love the writing in this, but I don’t think this will be enough to carry you, and Im not sure this even qualifies as a story, technically speaking. USE OF PROMPT: Good CONFLICT-O-METER: Mid-Low When God Sings for You, You Lose Your Voice There are some formatting issues with this, but I like it. I really enjoy the depiction of God here, bestowing an unwanted, beautiful gift, but also being relentlessly apathetic to larger and more personal issues to the protagonist. I do wonder “why?” though. It would be nice to have some answers for that question. Why would God do that? That may be the point though. The little girl is bad rear end and there is some nice conflict here. This is a cool story and I like it. It’s a little weak in terms of episode assignment, but who gives a gently caress because it’s a cool story. USE OF PROMPT: Loose CONFLICT-O-METER: High Caveat Emptor Setup is good, strikes a nice balance between setting the scene and establishing a conflict... I will say that this setup is going to be hard to create some decision making within, especially if the protag is trapped in traffic for the duration of the story. I kind of hope that Marty beats the dog to death with a club. At least he will be making a choice then…. Nevermind on that. I see you went in a different direction, but I am not sure that it is a good decision. The sectioning in this is awkward. The ending is a flashback, showing how Marty got conned. The section before this shows the dog show woman chilling with her well trained dog. This means that the chronological end of Marty’s story is what? Leaving an angry voicemail? Not very satisfying. USE OF PROMPT: Strict CONFLICT-O-METER: Minimal Munchausen Siphon by Proxy Some seriously nice writing here. I don’t know if I have ever mentioned it in IRC, but you basically described my mother in this story, which causes this to hit home pretty hard. All of the characters are believable and well characterized. Love this line: “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.” It exemplifies the physicality that I enjoy in this story. My largest complaint is, again, one of agency. We don’t really get much decision making of consequence from the mother, which is a shame, because I feel like you were two paragraphs away from having her lash out against Carl, which would have been really interesting. This is probably the best use of internal conflict in the week. USE OF PROMPT: Tight CONFLICT-O-METER: Mid Filling Up I love this story, and it is my choice for the win. I was all ready to complain about how your main character falls into the same trapping of many others this week in not really making a decision of consequence, but your ending really ties it together and creates a nice little symbol with the empty RV. I like the decision to turn the interaction between Chevy and Don into a moment of understanding rather than forcing a conflict centered around the oddity of driving around with a bounce castle. I love the way that the second section begins. I’m annoyed that I don’t have any real complaints here, but the characterization is great, the pacing is nice, there are degrees of both internal and external conflict, Don makes some real decisions, and it is all well written. What else is there to ask for? USE OF PROMPT: Whimsical CONFLICT-O-METER: Mid-High
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Nov 22, 2015 08:05
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Broenheim posted:This is due in over a day, but I haven't seen some of you guys around in awhile so I just wanted to give a friendly reminder that you Unfortunately, I never toxxed when I signed up, nor did you ask for a toxx in your original prompt. So no, you will not be toxxing me when I don't submit a story tonight. Technically, I win. The best type of win. Still, I consider you a bro, and I feel bad about loving up, so I will  right now that the next post that I make in this thread will be a redemption story for this prompt that I am skipping, and that it will be posted no later than December 7th, at 11:59 PST. If I gently caress this one up then you can bring the hammer down.
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Dec 1, 2015 01:47
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Into the Unknown Redemption Story for Broenheim Week old leftovers as promised... Minnie 1650 something words When the cancer cells in my neck were impalpable zygotes, betrayed by a neckline mosquito bite that just wouldn’t settle, Jasmine told me. She said, “Nicolai, the bump ain’t red; the bump ain’t soft. Squeeze it; bet you a coke that nothing comes out.” She explained it so simply then. “If it was a bite, pus would ooze out.” When I told her that I was fine and that no doctor needed to look at something so small, she told me that I was choosing to be stubborn. One morning, after weeks of staring at the swollen little thing, Jasmine stepped into the bathroom holding her shiny white mug, stained with the tacky residue of her amaranthe lipstick, sipping her coffee slowly. As I brushed and tied and coiffed, Jasmine finished the dying gulps of her morning brew. Then she broke the mug over the countertop. I hadn’t noticed the tears in her eyes until she held my face towards the mirror, forcing me to stare into my own reflection. She held the ceramic handle tight, and pressed the sharp edge against the swelling. “What if I cut it off for you?” she asked. By the time I made it to the doctor, and then the oncologist, the prognosis was dire. The little zygotes in my neck had gestated, and the goiter grew full and pregnant with all the dread of a mortal world. Anaplastic Thyroid Cancer. Rare. The doctor told me that any procedure would simply be a stalling tactic, perhaps buying me a year at best. When I told the doctor that I didn’t want to waste anymore time or money on stopgaps, Jasmine told me I was choosing death. She was right again. ***** I was born in a village called Mochart in the southeast of Poland. When the Carbon Accords of 2076 were passed into a global standard, Mochart was selected to be the home of the Eastern European Fusion Core, a high power, high efficiency, modern nuclear plant. Despite the protests of the five hundred residents of the insignificant, mossy, villa, construction began and the plant started in full operation five weeks before I was born. It’s a story that I always heard in flashback. The baker with a missing hand. The cobbler and his seven children. The alley where the drunks would all sleep off the good, cheap red wine, one Euro a bottle. Two for the good stuff. The construction. The protest chants. The looming smokestacks. The storm. The accident. The evacuation and governmental response. The mother who refused to leave her home and would die there. The father who left her. The wall. If I was going to die, I wanted to visit the place where it all began. ***** My Polish was in no state to go back and forth with a checkpoint guard; I knew this from my research. I also knew that no translator in the country would be foolish enough to travel within several kilometers from the exclusion zone. The radiation, the wall, and, most importantly, whatever was behind it, was just too much. Very few people, if anyone, had seen the other side of the wood and concrete, and its gargantuan facade had fallen into disrepair in some of the rougher spots. In the dark of wood and night, scaling it was a simple matter of patience and rope. I wasn’t sure what to expect. Glowing green landscape? Giant bugs? From the top of the barrier, the only thing that I could discern against the mottle of black and grey was a jutting spire against the starry array. The creased photo in my pocket revealed it to be a belltower. As I hiked the brush towards the point, I could swear that I heard laughter. ***** Even under the rustling and crunching of the dead foliage under my feet, and my ears ringing harder and louder with every step towards the village, I could hear the mirroring of footsteps behind me. Walking when I walked, stopped in my frequent pauses. I thought of my stomach, the calcified stone sitting heavy on my intestines, soaking in the dread and radiation. There were two of them, whatever they were. Closing in. So I ran, sprinting into the dark with a complete disregard for direction. The steps weren’t closing in, but they weren’t fading. The night was bolting past in switches and tree trunks and snake holes, and one, small, deep ravine. I ran track in school. I could clear it. I landed on the other side with a stumble and a trip. Moments later, a crash behind me. There wasn’t much in the darkness: oblong, hunched, one meter tall. From the edge of the ravine it appeared as a fountain of skin and fat and cartilage flowing, however now solidified, from a bony peak. It wore a dress and tattered, red, sneakers. A third shoe, blue with an errant velcro strap, lay strewn beside her. The other was attached to the girl in the river. The water in the stony basin flowed slowly from the upward slant. Like chilled molasses, it wrapped itself around and between my fingers, clinging to them with it’s deathly cold. The second girl wore a romper with a picture of Minnie Mouse across the chest. The boils from the first girl descended from the crown of her skull in a similar pattern, and her eggshell ankles were broken into bits within the sticky liquid. By the time that I had lifted the girl from the flow, the other was gone, so I set her on the lip of the ravine. “Hello,” I said in broken Polish, “my name Nicolai. What’re yours?” She didn’t answer. Unsure if it was a lack of cooperation or understanding driving the silence, I continued. “Minnie,” I began, “do you live in the village? Plants of nuclear? Ruins?” Again, she gave me nothing. Finally, I reached into the breast pocket of my jacket and produced the yellowed photographs from the only album I had. I held the picture of Mochart to her face; she took it in her hand, and I took it as a request. Minnie was a slight little thing, nearly weightless, yet the pustules and tumors, and general body shape made her awkward to carry. As I continued to trudge through the darkness, leaves clinging to the residue on my boots, Minnie would occasionally reach up and rub the egg-like goiters on my neck with her skeletal hand. I tried to imagine the perimeter wall, and orient myself towards the direct center of it before continuing. Soon, I heard the mirroring of my footsteps yet again and Minnie tugged on my sleeve. I faced the noise, expecting that red shoes had come back to us. It was a wolf, or rather, it appeared to be a wolf: hairless, angled in that aggressive downward stance, mostly toothless save for eight sharp fangs in the front of its mouth. Its body was covered in the same boils as the girls, and somewhere hidden within the bubbled skin I could make out two pointed ears. I barely had the time to drop Minnie before it lunged. I’m not sure how, but I managed to evade the beast on its first pass. Scanning the ground with desperate fingers I felt for anything that I could use to lodge in the thing’s neck. I managed to clutch a stick as the wolf bit into my shoulder, causing me to drop it and throw a punch with my left hand blindly over my shoulder. I threw it again, and again, until the beast let go. There were only a few moments of calm after it unlocked itself from my shoulder. In them, and in my search for the stick I’d dropped, I found a stone the size of my fist. Then I heard a scream, guttural and animalistic. Minnie. My left had never been as strong, but the rock sufficed. The thing was dead, and Minnie was bleeding out. ***** I wasn’t entirely sure what a fireman carry was, but I did my best to replicate it as I carried Minnie in my worsened state, stopping every few feet to ensure she was still breathing. I was still lost, and all I could do was try to walk in a straight line, hoping to find the wall or, perhaps, the village. All my hopes were dashed when I ran into the river. I’d circled this dreadful place like a washbasin. My shoulder was fading fast, Minnie faster. I set her on the lip of the same river she fell in, and wondered if I was to blame for her injuries. Down on the distance, hidden behind the shrubs and trees, I saw the flicker of lights bouncing towards me. As the lights approached, I saw red shoes leading the pack with a dozen villagers on her heels. ***** It was all as the picture depicted. The village square. The belltower. The cobbler’s place. The narrow alleys, all worse for wear compared to the sepia images, yet still as clear as the morning daylight. We marched Minnie’s body through the town on the way to the churchyard. The village matriarch had the strongest English of the bunch. She had married a GI years ago, she explained, back before the evacuation. I showed her the photographs, and even through the deformities on her face, I could see her tears. The last image in the stack was one of the entire family.The family stood in front of a building as I was cradled by my mother. It was our home; the address numbers were cropped just outside of the frame. “I take you,” she said. We were joined by red shoes as we walked the blocks to the building. The woman produced an old key, tied with a faded, periwinkle ribbon, from a massive ring of otherwise indiscernible pieces. “This door I haven’t opened in thirty year,” the woman said. The tumbler slid into place with a thud. “I’ve missed you.”
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Dec 7, 2015 03:01
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So mote it be. Gimme a spell, you craggy hag.
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Dec 8, 2015 15:15
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Whenever a shopper, jogger, or dog-walker saw Felix and Aimee Fenton holding hands, walking down Shepherd Street to the video shop, the reaction was always the same. How? How could a pudgy, weak-spined, well meaning dimwit of a postman, barely capable of calculating the postage on a pale-pink Mother’s Day card sent from Mackinac Island to Wannachee, Kansas, seal the deal with Aimee Turner, the red headed Aphrodite of Jackson High School? It came through the mail. Felix would never steal an article of mail, for as dimwitted as he was, Felix was noble, and Aimee admired that about him years before the spell was cast. But there was something on that stormy afternoon of his future, something in the way that waterlogged box ripped asunder, something in the way the pages came fluttering from the binding like autumnal leaves, something in the page that landed face up. The ink was runny and smudged from the storm, but with a little effort, Felix could read the words: The Apple of Benus (1400 words) Even Felix could calculate destiny when it landed at his feet. But this story isn’t about the hunched, shuffling man who found love with a spellbound apple planted six feet deep in Mackinac Island. This is the story of the tree that sprouted, spread, and bloomed in the hidden thicket. This is the story of the apples that hung heavy from its spindly wooden fingers, and the children that picked them. ***** Kent always dragged Virginia into trouble. If there was a window shattered or a loose pet running wild somewhere between the grid-lines of white picket fences, Kent Olney was almost assuredly behind it. Today’s objective was clear, break into the old Fenton place, a spooky house on the hillside that was left to rot after old Misses Fenton, as rumor held it, murdered her husband. “When people bite it unexpectedly,” Kent declared, “they leave behind the good stuff.” “But didn’t they bite it, like, ten years ago?” Virginia asked through her braces, while trying to avoid making googoo eyes at the handsome boy. “Yeah, but they never had kids. That’s what mom says at least,” Kent declared as he emptied his school bag for the haul, “so imagine all the great stuff they must have left behind!” They rode bikes under a canopy of leaves up the largest hill on the island. Virginia let Kent take point for the trip. She knew that there would be trouble again, but it was worth it. At the age of twelve, Virginia wasn’t sure if she could love a boy, but she thought that she loved Kent, even if he had cut his blonde hair too close and his head looked a bit like a fuzzy melon. As he hopped the creaky privacy fence, Virginia stole glances at Kent’s backside, and when he clutched her hand as she scaled the same, Virginia held his fingers in hers for longer than she needed. Secretly, Kent did the same. The two didn’t find much. Apparently, even if you never had kids, people found a way to pillage the good stuff. There was one thing, however, hidden in an attic alcove, covered in dust, the two discovered a rolled topographical map. “Here’s the house,” Virginia said. “And here it’s marked! Think it leads to treasure?” Kent asked. “Maybe it leads to the body of Mr. Fenton,” Virginia said. ***** “This is disappointing,” Kent said as hung from the tree that grew from the marked spot. “Honestly,” Virginia said as she filled her bag with mottled red apples, “it’s better than finding a body.” She tossed one into the branches for Kent to catch, “hungry?” “Nah,” Kent said. “I can’t stand them.” “Well, bring some home to your mom and dad,” Virginia said. From Kent’s spot in the shade and foliage, Virginia, with an apple wedged between her similarly red lips and juice dribbling down her chin, seemed to glow in the dying summer sun. ***** The last moments of Joel’s life were filled with an onerous, sad, ennui that fell upon him sometime between snacktime and dinner. The feelings accumulated, dripping on him like errant raindrops until his head was soaked. He realized that all of it, his wife, Leslie, his son, Kent, his job as a paper pusher, this nowhere of a town that he called home. It just left him feeling empty. Where had his life gone off the rails? Joel had thought that he was happy. Even earlier in the day it all seemed so picturesque, like the happy paintings on a postcard. This feeling now, however, was the realization that everything was flat, painted in two dimensions. With the cold steel of a lockbox revolver against his tongue, Joel thought of his childhood babysitter, Aimee Turner. He’d loved her, despite the age difference. Fifteen years. At the time it seemed monumental, impossible to overcome, but at fifty now, he realized just how small it was. A missed opportunity, truly. Still, Joel thought, Felix Fenton was a good man, humble, and always true. The two deserved each other, and each deserved better than Joel; they deserved the life they created together. A life without him. Somewhere up the stairwell, the basement door whined as it opened. If only he’d been born as their child. Two have both of them in his life, Joel realized, would fulfill him. “Joel? You down there?” his wife Leslie asked. He would never have what they did. Not with his two dimensional wife. Not with his two dimensional son. There were steps on the wood falling closer and closer, and soon, Joel realized, they’d squish him flat. ***** After the suicide, Leslie wouldn’t eat for a week, so she emptied the cupboards and pantry to feed the funeral guests. Almost half of the town showed up, and the three apple pies that Leslie had baked were among the first to be eaten up. ***** Helena, a sophomore at Jackson High School had planned on using her Ouija board to contact the dead father. She didn’t know Joel well, only as a distant neighbor, but when someone at the funeral had mentioned the suicide, Helena remembered the article that she read online. Suicides made restless spirits, and restless spirits were the easiest to contact in the afterlife. The incense was smoking; the candles were in a circle and lit. Suddenly, one snuffed itself out. “Joel, are you here?” she asked. Her hand began to slide. No. Somewhere in the dark and cool evening, a scream filled the air. Helena felt something stir within her, also. It was a longing that she hadn’t known before, a hunger she had previously thought filled by her boyfriend, Glenn. How foolish. Helena pictured a couple hand in hand as they walked to the video store. She’d never have it, she knew, like a constant dripping on her head. ***** Virginia’s father wouldn’t let her attend the funeral, but a feeling had been thrashing within her since her last adventure with Kent. The town had gone to hell in the past few days. People were disappearing, some were dying; others just lingered by the spooky old house on the hill. Virginia’s father would kill her for sneaking out, but the nagging wouldn’t relent, so she rode her bike alone in the night, not up the hill, but south of it. Kent was sleeping when she knocked on the glass. An open window and a helping hand later, and Virginia was sitting at the foot of his bed, wrapped up in a comfortable silence. Minutes passed. “Mom says she’s going to move us to the mainland soon,” Kent said, breaking it. “I was worried,” Virginia said as she played with the fringe of his comforter. “I don’t blame her. Dad says that things got weird all of a sudden.” “Yeah,” Kent said. “You feeling weird at all?” “Not any weirder than usual.” The silence filled it all again. “I’ve liked you for a long time,” Kent said. “I know, but I’ve liked you longer,” Virginia said. “Well, I’ve liked you since before the sixth grade.” “I’ve liked you since before the biggest trees on Mackinac were just little saplings.” “You weren’t even alive back then,” Kent said. “Sometimes,” Virginia said as she laid Kent’s head against her crossed legs, “seeds are planted in the ground long before they sprout, long before we even know they’re there.”
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Dec 14, 2015 05:24
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FJGJ
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Dec 14, 2015 13:01
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ZeBourgeoisie posted:I'm probably gonna remake this video with better animation one day. Oh well, the message is still the same. FJGJ intensifies
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Dec 15, 2015 20:14
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Lou, just come back.
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Dec 16, 2015 01:05
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Congrats Benny, now post a loving proooooooooooooooooooooooompt.
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Dec 16, 2015 01:41
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crabrock posted:Up all night dreaming of MORE BANTER Yes more batter please.
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Dec 16, 2015 01:54
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jon joe posted:gently caress it, I'm in for my first brawl. Doming with the Devil Brawl Okay, so I really like Faustian type stories, so that's what you three are going to write. Let me be clear. I want stories about dealing with the literal devil. Not a mother-in-law, or an arch rival, or some other sort of necessary evil, the literal loving devil. You must include two things: 1) Meaningful decisions driven by motivation 2) Consequences 2000 word maximum, due on or before Saturday night, 11:59 PM, December 26th
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Dec 16, 2015 02:21
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In with "Florida Man Becomes Town’s New Mayor After Winning Card Game"
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Dec 16, 2015 03:25
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Labels and Liars 1200 words Everything in Paradox was slightly off-kilter. The sidewalks were just too narrow, the ceilings just too short, but for the visitors and residents of the small Washington township, the slant-of-it-all was fundamental, woven into the fabric of the flags and the bedsheets and the tablecloths. Paradoxical charm, they called it. Carter Beauchard could trace his lineage back to the settlement of Paradox. It was his great great grandfather, Francois Beauchard, who opened the town’s first bank and began the tradition of wearing a friendly nametag everywhere, which soon caught on with the rest of the citizens. Francois’ son, Georgie, added his own stamp to the tradition by inscribing his profession in big block letters under his name on his tag: MAYOR. It only made sense that Carter would follow in their footsteps. Now he was sliding that same nametag across a sticky table, lost on a pair of pocket kings. On the other side of the filth, Knotts Ullrich, with his chopt and splintered hands, pulled it in and pinned the tag to his dirty t-shirt. Carter could feel himself sweating through his oxford. He tried to remember how this had happened, but through the haze of the beer and bar music, the details were lost. He had called in to his wife, Julia, after speaking at the Cleaning Up Paradox Forum. There had been a heated exchange between he and some other citizens about transients in the city, and the growing number of criminal citizens. The city was too soft, and angry, vocal, minority insisted. Carter took a tongue lashing, and although he typically didn’t drink, a single-malt was in order. Knotts was there with his old crew of bullies and blowhards, all of them boisterous and proud for no real reason as Carter saw it. They were playing cards when he stumbled upon them. Words were exchanged. Wagers were made. “First time losing in your life, ain’t it?” Knotts asked. “Yeah, well, enjoy your make-believe,” Carter said with his practiced smile, “I’ll meet you back here in a week to collect it back.” Knotts leaned against the table as he scribbled on his nametag, crossing out his name and profession before tossing it across: Carter Beauchard Jokester “That's for you.” Knotts said. Knotts marched into the victorious evening as Carter slid the tag in his pocket, and, after some time, he too slinked off into the uneasy night, eventually into his own bed. ***** Carter was up and out the door before Julia awoke. The evening had been unkind, and Carter found himself rolling back and forth in a desperate search for his comfortable groove in the old mattress. When it was clear that rest was beyond him, Carter hoped that productivity wasn’t. As Carter turned the key in his office door, the knob began to spin from the other side and slowly pull open. For a moment, Carter thought he was looking into a mirror. Dressed in simple khakis, a sky blue button down, and wingtips, Knotts stood vigilant, with a nearly-omniscient posture and a scowl hanging from his ginger eyebrows. “Beauchard, what are you doing in my office?” Knotts asked. “Your office?” Carter asked. Knotts didn’t need to say a word; he simply tapped at the badge pinned over his heart: Knotts Ullrich Mayor “My badge, my office, my rules,” Knotts said with a smirk revealing a row of slightly crooked teeth. Carter clenched his fist tight enough for his mysteriously dirty fingernails to cut into his palm. “Anyway,” Knotts continued, the lumberyard is at least a forty minute drive from here. You should get moving. I need to speak with my assistant anyway,” Deep down, Carter knew that Knotts was right, and something compelled him to turn away. “Tess,” he heard Knotts page into a different room, “schedule a meeting of my Clean Paradox Forum.” “Yes, sir,” she said. ***** The man behind the desk was pissed. “Beauchard,” he shouted between heaving drags of an unfiltered cigarette, “what the hell are you doing here? I fired your rear end yesterday!” “Mr. Neville, sir,” Carter began, not pausing to wonder how that name came to him, “I’m sorry. If I could just have another cha-” “You can have five seconds to get out of here before I call the police!” the man said before slamming his palm to the laminate desk. “And clean out your locker this time. I don’t want you sniffing around here anymore.” Carter sifted through the box of his belongings as he sat in his truck: a hip flask, family photos, a small multi-tool and pocket knife, all oddly familiar. Muscle memory kicked in, and he slipped the knife into his pocket. Carter couldn’t return home this early in the day without raising suspicions with Julia, so Carter decided to return to the bar and take in its comfortable warmth. ***** He had to walk home. Carter had thought himself a lightweight, but when he was four beers deep and still feeling the shame of being chewed out by his boss, he began to order drinks by the double. Eight may have been too many. Having to walk was a blessing anyway, because if coming home early would raise red flags with Julia, coming home drunk would sound the alarms. Carter was forced to ring the bell when it appeared that he had lost his key. Julia would be upset at being woken, but Carter knew she would understand. The foyer light blinked on. The door opened. “You again?” Knotts asked while standing in a bathrobe that Carter could swear once belonged to him. It took all the strength that Carter had in his workman’s arms and chest to form words instead of fists. “Get out,” he said, “take off my clothes and get out.” Knotts was ready to reply when a voice from the inside cut him off. “Everything okay honey?” a sweet, familiar voice called. He could almost see inside the house, trying to remember if the master suite was to the left or the right of the top of the stairs. Carter wanted to call out to her, but her name was lost somewhere. “Don’t worry, love.” Knotts assured. “It’s just a man who needs to call a ride home. I’ll be up in a moment; keep the bed warm.” The heat was too much for Carter to handle. The embarrassment. The rage. The foolish, fleeting, fantasy of sleeping with the mayor’s wife in the mayor’s bed. The high life. He was drunk, and angry at a life that had been stacked against him since back when daddy used to slam him against the flimsy walls of his mobile home for bringing home D’s in math and English. Carter wasn’t thinking when he plunged the knife into Knotts’ ribs. Neither was Julia when she came storming down the stairs with the pistol from under the bed. She shot to kill the man who’d stabbed her husband, but her aim was terrible. She did, however, send him to the hospital, and if there was one bit of good to come from the night, it was that Paradox would finally get tough on crime. Mr. Beauchard would attest to that.
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Dec 21, 2015 04:51
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Dec 22, 2015 03:52
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WeLandedOnTheMoon! posted:Doming with the Devil Brawl Broenheim, Ent, Jon Joe. Here's a reminder.
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Dec 25, 2015 00:09
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WeLandedOnTheMoon! posted:Doming with the Devil Brawl jon joe posted:gently caress it, I'm in for my first brawl. I am unexpectedly going out of town for a few days, so you people can have until Wednesday, Dec 30th, to write and submit these stories. 11:59 PM PST.
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Dec 26, 2015 17:40
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Dudes who were brawling for me, don't forget. Tomorrow night.
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Dec 29, 2015 21:13
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Devil Brawl Results Two Tricksters- Opening is solid. I really enjoyed reading the first scene, and the devil's dialogue is appropriately devilish. I didn't care too much for the beginning of the second scene, however, as it seems to slow a little of the momentum that you create in the beginning. I think you could get away without giving a dedicated description of the city. In fact, I don't really care much for the second scene at all; I don't know. It seems better suited as an opening scene and going back after the first really slows it all down. I think that second scene would have been better used to establish Finto as some sort of master magician, because the reliance on flash powders seems a bit like a Deus Ex Machina. Still, this is a minor issue. I had a slightly difficult time following the specifics on the transitions of ownership with regards to the prisoner's fate, and I think this comes from the ambiguous nature of what actually constitutes a fate. The story would be better served if those terms were clearly defined. Part of this comes to play as Finto discovers the same, but I think that having him try to suss it out in the story stretches your wordcount a little thin. Overall this was enjoyable, but nothing memorable. Devil's Dance- UYYGH... That opening line.... for shame. The second line redeems it partially, because I expected you to go somewhere athletic, but still. "After ensuring that it did not cost his soul," is a perfect place to show instead of telling by using dialogue, and you have the words to do it. There's some clumsy writing here: "When he went backstage and removes his shoe, blood trickled from both it and his feet." Read that out loud. The clumsy writing in this bogs down the good ideas that you have. Also, I was confused about the time that this story was set in, and I think it has to do with your descriptions in the opening scene. Ultimately the end was predictable, but I appreciate the attempt at portraying the devil as the trickster he should be. This just doesn't hit the mark. Personal Hell- Not loving the slow pace at the beginning here. Your opening reminds me of a story called "The Stone Thrower," which I like more than your story. The seed of this story is probably the most interesting of the three. "A wall came crashing down outside the bar, nearing lobbing off my arm." You probably mean lopping there. Upon finishing, I like the elements in this story more than the other two, and I can see what you are going for with the motif of solitude and isolation. It's kind of an Ars Poetica in a way, which is neat. Still, this story suffers from a pacing issue. I think the intro with the neighbor is too long, and those words would be better utilized in working within Hell a little more. For writing the most cohesive story, Entenzahn wins, although after some revisions and additional work, I think I would prefer Broenheim's. Happy New Year, Thunderdome.
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Dec 31, 2015 18:07
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Thunderdome 20sexteen: Pounded in the Butt by an Unfair Crit of My Gay Dinosaur Erotica
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Dec 31, 2015 18:17
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Holy poo poo. FJ is GJ!
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Jan 4, 2016 15:15
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