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Being published means very little in this era of digital publishing and niche Internet editorial houses, but since we have Cache Cab on record stating he will only accept criticism from people with ~credentials~ I am posting mine. I am published. Not self-published or digitally either. You can buy a physical volume with words of fiction written by me contained within its pages. Not very good words, in my opinion, but that's beside the point. I am published, so from one published author to another: Cache Cab, your story is terrible.
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Jun 15, 2015 21:35
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Jonked posted:I feel like there's a joke here that I'm not getting.
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Jun 15, 2015 22:09
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Sup unpublished plebeians, can I get one of you guys to look over my latest masterwork? I know your reptilian brains aren't always up to digesting my complex ideas, but I need to be certain even the common man can appreciate my genius before contacting the publishing houses. I've already gone to the trouble to ascertain its level of perfection (that level is: "Perfect"), so a summation of glowing praise will be sufficient. I certainly hope you don't expect me to edit anything. That was my ex-wife's job. Also can someone buy me an avatar? The royalties on my first publication aren't due to roll in for awhile and I'm sure one of you hack circlejerks can spare ten bucks from beneath your couch cushions. Bad Seafood fucked around with this message at 01:36 on Jun 16, 2015 |
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Jun 16, 2015 00:27
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Do you mean that ironically?
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Jun 16, 2015 00:34
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 In.
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Jun 17, 2015 01:55
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The Black Cat Cafe (814 words) Navarro turned the hairpin over in his hands. It was a modest piece like you might find anywhere in the world, elegant at a glance only in its simplicity. Of course it was special. A paper flower with powder blue petals graced its crest, and the tip had been sharpened to a surgical point. A gift for his daughter on her thirteenth birthday included with a bottle of blowfish poison. Sasha was thrilled. When she disappeared four years later, he discovered the hairpin alongside her note. If it's alright, I'd rather not kill anyone. Emil suggested they pursue her immediately, but Navarro knew better. He'd trained his children in the family business. No one could find Sasha if she didn't wish to be found. "If it's alright, I'd rather not kill anyone." Those words had echoed in Navarro's mind for six years. He slipped the hairpin up his sleeve. Emil hit a bump in the road. “Whoops.” He caught his father's glance in the rear view mirror. “Nearly there, nearly there,” he assured the old man, a practiced pleasantry in the delivery. Emil slowed the car as he rounded the corner. Through a natural squint he surveyed their location. Evening had come, and the streets were sparsely populated. The Black Cat Cafe was closed as promised. The curtains were drawn but illuminated from within by a soft amber glow. They need only knock. That was what they'd been told. Emil parked the car across the street and opened the glove box. Inside was a revolver and a letter. The revolver was his mother's. The letter had arrived a week ago. He did a quick check to make sure the gun was functional. He loaded a single bullet. Navarro was already outside. Emil stood and stretched. Navarro didn't even look at him. “Sometime this century, Emil.” Emil chuckled. “A moment, a moment. Not all of us are as compact and travel-sized as you.” Father and son, they crossed the street. Two strange men in suits as dark as midnight. The door was clear glass set inside a wooden frame. Navarro didn't like it. Emil approached and played a little tune on the door frame with his knuckles. For a moment there was silence, then a click. The door opened inward. Emil stepped inside and was grabbed in a headlock. His attacker was a young woman in a crisp white blouse and black vest. “Six years and you still take the front door,” she said. “We're not milkmen you know.” “We're...professionals.” Emil tried to shake her off. “Ain't nothing professional 'bout what we do! Don't go bringin' honor into it like it's anything more than an eight-point word in Scrabble.” Emil collapsed onto his hands and knees. The young woman on his back looked up and saw her father in the doorway. “Howdy pops. Been awhile.” Navarro took a second to digest the scene. She was six years older, but it was his Sasha. “You've cut your hair.” “It was getting' in the way.” “You look like a boy.” “Thanks for the positive reinforcement, dad.” Emil gasped for breath. With one arm secure around his windpipe, Sasha reached down into the confines of his jacket and retrieved the revolver. “Does mom know you have this?” She opened the chamber and shook free its contents. “One bullet? Who do you think you are, Clint Eastwood?” Navarro stepped inside. It was a modest little restaurant with wooden chairs and tables and potted plants for color. One table in particular stood out to him. Unlike the rest, it was fully furnished with plates and silverware. Two bowls of soup sat steaming, a basket of bread between them. A meal for two at a table for three. “Get...off me.” “A minute.” Sasha reached over and pulled the other knife from his other sock to add to her collection. Satisfied, she let him loose. Emil's breathing was harsh. He rose slowly. Sasha dumped her brother's concealed weapons on a spare table. She kept the revolver for herself. “What's this all about?” Navarro pointed at the table. “It's dinner, dad. Not much to talk about on an empty stomach.” “You ran away from home to become a cook?” “I ran away from home to open a restaurant.” “You wrote to us after all these years for this?” “I wanted you guys here for a lot of things.” Sasha pulled out a chair and helped her brother into it. “Ah right, you like a little wine before dinner don't you? Let me go get something.” Navarro watched his daughter speed off into the kitchen. She was filled with life in a way he hadn't seen the two years before her disappearance. He decided to forget about the hairpin concealed in his sleeve.
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Jun 22, 2015 09:00
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Ing.
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Jun 30, 2015 08:48
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Bompacho please report to IRC to RedTonic for debriefing.
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Jul 4, 2015 02:32
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Barista Blues (1296 words) During the week that followed his promotion, Bruce came to appreciate the high turnover rate his position entailed. The backroom of the Golden Bean was no place for mortal men. Bruce looked down from the catwalk, a vat of freshly delivered beans sprawling out beneath him like Scrooge McDuck's own fortune. Open air, bright lights, heated containers. For any other brand of bean this would've been a death sentence, but not for the Golden Bean. To drink pure, unleaded Golden Bean was akin to sharing a cuppa joe with God himself. Those who sampled its magnificence soon died of thirst. How could they drink anything else? Thus it was that the Golden Bean found themselves contractually obligated to store their supply in sub-optimal conditions. Bruce likened it to the proper procedure for preparing a plate of fugu. Near the bottom of the vat was affixed a small valve and faucet. One by one, the faucet would distribute the beans evenly along the length of a conveyor belt, this process presided over by an elegant microscope precisely attuned to reading the OCK signature of each of the beans: Organically Confirmed Kingliness. Any bean which was off by even 0.5% was absolutely not to be sent to the front. Even at an affordable price, that million dollar taste could never be sacrificed. Bruce had been on the job for four days and hadn't touched this equipment once. He'd been too busy trashing bozos. A single gunshot echoed throughout the chamber. Bruce jerked his head back behind a crate of sugar, his pompadour singed by the path of the bullet. The gunman reloaded. He wore a bush hat and an impressive beard. He spoke slowly. His accent suggested he wasn't from around here. “You display a lot of loyalty for a hired dog.” “Man's best friend, baby. Gotta guard my roost from the likes a you.” “Hardworking, dedicated. I almost hate to kill you.” “How 'bout you and me just give love a chance then?” Silence filled the room. “...Nah. Pay is too good.” The gunman stepped forward. Bruce leapt from behind the crate with a fistful of sugar. For a blessed instant, it was snowing. Bruce tackled the intruder, the two of them falling from their catwalk to the one just below. They landed with a crunch, Bruce on top. The scaffolding swayed. The object of their struggle became the gunman's rifle. Bruce couldn't help but notice the price tag was still attached. “Gotta have a word with the boys in sporting goods after this is over.” “Leave them be.” The gunman headbutted Bruce. “Good customer service is hard to come by.” Losing his grip on the rifle, Bruce punched the gunman in the nose and threw open his opponent's jacket, eager to relieve him of his ammo. What he found instead were dozens of bags of J.J. Junta Java, neatly arranged in order of expense. “So that's your game. Thought for sure you were with the Instant Coffee Cabal.” “Junta Java's beans are imported from some of the finest dictatorships in the world. A man with my pedigree was well within their budget.” The gunman kicked Bruce off into a crate of week-old bagels that had been sent in to fuel the Voidmart furnaces that kept the beans warm. Bruce scrambled to his feet. He slipped a bagel into the inside breast pocket of his gold and black pinstripe vest, and turned to face his enemy. He took a moment to adjust his name tag. “I was wrong to call you a dog,” the gunman said. “You make for a quality punching bag.” Bruce wiped some blood from his nose and used it to restyle his increasingly disheveled pompadour. “Can't beat a man who grew up on Bruce Lee.” The gunman's brow unknit. “A man who appreciates the master. Now I really hate to kill you. I think under different circumstances we might have been friends.” “...Really?” “No.” The gunman shot him. Bruce toppled backwards past the crate knocking several bagels loose. They rolled off the edge and fell into the vat of beans. The gunman reached into his back pocket and pulled out a My First! walkie talkie. It was bright pink with purple buttons, a steal at $7.99. He held the button, his rifle shouldered. “This is Goose. The rockabilly concert has concluded.” “Good,” said the static in Goose's ear. “Now mix in the product. We must bring the people's taste to the people.” “Roger that. Where shall we meet to discuss finances?” “How about we discuss the matter over a nice cup of Golden Bean's finest?” “Ha!” Goose laughed as he shut off the walkie talkie. He took off his jacket to begin the second phase of his mission. He was the picture of surprise when Bruce roundhouse kicked him out of nowhere. “Y-you!” Goose aimed his rifle only for Bruce to snatch the barrel and point it away. The bullet exploded from its chamber and ricocheted off the guard rail of the catwalk. It sailed through the air until it struck the heat valve. The vat beneath the two men began to churn and boil. “How-” Goose began. Bruce shut him up with an uppercut. He reached into his vest and produced a blackened bagel with a bullet in its crust. “There's a reason we don't sell these after day one you know.” “How could you have known I would aim for your heart?” “Cause I'm all heart, baby.” Bruce caught Goose's jacket with his foot and flung it aside. The bags of Junta Java burst open against the walls of the backroom, yet not a single cursed bean would taint the golden brew. Goose swung 'round with his rifle. He caught Bruce square in the jaw, knocking him over the guard rails and off the catwalk. Bruce reached out and snatched at the mesh of iron rings that made up the industrial underbelly of each and every one of hanging structures. As he tightened his grip, a heavenly aroma greeted his nostrils. Ten feet beneath the scuffle, the liquefied beans gave off a golden glow. Goose pulled one last bullet from the brim of his hat. He leaned over the guard rail to take aim at Bruce. Dangling, Bruce began to swing himself like a pendulum. “I shouldn't spoil the surprise,” said Goose, “But this time I do not think I will aim for the heart.” “Always aim for the top my man!” Bruce kicked at the seam connecting the two sections of catwalk from below. The non-OSHA compliant platform split and swung apart, and Goose toppled forward. Dropping his armament, the gunman latched onto Bruce's right leg. The rifle disappeared into the swirling vortex of coffee. The enchanting scent of the Golden Bean's trademark brand calmed Bruce's heart. He looked down at Goose. “Goose! Burn in your golden brew!” Bruce kicked off his boots. Goose plunged into the coffee below. *** Bruce exited the bathroom having spent a good thirty minutes fixing himself up, approximately half of which was spent on his hair. Adjusting the collar of his shirt, he stepped out into the lobby of the Golden Bean. His coworker Lara tracked him down like a hawk. “There you are!” “Lara! What's the haps?” “This pre-brewed coffee thing we're doing today...I don't like it. It offends the sanctity of the bean!” “Don't sweat it babe. It may be a new experience, but it's still your father's Golden Bean.” Sitting alone at a booth set for two, a businessman with a J.J. Junta Java button on his lapel checked his watch. PROMPT: Your character is the Bean Inspector for the Golden Bean Cafe and Coffee shop. Only patented Voidmart Beans are allowed in Voidmart Golden Bean Coffee. Their job is to keep competitor's beans from infiltrating your customer's cups. Voidmart Golden Bean Coffee make the happiest customers.
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Jul 6, 2015 07:59
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Thunderdumb Weak One-Fiddy-Three: Gather Your Party (click the pic for some mood-setting music) ADVENTURE IS OUT THERE! So it turns out one of the biggest sins you can commit in genre fiction is writing fantasy that reads like a D&D session after action report. Well this week we say nuts to that cause that's exactly what I want. Sort of. Hear me out. Something I've noticed a lot of 'domers struggle with (including yours truly) is coming up with engaging characters. I can't tell you how many stories I've read where the protagonist was just some inoffensively bland everyman I was somehow supposed to relate to, or a huge jerk because huge jerks are interesting by default, right? Right? Probably my second-most repeated critique of other people's work here has been some variation of "I didn't like your characters," "I didn't care about your characters," with the first being "You didn't write me a story; why didn't you write me a story?" Characters should be the lifeblood of your story. Pretty prose doesn't count for much when I can't stand your cast. Consider this week, then, a workshop week. This week I want stories of high adventure set against a suitably fantastical backdrop. Rather than a single, selfish protagonist, your story should feature an ensemble cast of at least three but no more than five core characters, adventurers all, though I'll let you get away with one more if they're up against some baddie (presuming the baddie's the extra guy). Each of these characters should be distinct enough that you could remove all dialogue attribution and still tell who was saying what in any given conversation. Needless to say, good character chemistry is a must, though don't assume that means everybody has to get along. Additionally, every character should have some role they are clearly fulfilling. Everyone should have a place in the group, whether it's swinging a sword or slinging spells, balancing the books or cooking up dinner. No tag along dudes who are just there to be there. In terms of story content, I'm willing to be a bit more flexible. Maybe your dudes just stumbled into an ancient crypt. Maybe they're recuperating around the campfire just after narrowly escaping with their lives. Maybe they're confronting a great evil. Maybe a wizard hired them to clean his house (they needed the money), only he forgot to mention the books in his library are literally alive and cast the spells in their pages on people they don't recognize. Maybe it's everyone's day off. As long as a clear arc of some kind is present, I'm even open to things bordering on vignettes. Still no fanfiction or erotica though. Nope. And no swearing, long as we're on the subject. Swearing can be a useful tool to have in your toolbox, but too many of you guys just throw it around willy-nilly without a thought for how it affects the tone and temperament of your story as a whole. No swearing. I mean it. Not even the little ones even your ultra-conservative grandmother uses from time to time. If you wanna write the kinda character who'd swear casually or to make a point or whatever, consider instead some other means of communicating their personality beyond suddenly including the word "gently caress!" in the middle of your otherwise gently caress-less story. Other things I don't wish to see include intrusive worldbuilding, the specific and particular mechanics behind whatever brand of magic you decided to use, and stock fantasy races acting like their stereotypes. You know what I mean. To take the edge off all these hoops I'm making you guys jump through, you have 1,500 words with which to stretch your legs. That's like 200 more than last week! Usually I'd cap you guys at 1k. Sign-ups begin now and end Friday at 11:59 PM PST. Submissions are due Sunday, exactly 48 hours later (which is to say, again, 11:59 PM PST). A prompt leaps forth from the underbrush. Doth thou accept its challenge? DUNGEON MASTERS Bad Seafood Broenheim Mercedes PLAYER CHARACTERS Curlingiron - The ancient artifact wasn't what anyone expected, but we're okay with that now. SkaAndScreenplays - The druid's nudity helps them commune with nature, but the rest of the party remains unconvinced. Avoid common nudist stereotypes. Kurona_bright - Last week some wizards got drunk and totally mucked around with the local topography. The cartography office is assigning escorts to the new survey teams. Painted Bird - Your party wizard may have embellished the level of magical expertise on his resume juuust a bit. Bompacho - We never set out to be kings but here we are. Hubris.height - THIS WAS NOT THE PARTY YOU ASKED FOR, BUT IT'S THE ONE YOU'VE GOT. SORRY. RedTonic - The party cleric seeks to alleviate the barbarian's crippling illiteracy. Benny Profane - Just a couple of kids playing pretend. Maybe. Killer-of-Lawyers - Your party fighter wields the Sword of Constructive Criticism, which counts as one of your three-to-five characters all by itself. Four characters minimum. Grizzled Patriarch - You know what my favorite fantasy mook is? Skeletons. Skeletons rule. Include some skeletons in your story. Theblunderbuss - Never accept free drinks.  Thranguy - They can't stop us. We're on a mission from God. Docbeard - The party paladin is increasingly concerned over the cleric's liberal use of blood ritual and raising the dead. Jonked - Your party awakens in the deepest, darkest dungeon of the goblin king. LOU BEGAS MUSTACHE - A diplomatic mission means you have to kill less people. Usually. Preferably. N. Senada - The guild accountants take issue with some of your party's more questionable expenses. HopperUK - Your party has entered...THE TOMB OF HORRORS. Blue Wher - Supplies are dwindling, coffers are empty, and the party's starving. Time to go hunting. Djeser Epoch. C7ty1 - The party bard parties hard. Everyone else is varying degrees of done with him. Lazy Beggar - A noble family pays you good money to locate their missing cat. You get nothing if it's dead. Megazver - The party rogue goes to great lengths to hide that she's a woman. A Classy Ghost - You split the party. Unburied - Your party must contend with giant enemy crabs. Spectres of Autism - One of your characters never speaks, but instead expresses themselves entirely through their actions. SurreptitiousMuffin Morning Bell - The party fighter thinks the wizard could benefit from a more active lifestyle. Jopoho - Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely...but it also ROCKS absolutely too. Sitting Here - Your party has been accused of a most heinous crime. In order to clear your names, you must apprehend the true culprit. Meeple - The evil empire isn't actually. Jagermonster - Your party consists of exactly one weathered veteran with everyone else being novice greenhorns. The veteran cannot be brooding or jaded. Schneider Heim - Two words: tavern brawl. Ironic Twist - Your party is full of goblins. WeLandedOnTheMoon! - You are forbidden from including any of the standard menagerie of fantasy races. At least half your characters must be non-human. Flesnolk - A fantastical approximation of modern day technology must factor into your story. Crabrock SadisTech The Shortest Path - One of your characters has managed to foster a larger than life reputation. Too bad none of it's true. DMBoogie Scridiot Barbed Tongues - Your characters wake up in the middle of the woods to find someone's stolen all their stuff. Angel Opportunity Entenzahn Pham Nuwen Bad Seafood fucked around with this message at 06:30 on Jul 11, 2015 |
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Jul 7, 2015 08:25
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curlingiron posted:
SkaAndScreenplays posted:A neonate enters the tavern. He's covered IN all manner of bodily fluids and looks like he has a story to tell. Bad Seafood fucked around with this message at 08:54 on Jul 7, 2015 |
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Jul 7, 2015 08:40
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kurona_bright posted:That looks like Etrian Odyssey art. Is it Etrian Odyssey art? (nerd trap sprung The answer to the preceding question was "Yes," just so you know. painted bird posted:gently caress, I'm so in. Also, please flash me.
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Jul 7, 2015 10:13
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Bompacho posted:Thanks SkaandScreenplay hubris.height posted:It must be.  RedTonic posted:In, because why not? And flash me. Benny Profane posted:Thanks for the crit, Ska. Killer-of-Lawyers posted:No swearing? Characters? This is what the cleric ordered for me. In, and flash me, cause so far they've been pretty good. Grizzled Patriarch posted:This should be interesting.  theblunderbuss posted:Sweet prompt. I'm in with a flash rule, please. Thranguy posted:in, and I'll take a flash rule as well. docbeard posted:The denizens of this mystic place fall upon you without warning! You face: Jonked posted:I'm in and would like a flash rule. LOU BEGAS MUSTACHE posted:in N. Senada posted:In with a flash please.
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Jul 7, 2015 18:47
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HopperUK posted:In! Flash me.  DING DING DING DING Congratulations HopperUK! As our honorary 17th sign-up, 17 being arbitrarily my favorite number, you get a super special flashrule deluxe. Your party may be brave. They may be strong. They may even be a little bit crazy. But are they crazy enough to enter...  THE TOMB OF HORRORS? So the Tomb of Horrors is a legendarily nasty meat-grinder of an adventure module written by the godfather of D&D, Gary Gygax himself. We're talking "Prepare two extra character sheets in advance in case your first dude gets obliterated immediately" levels of nasty. Death is on the menu. Your characters, for whatever insane reason, have decided to test their luck and the grace of whatever gods they hold dear, steeling themselves to enter...THE TOMB OF HORRORS, which I expect you to do a little research on just FYI.  Since I'm technically throwing an established setting your way, the no fanfiction rule is kinda sorta slightly suspended for you and you alone, though I expect the characters and plot beats to still be yours. Your reward for tackling this challenge is an extra 500 words just to ensure you actually tell a satisfying story without resorting to "Rocks fall, everyone dies." If you refuse, you'll have the same word count as everybody else along with a much lamer flash rule in place of this one. DO YOU ACCEPT? Blue Wher posted:In with a flash rule pls C7ty1 posted:Hello fellow first timer.
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Jul 7, 2015 19:43
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Lazy Beggar posted:Thanks for the crit. Megazver posted:Aight. In. Flashinate me. A Classy Ghost posted:I'm in. Gimme a good flash rule, Doof. You split the party.
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Jul 7, 2015 20:41
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unburied posted:In.
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Jul 7, 2015 21:12
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spectres of autism posted:id also like to join the cool club of ppl who are in and being flashed Morning Bell posted:I'm in and would like a flash rule Jopoho posted:I'll throw in with a flash rule. Sitting Here posted:in purely to make doof suffer, as i hope he will make me suffer with a flashrule Meeple posted:I failed my saving throw vs prompt. In and flash me.
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Jul 8, 2015 10:22
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Jagermonster posted:Almost finished with a book I've been writing (at 149k words/397 pages) and should wrap it up tomorrow or Friday. But then I need to read a book on self-editing, write a poo poo ton more (need to level up that skill, baby!), and edit it so it's not complete garbage so IN and please flash rule me.
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Jul 8, 2015 23:44
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Schneider Heim posted:In. Flash me, please.
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Jul 9, 2015 03:35
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Ironic Twist posted:in, fl@$h  This is your party.
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Jul 9, 2015 04:09
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WeLandedOnTheMoon! posted:Also, give me a flash rule and a tankard of some generic fantasy alcoholic beverage. Flesnolk posted:So last time I joined one of these I totally hosed up, "Killing the Necromancer" is still sitting around somewhere collecting dust. I might finally finish it and try for a redemption sometime. Until then, in, give me a flash rule if you want, and I'll even toxx for finishing this time if necessary. As an example, cameras exist in Terry Pratchett's Discworld, they're just boxes with lenses containing tiny imps who draw what they see really, really fast.
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Jul 10, 2015 00:59
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Thursday judging, adequate judging. Thank you Ska and Sitting Here. The prompt post has been updated to include all current participants and their accompanying flashrules. Probably. Let me know if I missed you.
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Jul 10, 2015 01:12
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The Shortest Path posted:In with a flash, please. One of your characters has managed to foster a larger than life reputation. Too bad none of it's true.
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Jul 10, 2015 03:18
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Barbed Tongues posted:Dear Dungeon Master Bad Seafood, *Rolls behind DM screen.* Your characters wake up in the middle of the woods to find someone's stolen all their stuff.
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Jul 11, 2015 00:53
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Sign ups are now closed.
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Jul 11, 2015 08:01
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HopperUK posted:"Maybe you're right, but it don't matter none. Let's get moving before some other drat trap goes off." SurreptitiousMuffin posted:He was smiling, drat him. Djeser posted:"Zeke," he snapped, "smooth out the drat river!" Djeser posted:"I didn't think we was gonna make it, but hell," Bec said. Benny Profane posted:“God, why do you guys have to be such goddamned di—”
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Jul 13, 2015 05:39
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Two hours remain.
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Jul 13, 2015 06:00
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Submissions are closed.
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Jul 13, 2015 07:30
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...In 30 minutes.
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Jul 13, 2015 07:30
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Submissions are close for real. Kurona_bright, Painted Bird, Bompacho, Blue Wher, Megazver, A Classy Ghost, Schneider Heim, Ironic Twist, Flesnolk, SadisTech, and the Shortest Path have all failed to submit and were eaten by grues. SadisTech has until I get back from lunch tomorrow to post their story late and avoid getting toxx-banned. Bad Seafood fucked around with this message at 08:08 on Jul 13, 2015 |
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Jul 13, 2015 08:00
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kurona_bright posted:I am very sad that I've been eaten by a Unless it's some several thousand word monstrosity.
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Jul 13, 2015 08:36
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SadisTech posted:1936 words
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Jul 13, 2015 08:42
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Whoop, my bad then. You'll still get a crit though.
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Jul 13, 2015 08:50
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Judgment is n-Tyrannosaurus posted:slow judgin thread implosion
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Jul 14, 2015 10:11
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Thunderdome Week 153 Results Post This week we asked you for stories of high adventure and possibly daring deeds featuring characters we liked or at least didn't want to punch in the face. Unsurprisingly, many of you failed. Yet atop this mountain of literary corpses stand four heroes, tall and proud, bathed in the light of the morning dawn. Capes in the wind, the promise of a new tomorrow before them, honorable mentions HopperUK, Theblunderbuss, and SurreptitiousMuffin can't help but smile. A radiant light rises before them, but it is not the sun. Last to emerge from the long dark night, the legendary hero Curlingiron arises from the abyss bearing the mark of the gods. A winner has been chosen! But at great cost. Deep within the shuddering bowls of the dankest dungeon, shackled by regret, dishonorable mentions Barbed Tongues, Hubris.height, Meeple, and SkaAndScreenplays look mournfully to one another. It is a sad thing their journey ends here. Even so, they are the lucky ones. Cast from his dark throne, the Lunar Emperor WeLandedOnTheMoon! howls in agony as his soul is processed by the swirling vortex of What Even Happened In This Story Holy Moly Get Lost Loser. But he is not alone! Accompanying him on his journey into the netherworld are the two demons of disqualification: Pham Nuwen and Benny Profane, accursed for all time for trying to get cute with the prompt when there was no getting cute to be done. Benny's conscience is particularly heavy, the fallen paladin realizing only now that he threw away his chance to stand among heroes. As the three sink lower into the maelstrom, the sea of souls parts to reveal the Sanctum of the Darned. Sitting there, alone and miserable for all time, dishonorable disqualification Epoch. broods from his Ikea™ skull throne. They just don't get him. One day they'll appreciate his genius. One day! But not today. *** Take it away Curlingiron. Bad Seafood fucked around with this message at 18:34 on Jul 14, 2015 |
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Jul 14, 2015 18:29
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Considering your current avatar, I'd say we did you a service.
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Jul 14, 2015 19:05
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This week on Thunderdome: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TH9sxQ0b0uA Bad Seafood fucked around with this message at 20:11 on Jul 14, 2015 |
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Jul 14, 2015 19:54
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Broenbombrawl A murder on a train? What a novel idea! Should be manageable in 1,000 words. Hmm, say though, I think I've seen a story like this before. A really long one too. Maybe 1,000 words isn't enough. Perhaps I could make things more interesting...if you dare. Your prompt is as outline above, however...you may quote this paragraph if you'd like extra words. You may request anywhere from 1 to 1,000 to work with. Along with your extra allotment of words, you will be assigned a flashrule equal in severity to how many words you asked for. Submissions are due August 4th at the stroke of midnight, PST. Broenheim - 1,250 words total; a murder on a subway train. Bompacho - 1,400 words total; a murder on the Big Thunder Mountain Railroad. Bad Seafood fucked around with this message at 07:30 on Jul 29, 2015 |
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Jul 29, 2015 06:40
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Broenheim posted:250 words please and thank you Bompacho posted:I'm feeling suicidal. I'll take 400 please.
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Jul 29, 2015 07:25
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Posting on behalf of my good friend and wage slave Schneider Heim. My Ex Friend's Wedding 1258 words The church smells of incense, a smell I haven't experienced in decades. I think of Gwen, not as the woman at the altar whom I hardly know, but the girl I used to be best friends with, and wonder where it went all wrong. I sit at the farthest pew, mostly to evade questions from curious people. The men wear barongs, but I chose to wear a suit. I've gotten used to suits despite this country's sweltering climate that I feel naked without them. When you find that you can intimidate the average person with the clothes you wear, you'll never go back to wearing anything less. Gwen doesn't know I'm here. She probably doesn't even know me anymore, not as I am now. She'll probably never forgive me for what I'm about to do, but that's preferable to me not being able to forgive myself. Because I'm done with that. The ceremony is a blur, much as the masses I used to attend. No good news for me here. I follow directions to sit, stand, and kneel as I had been taught in school. But I don't smile, I don't applaud, I simply stare at Gwen through dark sunglasses. She only has eyes for her husband, of course. This is the last loose end of my life. ### The reception is a modest affair. I bribe my way inside, and I add a couple grand for my own table. Can't stand these people. Can't stand strangers. I fill my stomach with carbonara and chicken cordon bleu, buffet staples that have become cliche. They taste like nothing. I decline the wine, having told myself that I'd do this sober. I sit through all the pomp and circumstance, wishing for Gwen to look my way, recognize me, and be outraged in some manner. How I wish that she'd truly gone bad, that her sweetness had turned acrid, that she really did cast me away with hate in her heart and leave me to deal with the changes I had been going through. I still do, to this goddamned day. The program brings up memories of Gwen that I've never been a part of, a veritable desert of fucks given, six years long. I clench my hand and deny the urge to ask for a glass of wine. After everything's said and done, I walk up to the newlywed couple. "Best wishes," I say. My smile is a finely-honed lie forged in the fires of the boardroom. Joseph gives Gwen the look. The look that says "is he a friend of yours", which Gwen returns. "Gwen and I come from way, way back." I pause for a look of recognition on Gwen's face. It doesn't appear. "We used to eat fishballs together in grade school and she'd refuse to put anything on them." There it is, shock and horror following recognition. I may have grown facial hair, but I didn't bother to change my nose. "Amanda?" My birth name. "It's Arthur," I say, the unspoken now hanging in the air. "What do you mean?" Joseph asks. He's completely out of the loop. A part of me wants to get him involved, but I'm not that petty. "I'm trans." The words are like stale tea leaves. Gwen grabs my hand. "Can I speak to him for a moment, honey?" She pulls me away without considering her husband's response. We enter the deserted reception hall, its dim lights casting an unwanted gloom. "Why are you here?" she demands. I'm laughing inside so much that I have to struggle to keep my poker face. "I wanted to see you," I say. "Nice gown, by the way." "But you're not even invited." I tug at my tie in a not-so-subtle display of wealth. "Oh Gwen, I just had to bribe the right people. How'd you meet Joseph, by the way?" Gwen's face is red. "What do you want?" "I told you already." "You've changed," Gwen says. There's a hint of sadness in her voice, and I don't know whether to laugh or cry about it. "Obviously." "What happened? Why did you... do it?" "I didn't like who I was, so I become the person I wanted to be. Somewhere along the way I got rich. Don't let anyone tell you math is useless." Silence. I press my advantage. "Do you still hate me?" She blinks. "Hate you? Why would I ever hate you?" "You stopped speaking to me six years ago. About the same time I started transitioning. No replies, no answered calls, you didn't even unfriend me on Facebook. I would've asked you face-to-face but I didn't have a spine back then. But here we are now. Why, Gwen?" "Am-- Arthur, you just fell off my radar. I was going through something at that time. It's not that I don't care, but..." Her voice trails off. She averts her gaze, her hands fidgeting. She had always been a bad liar. "Everyone's going through something, Gwen. You only needed to talk to me. I guess you didn't really care for me after all?" Gwen shakes her head. "I didn't know how to talk to you. How to act around you. You were going through all these... changes and... I was scared you had turned into someone else." "But I'm still me. I've never even felt better, if anything." "Arthur..." She forces herself to say the name that I chose. It sounds so wrong, coming from her lips. "I didn't need anything special from you," I say. "I just wanted my friend Gwen. I just wanted her to listen to my problems and fall asleep on the phone with me like in high school when Luis dumped me for that Debate Club bitch. But you're not the Gwen I knew. You have her name and face but Gwen would never have abandoned her friends." "I'm sorry..." I look into her eyes and see her pain, a genuine realization of what she had done. Of what she had chosen not to do. Sometimes I lie in my bed, wishing that Gwen had hurt me with something. That way I'd have a tangible reason to be hurt and angry at her, and didn't have to turn it all on myself. Well, all that poo poo has to go somewhere new now, doesn't it? "Enjoy your honeymoon," I say. ### Joseph's standing by the hall. There's jealousy and worry etched on his smooth face. "We just had a little heart-to-heart talk," I tell him. "You can come in now." "Who are you, really?" he asks. Poor man, he really doesn't know anything. Not that I care, though. "Someone who used to be friends with your wife." I smile at his face. "You can ask her the details later." Joseph rushes inside and hurls himself into Gwen's arms just as the doors swing close. I can hear Gwen's sobs and Joseph's soothing voice through the door. That's it, I'm done. I walk away, past the well-wishers and the staff, and into my waiting car. Ernest, my driver, gives me a sidelong glance. "Everything all set, sir?" "To the meeting, please." I had deals to close and a company to run. As we drive away, I look at the greeting card neatly resting inside my coat pocket. There's ten thousand pesos enclosed, but I figure that I don't owe Gwen anything. Not since she stopped talking to me. I smile, and it's a new day, a new me emerging from the chrysalis of past weaknesses. "When are you getting married, Ernest?"
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Aug 3, 2015 09:36
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