|
Fiji gayjeans
|
#
¿
Jan 6, 2015 07:16
|
|
|
|
| # ¿ Apr 27, 2024 07:30 |
|
|
Fugu google
|
|
#
¿
Jan 6, 2015 08:01
|
|
|
In with Yearning For The Yellow Cities.
|
|
#
¿
Jan 13, 2015 10:32
|
|
|
Maugrim posted:Edit: we now have 30 entrants and I'm getting pretty pissed off at the amount of reading I've landed myself with.
|
|
#
¿
Jan 14, 2015 06:20
|
|
|
crabrock posted:muffin is hella negging u all. everybody better submit. im sorry but your gonna get the F instead
|
|
#
¿
Jan 14, 2015 08:01
|
|
|
Capntastic posted:I haven't read these in like a year but I'm in for the next prompt.
|
|
#
¿
Jan 18, 2015 08:48
|
|
|
Wait what the poo poo, really? Welp, I'm gonna be super late then. I thought we'd kinda standardized the submission deadline at this point. It's usually about 4-5 hours from now. No big (I was probably gonna take the disqual hit anyway this week) but it could be worth adding to the OP to stop this happening in future. pre-emptive "shut up, sebmojo"
|
|
#
¿
Jan 19, 2015 01:29
|
|
|
While I see what Mojo's getting at, he's also loving wrong. Earlier on the the 'dome's lifecycle I was a lot harsher and more arbitrary with deadlines because, well, I was dumb. I hosed up, and I apologised for it in the past, I changed what I was doing and moved on. If you track the last couple of times I've judged CC stuff, you'll notice I'm a lot more lenient and flexible about letting people in under the wire. I'm more lenient with entries in general, because the nastiness was creating a climate that discouraged people from writing and that's the exact opposite of what we want to do. I was wrong back then. You live and learn. On the other hand, I'm regular hosed off at Mojo right now. Totally stepping out of kayfabe here, he's been a total oval office to me recently and I'm sick of it. We could sit here trading lovely little jabs and pulling at each others' pigtails all year, but all that's gonna do is turn an argument into a grudge. Let's get this out of the way in a storm of stories, so we can bury the hatchet on move on.  MOJO, I'M CALLING YOU OUT.  Brawl me, motherfucker. Three stories over three weeks. And just so you can't pussy out, I'm offering you a sweet little deal. If you win, I'll toxx in every 'dome entry I write for the year of 2015. Everything. Brawls, weeklies, the works. I'll also toxx in that I'll enter a minimum of 10 stories during that same year. If I win, you knock off this unwarranted "thread sheriff" bullshit and you apologise. Plus, I get one free flash rule on you, valid for one week only during the year of 2015. Somebody screencap this poo poo. You got the better deal than I do here. Not that it matters, because I've beaten you two-for-two and I'm ready to take the hattrick.
|
|
#
¿
Jan 19, 2015 08:16
|
|
|
And yes, I'm  ing in with the brawl itself, and Mojo will be too if he accepts.
|
|
#
¿
Jan 19, 2015 08:23
|
|
|
blue squares posted:Muffin's a big baby AHAHAHA. You are the biggest loving baby in the thread. You threw a shitfit when nobody "got" your muppet erotica. I'll take the hit from the others, but not from you you little poo poo.
|
|
#
¿
Jan 20, 2015 01:46
|
|
|
Only way to get better at critting is by doing more crits. While I know y'all have reasons to be hating on him, give Benny a break here.
|
|
#
¿
Jan 29, 2015 06:31
|
|
|
Presumably because mom wants to throw out some comics.
|
|
#
¿
Feb 4, 2015 08:16
|
|
|
Benny the Snake posted:I'll be good
|
|
#
¿
Feb 5, 2015 03:28
|
|
|
sure why not
|
|
#
¿
Feb 10, 2015 07:48
|
|
|
I want you to know just how much I suffered for that moustache. See the kinda rash on either side of my chin? That's razor burn, because my beard was so desperate to stay on my face that it screamed and shouted and buried itself deep while the blades came down. It hurt like a motherfucker going through thick beard with a plastic supermarket razor is what I'm what I'm saying. It may look like a math teacher moustache, but it was fomented in pure rage and more than a little literal blood. It was an angerstache, truly.
|
|
#
¿
Feb 11, 2015 04:17
|
|
|
My actual serious thoughts on fairy tale week: lots of really pretty stories where nothing much happened, and lots of good stories that shot themselves in the foot in the last paragraph for the sake of a punchline. Personally I wasn't so hot on Echo's: the prose was spellbinding, but I kept thinking to myself "okay, so when does the story start?" Remember folks, a story has an arc: beginning, middle, end. If you skip that, you're left with a lot of pretty words that do nothing. If you skip the last one to crack a lame joke (either Fumblemouse or Djinn did this in another week I judged, and I was furious) you deny the reader catharsis. You get them all hard, then leave them with literary blue balls. It's depressingly common, and people seem to think it's clever and irreverent rather than annoying. Beginning, middle, end. Beginning: You have a character. That character has a motivation. Middle: Something is preventing them from achieving their motivation, so they must act to remedy this. End: They either succeed or fail, depending on the tone you're going for. Seems like a tautology, but so many writers just kinda drift off and never resolve anything. That or "BOOM, PUNCHLINE." gently caress you. Conflict occurs because you have multiple characters whose motivations cannot simultaneously be achieved. If both Jimmy and Bobby want the Golden Drinking Horn of Bumblefuck, one of them is going to have to lose, and the story gets its energy from this tension: the reader doesn't know who will succeed or how they will succeed, and so they keep reading to find out. It can get a lot more complicated than that, but in flash fiction (especially 500/sub-500 words like this week) doesn't have space for that poo poo. Remember: beginning, middle, end. Without that, you're a beautifully-painted house that's rotting from the inside-out.
|
|
#
¿
Feb 11, 2015 08:28
|
|
|
A dame entered the room. She had legs down to there, and her hair flapped like wet lasagne in a fan.
|
|
#
¿
Feb 12, 2015 05:48
|
|
|
English Rose Her body spreadeagled on a country road, her belly sliced open, a dead snake placed inside her new gut-hole. Real Old Religion poo poo. Red hair, cut short. Arno's daughter Elsie had a haircut like that. Wanted a tattoo as well: her mother's name. His wonderful daughter, who neither loved nor trusted her teachers, or her father. Furious at all the things she didn't know. Troubled child of a solo parent. Chip off the old block. A siren cut through the autumn air. Arno turned to see Ferguson's car dancing down the dirt road. No real reason to run the red-and-blues out in the rear end end of Cornwall, but city officers liked to let the plebs know they were coming. The car skidded to a halt, and the door flew open. Ferguson waited a moment before he stepped out with the pomp of a king in a whorehouse. He took one look at the body, then whipped out his cell and took a photo. He tapped at the screen for a few more seconds, then put the phone in his pants pocket. “For the missus?” said Arno, “I hear she's into some weird poo poo, but that's probably a bit strong.” Ferguson grimaced at him. “That's above your pay grade,” he said. His fingers drummed on his pocket singing a-tappa-tappa-tappa on the hard plastic of the phone, muted only a little by the fabric. “Fair enough,” said Arno. It wasn't, but nor was it worth his job. He nodded towards the corpse. “Same as the last one. I think our lad's got himself a hobby.” Bzzzz. Ferguson took his phone out, read the screen, then spat. He smiled, but there was not a single degree of warmth in it. “Suicide,” he said. “Poor girl was on uh- antipsych meds or some poo poo. History of drug use. You can go home Arno, I'll take it from here.” “Sir,” Arno said, “respectfully, that's bullshit.” Birds sang and wind whistled, but neither man made a single goddam sound. Ferguson bit his tongue, then nodded. “Aye,” he said, “it is. Don't make it any less true.” The corpse was Elsie's age, Elsie's build, Elsie's same drat hair. He had a type. Ferguson stared him down, then spat. He knew was Arno was thinking. “She'll be safe,” said Ferguson. “He's not unreasonable, you know. Now go home before minds are changed.” Images flashed through Arno's head of a stalking man in the alleyway behind the pub, following Elsie as she stumbled out the door. Following her home. She never locked the door at night, despite her father's best advice: somehow too cynical and too trusting in the same breath.”That's-” he said. He pictured Elsie spreadeagled on the road, her guts sliced open, her body writhing fat with snakes. Two milky eyes staring up at him, mouth opening and closing in silent agony. He couldn't let it happen. Not to his daughter. Let another family suffer. “Yes sir,” said Arno. “Understood.” [500 words]
|
|
#
¿
Feb 15, 2015 08:08
|
|
|
 
|
|
#
¿
Feb 16, 2015 04:23
|
|
|
This is not my beautiful Fumblemouse! This is not my beautiful Fumblehouse! This is not my beautiful Fumblewife! In. The Monkey has seven arms, and each arm touches a different corner of the world. He has no eyes on his face, but instead a single great eye in the middle of his stomach. When his belly rumbles, the leaves turn red and fall away in fright.
|
|
#
¿
Feb 17, 2015 04:19
|
|
|
leekster posted:Kai I'm blown away. Thank you for caring so much to make me better. I've read it over three times now and have it saved to my desktop. Thank you tremendously for this.
|
|
#
¿
Feb 17, 2015 14:22
|
|
|
:siren" THIS IS NOT FINISHED, PLEASE DISQUALIFY ME, I hosed UP THE TIME OF MY FLIGHT HOME AND I'M JUST POSTING FOR THE SAKE OF COMPLETENESS[/b [b] How the stars found their fire Down in the deep the seamen sing, sleeps one of six and two of two. In dreams and days, in many ways they call to me and you. Heed not their call, break not the walls lest - Aint nothing but darkness down there, and pressure: the demon-crush that turns poo poo to diamonds. And yet, there's life- flat, writhing white things that jut from thermal vents, and fish with more teeth than bones. Aint no sailor survives even that long: an ocean's worth of water punching in from every direction long since burst his eyes, and tore out his tonue, and crushed his cock and balls so wide and flat his wife would weep for at least two reasons. Deeper n' that, even. Down into the black so far you can hear the crackling of hell beneath the rocks. If you could see, you'd see rising steam and the titantic movements of the sluggish fire currents that come up from the deep stone, and make war with the water until even they surrender to the tyranny of darkness and quiet. That's a liminal place- where two walls meet, and the possibilities are endless. The sort of crossroads only a devil could stomach and only a father could love. Only there is the power of creation so raw that it can be snatched by the three least-lucky, and forged. One to build, one to break, and one to keep the books. Vorun, the first, sings through sealed lips. He is the fire. His song causes the currents to coalesce in the shapes of men and beasts. At his bidding, they rise through the endless. Many stay in the deep forever, but some have the stink of greatness about them and they rise far until the breach the surface, gasping, trying desperately to remember the face of their father. They take to the land, and they take its raw pieces in their hands and carve with them images of their lost father. Inanis, the second, loves nothing more than the silence in the belly of the world. She is the deep. She calls to each of her lost children that they might return to the sea. She weeps not for those who leave- they shall return in time. She lives behind the eyes of each old sailor who wishes nothing more than for the sea to swallow him- to return to the darkness from which he came. Monkey, the third, finds solace in the moment where the flame strikes the water. He is the balance. Weak, but strong. Wise, but foolish. His empty bodies wander the worlds of men, hooting and howling through the treetops. They are his eyes above, while he stays on the ocean floor, forever dancing on the knife edge between beginning and end. Aint nothing but darkness down there, and the clash of fire on the deep, and the shadows of the three that fall up upon the world. They are lonely. They are terrible company. Long ago, Vorun made a child of stone, and he named her Lis. She was perfect, and the god of creation wept as he let her go. She breached the surface, and went further even- up into the sky. She was lonely there, and cried out for her father. Inanis found solace in this, but Vorun could not stand it. He made a second child of stone -Lor, a man- and sent it up to join the first. As the world turned, the two stars made many children, and together they spread across the sky. As the sky-children grew and travelled, they dreamed of spinning wheels, and the face of their father, and the roiling primal abyss from whence they came- wheels of fire, and fire on the deep. Even with their great love, the heavens were too cold. They called out again to Vorun to send them fire, but he refused. He did not trust his children, and he would not see them burn. He loved them as any father loves: so total that only fear could drive it, and cowed by that same fear. Lis and Lor sent their light to scour the earth. They found nothing in the deserts, nor the hills nor the houses. Only other lost children, trying desperately to remember the face of their father. They wept -for at least two reasons- and their tears made the rain. Whenever it rains, you know the hearts of Lis and Lor have grown too heavy to hold back their water. They found nothing in the highest mountains, or on the surface of the deep. Go deep enough, even light dies- they were blind. They scoured the forests and groves, the fields and steppes. They scoured all seven corners until they came to a jungle, and were drawn by a chattering chorus. Monkeys of every colour and size: skinny orange ones and big fat yellow ones, long-legged toothless ones and ones with faces like old leather. Ones that ran and ones that climbed, ones that fought and ones that died. “Are you our father?” asked Lis and Lor. The monkeys hooted and hollered, and made one damned hell of a din. The eldest monkey, who had lived 1000 years to the day, shook his head. He had three arms- one malformed and limp. He had one eye. In the place of the other was tough, dark skin only. He stomped on the ground, then grinned a big toothy grin. He gestures to a patch of dry grass that had been carefully laid aside. Then, he took a stick in his left hand, and a stone in his right, then he used them together to make a spark. The spark caught the grass and the grass caught afire. In the deep, Vorun smelled smoke.
|
|
#
¿
Feb 23, 2015 03:26
|
|
|
OTHER INTERPROMPT PET THUNDERDOME WRITE ABOUT YOUR PET, AND YOUR PET IS AN ACTION HERO 100 WORDS, MOTHERFUCKERS. PUNCH THAT poo poo.
|
|
#
¿
Mar 9, 2015 09:05
|
|
|
If you want to see the future of Thunderdome, imagine a  stomping on a face forever.
|
|
#
¿
Mar 10, 2015 08:48
|
|
|
Pretty sure the picture in the prompt post is Anthony Burch. Famous for: A) writing Borderlands 2 B) being insufferable on Twitter C) pressuring his wife into an open relationship then getting upset when tons of other guys slept with her but no other girls slept with him.
|
|
#
¿
Mar 11, 2015 03:50
|
|
|
joke's on him because I have the most sheep every Kiwi knows that's how you win the long game
|
|
#
¿
Mar 11, 2015 10:28
|
|
|
that entire game was basically me laying down sick burns on crabrock while he built roads and towns and poo poo like some kinda nerd
|
|
#
¿
Mar 11, 2015 10:35
|
|
|
Until IronicTwist writes a story that includes the full lyrics of a song by Twista, I'm not going to take him seriously.
|
|
#
¿
Mar 13, 2015 03:42
|
|
|
#twistatwist
|
|
#
¿
Mar 13, 2015 03:44
|
|
|
Ironic Twist posted:Really, motherfucker. I'm not even a judge but #twistatwist motherfucker
|
|
#
¿
Mar 13, 2015 04:02
|
|
|
let's go you pansies Reformation 2: Revelations Harder Martin Luther stood atop a pile of bloodied skulls, sword in hand, screaming invective down upon the Wittenburger Catholics below. They were sinful and weak. They would be brought to Jesus, with or without their consent. Fire rained from the sky, and the friar felt himself filled with the Holy Spirit. It satisfied his every hunger and thirst, except the hunger and thirst for justice. In his other hand was the original copy of his Disputatio pro declaratione virtutis indulgentiarum, written in the blood of ninety-five vile bishops. Sodomites, murderers, idolaters. Each bore the mark of Cain, and each had perished beneath his mighty blade. “LUTHER,” boomed a voice, “END THIS MADNESS!” The Spaniard! Franciso de Jasso y Aspilicueta; Francis Xavier, of the Order of Jesuits. He stood atop the Stadtkirche, while lightning crashed down around him. Despite the pouring rain, he was not wet. Spanish-Cathay Devil-magic, surely. Luther took his Theses and shoved them down the front of his tunic. “The only madness,” spat back Martin Luther, “is your decadent heresy! I have no mercy for you, and God has even less.” Through the rain, Luther saw Xavier tear the cross from atop the Stadtkirche in a shower of bricks and mortar. Its end came to a wicked point. Lightning struck it once, twice, thrice, and its tip glowed white. “Then,” said Xavier, “you will suffer two times today. Once at my hand, and again at the devil's.” With that, he roared and leapt. The young man was impossibly fast. He seemed buoyed through the air by preternatural currents. Luther shifted one foot back. The skulls moved around his feet. The first blow missed by a mile; the Spaniard sailed over his head, and slammed into a barn wall behind. The building exploded, and within seconds it burst into flames. Luther laughed, and took a cloth from his coat, with which to polish his sword. The frenzy of youth had been too fresh on that one. The young are so eager to die. A clatter from somewhere in the rubble caught his attention, and he dodged aside just in time for the spear to glance his side. A prodigious amount of blood was already flowing from the wound, but he knew it wasn't fatal. This wasn't his first Last Supper. Xavier's eyes were pure white. The cross in his hands took the form of the Lance of Longinus. “Christ took three days to return,” he said, “but I ain’t got time to play.” His voice boomed. Windows shattered, and buildings shook. Each syllable was a typhoon, and brought with it a crushing heat and a smell of spices. Luther staggered. Whatever Eastern pall swirled around the man was almost too much to bear. The thunder took on a new savagery as God voiced his displeasure for these heathen magicks. Luther shifted his footing again, took his sword in both hands, and lunged. Xavier was too quick, and darted back from the blow, keeping his spear-tip high. It weaved like a cobra, ready to strike at any moment. Fast, but not particularly tough. Luther struck for Xavier's centre line. The man blocked it with the shaft of his weapon, and Luther put all his weight behind the blow, forcing the spear's tip into the dirt. He stomped on it, and almost cheered when he heard the wood snap beneath his steel-capped boot. Their eyes met, and what Luther saw broke his heart. It was not an Eastern-devil glow, nor the hellbound tearful eyes of a simpering Catholic, but a true fervour: this man also burned incandescent with the true Holy Spirit. As his battelust waned, he saw that Xavier had come to the same conclusion. The man was confused, and furious. How could a just God place his two servants opposed? They could not both be right. The rain slackened, and the thunder died to a whisper of cool wind. “Brother,” said Luther, “how-” The splintered spear's shaft caught him in the stomach, and picked him up. His whole body was lifted, and hurled through the air. His back smashed into the wooden doors of the Stadtkirche, and he felt the darkness closing in. His Theses poked up through his clothes; the paper quickly being stained red. Footsteps approached, and he saw Xavier with a cocky grin on his face. “Protest that,” said the Spaniard. The rain began again. Softly, as if the heavens were weeping. [750 words]
|
|
#
¿
Mar 15, 2015 22:02
|
|
|
Auntie why you say like that lah
|
|
#
¿
Mar 16, 2015 09:57
|
|
|
"Whoa," said the sea, "this is some good poo poo." It was true, the sea was blazed af. "WE'RE OUT OF RAMEN AND CHILI SAUCE" said the spirit who summons storms. "poo poo," said the sea. It was pretty poo poo, tbh.
|
|
#
¿
Mar 16, 2015 10:34
|
|
|
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ay9ZxsulN2c
|
|
#
¿
Mar 17, 2015 02:41
|
|
|
"Judgement made with due haste is in all regards the true measure of man." - Quintus Flavian Von Thunderdome
|
|
#
¿
Mar 17, 2015 04:23
|
|
|
I am your second judge.  Extras for experts: you may request flash rules from me, but they will not be easy flash rules. Oh no no no.
|
|
#
¿
Mar 18, 2015 06:35
|
|
|
Entenzahn posted:I politely request a flash rule from you, you raisin-infested, squishy, innutritious downgrade of a cupcake.
|
|
#
¿
Mar 18, 2015 10:41
|
|
|
You chimps are so eager to die. A Classy Ghost posted:I'm not an expert but I'm going to take one of these because why the gently caress not curlingiron posted:Down for this. Benny Profane posted:Flash me. ZeBourgeoisie posted:Flash me like a sporting event, ye olde god of
|
|
#
¿
Mar 19, 2015 00:14
|
|
|
This is an unofficial caveat that hasn't been run through leper, but just so you know how I'm reading these: Your story had better well be able to stand without the painting propping it up. If it's just a bizarre mess without the picture then I will have some deeply impolite words for you when this is all done. There have already been several stories like this. Do not be one of those people.
|
|
#
¿
Mar 23, 2015 03:59
|
|
|
|
| # ¿ Apr 27, 2024 07:30 |
|
|
newtestleper posted:I fail to see how common sense needs to be qualified as an "unofficial caveat."
|
|
#
¿
Mar 23, 2015 07:00
|
|