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Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

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




Also going to have to throw in the towel this week, unfortunately. Still sick as a dog and I only ended up with half of a (lovely) story because my brain doesn't seem to want to work. Next week will be a toxx.

I'm also putting in a to have the rest of Week 123 crits and Week 125 crits up by midnight EST tomorrow, so I don't feel like a total fuckup.

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Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

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




Week 123 Crits, Part 3

Fumblemous - Infamous Jack's

I liked this one. Your writing clear and carries a lot of descriptive weight. Your characters border on the cliche, but the set-up is interesting enough that I don't really care. All of the judges liked how you handled the surreal element: the empty suit is introduced, nobody thinks it's particularly odd, and then you use it to explore the protagonists hopes and fears in a really organic way. The section where her song is literally filling up the suit is great.

We weren't really sure how to take her line about the manager being world famous. My instinct is to read it as a joke, but maybe not? It makes it hard to tell if the protagonist is being playful or malicious in that moment, which is an important distinction.

What really held this one back at the end of the day was the way you handled the ending. You've still got some nice imagery, but the message is muddled. Did she get tricked into something by Jack? That last line makes him seem almost demonic, but I can't really get a handle on his motivations. Did he just want to watch her dreams crash and burn? Is the implication that she'll be forced to stay on at the club even though she deserves better? A bit more clarity here would have really helped. Still, I enjoyed this one a lot, and you were on the few people that nailed the surreal atmosphere. Nice job!

Jonked - Be Kind, Rewind

I got a couple paragraphs in before I realized what was going on here. It's an interesting gimmick, but it doesn't really accomplish anything. I thought for a second you had somehow managed to tell a full story both forwards and backwards, but that wasn't the case (not that I'd expect that degree of meticulous planning from a weekly contest).

Unfortunately, the gimmick ends up really harshing your clarity. It's surprisingly hard to force yourself to read everything backwards, and I feel like I ended up missing out on things that might have been under the surface of the story. As it is, the story itself is kind of bland. I was waiting for something to come out of left field or really shake things up, but it doesn't happen.

Your prose is mostly fine, with some awkward phrasing here and there. There's not really anything bad about the story, but there's also not anything great, so it ends up being a middle-of-the-pack story with a gimmick that annoyed the judges. Still, it's fun to try things like that sometimes, even if it's a whiff.

Benny the Snake - Last Call

You've written worse stories, but this one suffers from the same problems that most of yours do.

You are telling a story, but there's like, zero description, which makes everything feel really vague. Even your characters are described in really nebulous terms. Your dialogue is mostly exposition; you don't really use it to characterize anyone or provide any depth beyond "here is what is going on."

My biggest issue is that I don't care about any of the characters. It feels like you meant for your protag to be some badass rebel, but he's just a douche. He's killed people, threatens to kill his own father, and is basically stalking his ex, and I'm supposed to care what happens to him why? It's certainly possible to write a story with characters that aren't sympathetic, but it takes a defter hand than this.

At the end of the day, this ends up being a sort of "A, then B" story with a really hateable protag and heavy-handed dialogue. Not your best, not your worst.

Your Sledgehammer - Conversations with Bobby

This was a nice, well-written piece that skirted that line of sentimentality. You took an interesting approach by grounding a weird moment in a really normal situation, which is a risk that could have backfired but didn't.

You do a good job of making your dialogue feel "real". The conversations add character, sounds believable, and gives some insight into the conflict.

You did kind of show your hand a little early - it was pretty easy to figure out where it was going after the first call. The main issue here is that it feels like a relatively small payoff for how bizarre the inciting action is. Your protag basically just decides to quit his job and pursue his dream a little earlier, even though he was going to do it pretty soon anyway. I was waiting for a major upset - some major introspective moment or reappraising his goal - but things just basically go according to plan, which neuters the tension and sense of conflict a bit.

Not a bad story, but the surreal element almost went too far in the other direction, where it's barely even justified and doesn't really go anywhere compelling.

J.A.B.C. -Processing Error

First big no-no: opening a story with "protagonist wakes up." Alarm clock, dream, several paragraphs of the protag doing mundane things. Doing these things is actively working against the reader.

Your surreal element feels more like a spec fiction set-up, but that's not really how gravity works anyway. There's some interesting imagery and a lot of potential with the conflict you've established, but it's mostly squandered. Your protagonist is almost entirely reactive; he's basically just a pair of surrogate eyeballs for the audience, rather than someone that makes choices and takes action.

I was kind of disappointed by the fact that you ended the story the same way it started. Recursive narratives are a thing, but this one just made it feel like everything got cancelled out and nobody learned anything or changed in any way. Waving it all off as a dream basically means the entire story was a waste of time for both the reader and the characters.

Ironic Twist -Retreat

As usual, your prose is rock solid here. The intro does a pretty good job of teasing out some characterization and setting up the scene.

You stumble a bit when "Not-Alice" shows up. Not only is that a pretty awkward naming device, but the whole situation feels needlessly vague. Alice is her neighbor on the mountainside, but when she throws out "Not-Alice," it seems like she came from a typical white picket fence suburbia. Were they neighbors ten years ago in a different place, as well?

The protagonist's reaction to all this oddness feels kind of off, though I can't put my finger on why. She kind of just seems angry instead of being scared or really confused.

The ending is a great, gross image, but I'm having trouble parsing it. I feel like the typewriter's significance needs to be more established. Is it the reason for everything that is happening? Is it sending letters into the past / future? I think you ended up withholding just a bit more info from the reader than you should have, and as a result it gets a bit difficult to dig into the meat of the story.

Clandestine - Gold

This wasn't really surreal at all. It was basically just a sci-fi story with "aliens did it" as the basic premise.

You've got some nice imagery here, and your prose is solid. The set-up feels like it's going somewhere interesting, but then you pretty much pull the rug out from under the reader's feet. The alien twist feels totally divorced from the rest of the story, and it's just not satisfying. How did the aliens realize they found an alien fossil? Why bother giving them a "gift" after wiping their memory?

You've got the building blocks of a good story here, but the dots just don't connect. It ends up coming off as a cheesy X-Files episode instead of something surreal and meaningful.

Tyrannosaurus - A Series of Serious Beats

Obviously we all liked this story a lot. You made some bold choices here by going with a second-person PoV and approaching your humor with a sort of clinical detachment. Those choices really paid off, though.

The humor here is pitch-perfect, and it really complements the surreal course of events. The depiction of the sea monkeys is kind of odd, but I'm not going to nitpick realistic sea monkeys given the premise. You've got a really good sense of pacing throughout, and it does a great job of emphasizing the balance between humor and the actual gravity of the situation.

The protagonist does almost feel too clueless, but on the other hand it's probably just willful ignorance. You can see this kind of behavior in people all the time, refusing to accept the truth even in the face of a mountain of evidence, and the entire premise works as an absurd exploration of that concept.

Not much else to say about this piece, I think you accomplished what you set out to do here.

Boozahol - Career Change

This was another story that didn't really feel surreal at all. It's really more of a straight-up fantasy / urban fantasy story.

You open with some dialogue that feels fairly natural, but the context is basically nonexistent. The characters feel kind of aimless, and as a result they just kind of melt together. There's not really any conflict either: everyone just basically goes along with everything that happens for no real reason. The premise here should be really compelling, but it ends up feeling...boring, I guess?

The story was basically just an account of things that happened. We don't get a sense of anyone's feelings, motivations, etc. There's some humorous nuggets hidden inside of the story, but it's hard to care about most of what is going on.

Systran -The Amalgolem

Your opening is great and the premise is really strong. Right away I'm hooked and I want to see what the hell is going on.

Using multiple perspectives in such a short piece is risky as hell, but it kind of works somehow. However, I am left kind of wondering what the point of this golem was. These capitalists all come together and build an ubermensch out of their best parts, but why? Just so they can all experience earthly pleasures while they work? The golem itself seems to have just become a prostitute, but I'm not getting a sense of why this was worth people cutting off their own body parts.

The prose is clear, concise, and evocative. I'm still not sure what to think about the fact that I've now read a story that includes the line, "he'd kill himself after he came into his own rear end," but I'll be damned if I didn't laugh.

Bad Ideas Good - Family Troubles

You've got some cool imagery going on early in the story, but everything basically falls apart at the midpoint and it feels like you just slapped together pieces from multiple stories or something.

Once the box shows up I basically had no idea what was even going on. It went from a standard narrative to feeling very disjointed and meta. Someone mentioned that you just threw something together to avoid a failure, so that would make sense.

The dialogue feels perfunctory, and the characters come off as abrasive and childish. There's honestly not a whole lot I can say about this piece, just because it's basically half a story with some Thunderdome metanarrative shoved in at the end. The writing is competent enough, but there's not enough of a story to judge much else.

Week 125 Crits will be up shortly!

Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

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




Week 125 Crits

Screaming Idiot - Cold Beach, Cold Beer

This was a fun first story for the week, and probably one of the strongest early entries I've personally seen. Definitely your best story so far, so keep it up!

Your prose is solid, and there are some nice images here and there. The merman's introduction sticks out, for instance. Dialogue is mostly good. It feels realistic, but edges close to being used for exposition in a couple of spots.

You've got pretty good pacing and the story unfolds naturally. The characters are kind of cliche, but they also have enough heart to elevate them beyond that a bit. It's a silly story, but the ending was a nice choice with some actual impact. I think there's a lot of potential here and you made me smile when I finished reading it, so nice work!

ZeBourgeoisie - The Lockbox

Pretty odd story, overall. Your dialogue is kind of on-the-nose throughout the story. “You know we can’t. It’s illegal here for gays to adopt.” That's a good example of an "as you know,..." sentence that immediately sticks out.

The way you approach the conflict here ends up just ringing false. A dude basically shows up with a magical McGuffin and the protagonist goes along with it. You did give him a strong justification for wanting to buy into it, at least.

You've got some nice imagery towards the end, but it kind of feels like the rest of the plot was just an excuse to have this gross-out at the end. Everything just comes to a head very rapidly and the characters don't have any time to breathe or act like real people. It also just one of those cases where you bring in these characters and just do something really mean-spirited to them. It's like how humor that punches up gets laughs, but humor that punches down just feels uncomfortable. I don't think that was your intention, but it probably colored my perception of the story a bit.

Chairchucker - Panda for the Masses

The first of our Rosa Flores stories this week. It's so short and goofy that it's kind of hard to critique. It's a funny little cliche joke about talking animals, with a sprinkling of TD in-joke. It accomplishes what it sets out to do, but it's not really a story or anything. Dialogue feels like it's just there to serve the joke and there's not really enough prose to judge one way or another.

Not really sure why there's rabbits at the zoo, especially next to a Panda enclosure, but I suppose I can suspend my disbelief here.

Nubile Hillock - The Bog

Rosa Flores appearance number two!

Your prose is strong and even though the humor is low-brow, I'm not going to lie and say I didn't laugh. "The alien bigfoots was beamin’ him up" and the bit with the business card were my favorites.

You actually managed to tell a story that made sense within the context of your humor, so I appreciate that. The image of a park ranger hallucinating about alien bigfoots and mermen because of offgassing is pretty good. The characters are pretty much the definition of cardboard, but that's kind of the point.

Entenzahn - Atlantis

I wasn't really expecting many serious stories this week, but I'm glad you submitted this.

Present tense is a risky pick in the dome, but you made great use of it. There's a nice, understated current of sadness running through the piece, and the unrealistic premise creates an effective mood. You do a really good job of layering characterization and using broad strokes to give the reader insight into the characters' though processes.

Evocative prose, and a creative take on your merman selection. The pacing feels a little jumpy, but beyond that, I don't have much criticism here.

Sitting Here - Of the Sea

Third Rosa Flores sighting!

Really nice prose, big surprise. The set-up is kind of cliche, and I was wondering if you were going to do some weird merman-based Walter Mitty story or something. You subvert expectations well enough, and the concept of an ancient merman speaking archaic Spanish was really neat. I feel like you could do something pretty creepy and dreamlike with that.

The issue I ended up having with this story is that it doesn't really go anywhere. A guy in a lovely marriage with Rosa Flores gets whisked away by a Merman, then he comes back to his boring, miserable life. Your tone kind of wavers between outright comedy and something more serious, to the point that it kind of meets in the middle and doesn't end up sticking the landing on either. It was still an enjoyable read with some really nice turns of phrase throughout.

Jonked - Beard

This was the first story that didn't explicitly feature mermen, which was a bold choice that worked for me at first.

This story just ended up kind of bellyflopping halfway through, unfortunately. There's like a weird Chuck and Larry situation going on, but then the protagonist ends up actually sleeping with his fake wife, and decides he's not completely gay, I guess? I don't know if he's supposed to be discovering he's bisexual, or if he's having a sexual identity crisis, or what.

I just feel like you end up glossing over the actual conflict that you set up, and so I'm left wondering what the point was. Is there a moral I'm missing here?

That said, you've got solid prose and the dialogue isn't bad. I'm just not sure what to take away from any of it.

Kaishai - The Merman's Package

This was a unanimous pick for winner. You basically embraced this week and gave us a merman bonanza. You've got it all: nice attention to detail with the small world-building elements, a clear conflict and narrative arc, energetic prose, merman cucking (!?)

It's not a terribly deep or provocative story, but that's ok. The characters all have motivations and unique voices, which is pretty impressive with so few words. Even though the conflict is inherently silly, you actually managed to imbue it with tension.

This was, for me, the only story that really nailed a balance between goofy and serious.

Nethilia - Walking Stereotypes

This is a cute story with a nice moral lesson at the center, but there's not a whole lot of meat on the narrative bones.

The dialogue feels kind of stilted throughout, kind of like the characters are speaking to an audience rather than each other. The plot is a little thin, but there's an arc to it and the resolution is satisfying. The bit where the mother asks Patrick's name got a chuckle out of me.

The last couple of lines do feel a little forced, but there's not much wrong with this piece otherwise, to be honest. It just feels like kind of a short story someone would read to their kids.

crabrock - Treasure Mountain

This was really fun to read, and I could tell it was fun to write. Like Kaishai's, you've got a good eye for subtle worldbuilding and lean, energetic prose.

I was impressive by just how much story you managed to pack into the world limit. It really feels like a whole adventure condensed into a bit of flash fiction, which speaks toward your talent for pacing and picking out the important bits.

The story reminds me of something I would have read in middle school, in a good way. Your prose is strong throughout and the opening does a great job of pulling me in. The only real issues I had were the relative lack of characterization in the first half of the story, and the fact that it was kind of a by-the-numbers plotline for the most part, even if it did do it very well.

kurona_bright - Man, I'm a Genius

This was pretty bizarre. Your intro actually did a good job of hooking me, but the story never went anywhere.

This kid lost his jacket, thought someone else stole it, and then realizes he may have been wrong after the principal makes the kid give it back to him.

The protagonist spends the entire story hemming and hawing about the jacket, but then you specifically mention several times that there aren't really any consequences if he did make a mistake.

Then he realizes that he did make a mistake, and that all he has to do to avoid trouble is...give it back. Your prose isn't terrible or anything, but the reason you lost is that you gave us one of the most mundane conflicts ever and then stated outright that there weren't really any stakes involved. It's just a kid panicking for a second and then realizing that there's no reason to panic after all. No matter how good your writing was, that wasn't going to make a compelling story.

Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

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




In with a for my shameful display last week.

Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

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




The Alley-Runners (536 words)
Aleppo (Syria)

*snip*

See Archive

Grizzled Patriarch fucked around with this message at Dec 30, 2015 around 16:53

Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

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




I like the cut of your jib. Give me a prompt you son of a bitch.

Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

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




Body of the Host (567 words)
Its Enslavement Enslaves Them

*snip*

See Archive

Grizzled Patriarch fucked around with this message at Dec 30, 2015 around 16:53

Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

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




In.

Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

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




Love is Another Kind of Loneliness
(707 words)

*snip*

See Archive

Grizzled Patriarch fucked around with this message at Dec 30, 2015 around 16:54

Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

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




Djeser posted:

If I do not win once by the end of the year, I must post the steampunk story I wrote in high school in the thread.

Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

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




In. Let's see what you've got.

Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

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




Endless Numbered Days (580 words)
Mary's Child

She crouched naked in the dark womb of the earth, listening to the fluted stones drip and sing. Eyes cast upward toward the black vaulted dome, and farther still the ruins of a city ground to dust beneath the heel of passing centuries. After a time she raised her golden finger, pulsing with its soft, terrible light, and crept on her belly to the edge of a limestone pool.

Dipping her finger into the cool water, she watched the drifting blindfish by its glow, their glassy flesh and sightless moonmilk eyes. A flickering memory called to life, visions of pale, flaky meat sizzling over flame. For a moment she felt an urge to catch one, to feel it wriggle between her palms. The impulse passed. There was need for neither food, nor sleep, nor the counting of days.

The woman rose and moved unmindful of the darkness, ragged tresses trailing behind her like the train of a courtesan’s gown. Bones yellowed with age on a bed of lichen. Whose bones they were, she could not say. She knelt and touched each of them in turn. They were small, frail things. Perhaps those of a child. The back of the skull was split along its base. The jagged cleft bit into her passing fingers, and she felt something inexpressible gnawing like a worm at the corners of her mind.

A voice rippled through the sweating flowstone tunnels. “Will you not repent at last?”

The din of that echoing voice filled her with dread. She clutched at herself and made a pitiful mewling noise. Her foot sent the skull clattered across damp stone.

“Wretch. Have you forsaken your own blood?”

Memories bubbled up from the depths, seeping through the skein of a past life. Unreeling scraps of a dream: the palace; a daughter, sired by noble blood. Such a beautiful girl. The woman had been angry with her, and they argued. Over what? Over nothing. When she grabbed her daughter’s arm the girl lost her balance, stumbled, fell. She struck her head on the wall. Gone.

The woman had carried her through the siege tunnels, wild-eyed, gown slick with mud. Into that darkness, where no one would find them. The girl’s head lolled and a thin trickle of blood ran along the downy nape of her neck. It dripped onto her mother’s finger, gilding the flesh there. A cainite stain.

Now a wave of nausea swept over her, settling in her belly like a stone. She groped for the skull, cradled the small remnant in her lap.

The voice boomed once more from above. “Will you show penitence?”

She wept and tore at her matted hair. “Forgive me,” she whispered. “Forgive me.”

There was a sound like an enormous exhalation.

The woman buckled under the accumulated weight of forgone ages. She opened her mouth to scream, but what emerged instead was dry and soundless, a rasping wheeze. She held out her arms and stared dumbly as the flesh shriveled, stretched like parchment over her bones. Her hands grew knobby and skeletal. Her hair went the color of snow, then fell away.

The woman lay slumped against a fragile pillar of stone, her skin turned to leather like a thing left out in the sun. The flesh sloughed away in waxy clumps, exposing bones hollow as a bird’s, until even those dissolved into a film of coarse grey dust.

Only her golden finger remained, untarnished, sepulchered in the weeping dark.

Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

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




Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

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




In.

Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

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




Crit for Mercedes.

Mercedes posted:

What I Do for Love
Words: 906

It’s a good thing beauty lasts forever, Desmond thought. He admired the damned impressive landscape on his girlfriend The phrasing here feels a little awkward.. His hand connected with the booty meat hidden beneath Ramona’s red cloak. The first line is a bit confusing (is it meant to be sarcastic?) but otherwise this does a pretty good job of immediately establishing the tone.

She squealed and reflexively punched him on the shoulder. Desmond spiralled spiraled through the air and landed rear end up in a thorny bush. “Shnookums!” she called, running daintily to where he struggled to free himself. I would reword this to avoid at least one of the adverbs.

“I’m good!” Desmond announced shakily. He always forgot how freakishly strong she was. He recalled the hospital visit after they had sex while she wore her cloak for the first time. Besides the multiple rib and pelvic fractures, it was the best sex in the history of man. Is the cloak giving her super-strength, or is it just inherited from the father? It sounds like the former here, but if so that needs to have more emphasis than one throwaway line. It also doesn't come up again in the story, which feels like a Chekhov's gun that never goes off.

Desmond limped up the forest path to her father’s wooden cabin. As they made their approach, the door slammed open "slammed open" sounds off to me for some reason, although it's technically not incorrect revealing a large shadowed figure with bloodshot eyes. Seems odd that his eyes are visible if he's shadowed.

“Daddy!” Ramona ran into the embrace of the hairiest man Desmond had ever seen. The sheer volume of hair on his body kept the flannel shirt from ever touching his skin.This is a good line. Desmond craned his neck to look the woodsman in his steely eyes. He swallowed a lump. This guy is feeling like a cliche instead of a character.

“This is my boyfriend, Desmond,” Ramona said, dragging Desmond closer to what he was sure was imminent death. “Baby, this is my daddy, Bruce.”

Desmond cleared his throat and awkwardly offered a hand. “Hi.”

Bruce growled. He turned, then sat in a chair that was comically too small for his size. You're doing a lot of telling and not enough showing. The bit with the chair is ripe for some comedic imagery, but you just tell us it's funny instead.

Ramona urged Desmond forward. “He wants to tell you something.”

This was it. This would be the day he died. His tombstone would say, Here lies Desmond. He hosed the wrong man’s daughter.

“I, uh, hi.” He flushed. “Sorry, already said that. I wanted to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage.”

Bruce’s sudden, manly guffaw caused Desmond to recoil and protect his soft parts with his arms. The laughter cut out with a growl and Bruce loomed over him, still taller even though he was seated.

“Boy, you think you’re good enough for my Bunny-wunny?” Bruce’s glorious mustache waggled as he spoke. “What do you do?”

Desmond looked up at Bruce with trepidation. “I’m an Art History major with a minor in-”

“No boy will take my Bunny-wunny into feels like this should be onto. Or maybe "lead my Bunny-wunny down..." a road of poverty!” Bruce roared, spittle flying from his mouth.

“Daddy! I love him!” Ramona clung to her father, nearly disappearing into his arm hair.

Bruce shot a look at Desmond with fire in his eyes.

“Sir, I would do anything for Ramona.” What on earth has come over me? Tense shift here.

Bruce screamed and tore his flannel in twain. The briar forest of chest hair puffed, flicking shiny gleams of sweat outward. “You will prove to me if you have what it takes to be a man in a contest of strength.” He stomped by and shoved a steel-bladed axe in probably want to go for "against" or something here, to avoid any confusion. At first I thought he wedged an axe blade into him.Desmond’s chest, knocking him over a chair. “Come boy.”

Outside, Desmond found himself staring up an old redwood tree. “You want me to cut down this tree before you punch your tree down?”

Bruce cracked his knuckles and eyed his target, a tree as wide as his cabin. “You best get started, boy.” When his fist connected with the tree, dirt flew up as the roots strained against the earth. “I won’t be long.”

Ramona is the finest girl in all the land, Desmond thought. I’ll never find anyone as hot as her if I fail here. That rear end. I would kill a man’s dog and eat it while looking him straight in the eyes for an rear end like Ramona’s. He lowered his stance and held his axe to his side like one would a sword. The world around him slowly dimmed and the fury of Bruce’s hammer blows faded until the tree was the only thing in focus. He felt the tree’s life force through his feet. The thrum of insects living in the branches-

“Watch out Desmond!” Ramona’s voice cut through the fog.

He looked to his right. The tree Bruce had been beating on was falling toward him. Desmond shifted his grip on the axe. Like a viper, he uncoiled and the axe head whistled through the air.

Both his redwood tree and Bruce’s falling tree exploded in splinters, dust and dead ecosystems. Desmond dropped the axe to the ground and staggered out of the cloud of tree debris.

Bruce fell to his knees as his moustache should be "mustache" if you're in the US pulled free of his face. It fluttered like a butterfly and crossed the distance to Desmond, attaching to the lower half of his face. “Boy, how did-” Another place where you could have elaborated with the imagery for a stronger effect

“Man,” Desmond corrected him. His shirt billowed and hair curled up out of his collar.

“Man, yes, of course,” he said, blushing. “How were-”

“-was I able to chop both trees with one swing of an axe?” Desmond said, his glorious moustache wiggled as he talked. “I majored in Art History, that much is true. But I have a double minor in Samurais "samurai" is the plural and the singular and Lumberjacks.”

“That’s a thing?”

Desmond revved the engine of the motorcycle he and Ramona are now sitting on. “I went to a For-Profit school.” Another tense shift.

Bruce nodded. “Ramona, make sure to invite your grandmother to the wedding.”

Ramona waved at her father. “I will daddy! Thank you!”

Desmond placed aviators on and hit the throttle, dirt and debris flying back. “I’ll see you in a few months, ‘Dad’,” he said. They sped down the forest path, backlit by the setting sun.

Structurally, you've got a pretty tried-and-true setup here. You tell a story with a beginning, middle, and end, you've got obstacles to overcome, etc. My biggest issue is that none of the characters have any depth. The dad is a cartoon, which can work, but he ends up stealing the entire story and making the protagonist feels like a non-entity until the very end. There are some funny images, some of which don't get any time to breathe, but they aren't enough to hold a story together. I think you hit the tone you are going for pretty well, but I was left wanting a bit more meat to it.

Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

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




Until We Meet Again (770 words)


There is a soft metallic ting and the ground beneath Capa’s boots is suddenly gone. He rises, turns sideways, feels the air sucked up from his lungs as if he’s leapt into icy water. When he lands, he is still clutching the camera, his left hand a palsied vise. His leg feels strange and when he reaches for it his fingers come back wet.

He can hear someone shouting from the road in French. Le photographe est morte, le photographe est morte.

***

The convoy had been at a standstill for almost an hour.

“Why aren’t we moving?” Capa said.

The French colonel shrugged and took a long pull from his canteen.

Capa paced beside the jeep, pausing now and then to squint down the rutted road whenever the trucks farther along took a smattering of rifle fire. The sound reminded him of Bastille Day firecrackers.

He kicked at the front tire. “There won’t be any drat pictures left to take by the time we get there.”

He’d been in-country for two days with nothing to show for it. A few pictures of stooped farmers in their paddies. The military cemetery. He wondered if perhaps it was true what they said about him, that he’d never taken a better picture after Spain. A fraud, after all.

“I’m going up the road a little bit. Look for me when you get started again.”

The colonel shielded his eyes and called to him over the purr of idling engines. “Stay near the trucks.”

***

The ringing in Capa’s ears fades, gives way to the thrum of crickets and the distant thump of mortars. He has to take shallow breaths; he thinks his ribs must be broken. All he can see are trees against a bright blue sky.

So this is it, he thinks. Too late to turn back now.

***

He moved alongside the convoy, stopping to capture a few of the local auxiliaries sprawled out in their jeeps, cap bills pulled low, drowsy from the heat. They seemed oblivious to all the shelling.

A few meters ahead, the road split in two. He watched a French patrol to the left, picking their way through a field. He closed his eyes, and for a moment, when he opened them again, he thought he saw her at the junction, his Gerda, as if she were gliding just above the sawgrass. He could see the sunlight on her face.

People always used to ask about her, and he would tell the stories they wanted to hear. How they met, the view from their shared garret on the Seine, how every man that laid eyes on Gerda was instantly smitten—though he did not mention how jealous it made him.

When he’d left for Paris, she stayed in Madrid. He learned of her death through the newspaper, and after that people stopped asking their questions.

Capa blinked, and she was gone. A trick of the heat.

He shook his head and centered the French patrol in his viewfinder. He took a few shots, but already he hated them. The compositions were flat and weightless. They lacked a sense of purpose. There was a stretch of sloped ground where he could get some elevation, a better angle. He cut across the field, camera swaying from his neck like a pendulum bob. He took a half-step and heard the sound, almost like a shutter clicking.

***


When he tells the stories about Gerda, there is always one memory that he keeps to himself.

They are picnicking on Sainte-Marguerite. White bean tapenade and crusty bread and chilled rosé. Resinous balm of umbrella pines. Gerda is stretched out on the blanket, smiling with her eyes closed, basking in the sun like a tabby cat.

She is the most beautiful thing Capa has ever seen. He is taken with the sight, by the sudden clarity of it. “I wish I had my camera,” he says.

Gerda smiles, then laughs. She rolls over, stands up, kisses him. It lasts no longer than a second, but for him that kiss is a phonograph needle stuck in its groove. “I love you,” she says.

The train ride back to Paris from Cannes is a long one. They have the compartment all to themselves. Gerda is curled up on her seat beside him, resting her head against his shoulder.

Capa leans back and studies their reflection in the windowpane just as the car enters a little tunnel. He can smell the henna in Gerda’s hair. In the darkness, he drapes his arm around her and waits for the return of daylight.

Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

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




gently caress it, in.

Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

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




sebmojo posted:

in like the cork in the mostly empty whisky bottle i've just pulled out of the broken bottom drawer of my private investigator desk as the smokin hot dame with the legs that are really long like almost freakishly, disturbingly so, walks in isn't

Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

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




crabrock posted:

Learn 2 straightrazor

takes a beard off like nothing, and no razorburn

Also you can whip it out at parties (the straight razor I mean) and everyone will think you are really cool. It's like a pocket katana, really.

edit: Not to mention the implications for Sweeney Todd Halloween costumes, etc.

Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

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




The Old Breed
(497 words)

Curt sat against the apartment dumpster and tried not to move.

He’d only been taking out the trash. There were voices in the alley, a man and a woman, both young. “Stop it,” she’d slurred. “I have to go home.”

Curt had grabbed the splintered broom handle because it was the nearest thing he could find, held it in his sweating hands like a batter at the plate. They were leaning against the brick wall and the man was trying to kiss her. He wouldn’t let go of her wrist.

“Are you alright, miss?”

They’d both turned, taken stock of him, the man drunk and grinning like a simpleton.

The woman twisted her face up, like she was looking at something she’d just scraped off of the bottom of her shoe. “What the gently caress are you looking at?” she’d said.

It took Curt by surprise, just long enough for the man to step forward and shove him against the dumpster. His back caught the edge of it and he’d felt something inside of him give way. He sat down hard and watched the couple stagger out of the alley.

Curt closed his eyes. The noise of a radio wafted down from an open window—a ball game. It hurt to breathe and the heels of his palms burned, flecked with gravel and bits of broken glass. He saw someone passing by on the sidewalk and tried to cry out for help, but no sound would come. The inside of his mouth tasted like spare change.

When he opened his eyes again, a cop was shining his flashlight in Curt’s face. “Sir, you can’t be out here.” He nudged Curt’s sneaker with the toe of his boot. “Sir?” His light fell on Curt’s shoulder, the blue diamond sewn onto his jacket. 1st Marine Division. “The Old Breed.”

The cop’s voice softened. “You a vet?”

Curt made a feeble sound. Please, he tried to say.

“Listen. I’ve got a few blocks left on my patrol. If you’re still here when I finish my rounds, I’ll have to cite you. Alright?” He nodded to himself. “Alright,” he said again.

***

Another couple came into the alley. It had started to drizzle and they ran together, giggling, the man covering the woman’s hair with his jacket. Curt recognized them; they lived on the floor below his. He would pass them on the stairs sometimes, going to work or checking the mail. An exchange of brisk helloes.

The couple ducked into the apartment stairwell. Curt could hear one of them fumbling for the keys. He tried to crawl toward them, tried to call out, to make any sound at all. A moan came, low and full of pain.
A voice echoed in the stairwell. “What was that?”

The man poked his head out into the alley, saw Curt laying there beside the dumpster in his old jacket and his ratty sneakers.

“Just some wino,” he said. Then they were gone.

Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

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




Interesting.

Vorun the Sunken, God of Song. Possessed a voice without equal which allowed him to shape the world around him. Out of jealousy, another god sewed his mouth shut and cast him into the sea.

Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

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




Crit for newtestleper:

newtestleper posted:

Dirty Lucre
469 words

The cop was a silhouette in his high beams as he walked past the bed of my truck. It was filled with thick yellow plastic bags labelled RIFIUTI SANITARI PERICOLOSI in red. Medical waste from Naples. I put my hands on the steering wheel and kicked a half full pepsi bottle that I’d topped up with cheap red under the seat with my heel. This is a nice detail, but if he knows the cop can't touch him, why worry about getting caught with some alcohol? He tapped on the window.

Buonasera Signor. The landfill is back that way.” It's always risky to include dialogue in a different language, but I think this is obvious enough that it's not an issue. I had to look up "sbirro," though I kind of guessed what it meant from the context.

Both of us knew it was no mistake. I’d passed the dump half an hour back. It was full of imported Milanese trash. It had looked hygienic and expensive, lit by a bruised silver moon like a dirty euro coin. The end of this line reads a bit awkwardly. I think for it to be grammatically correct, it would have to be something like "lit up like a dirty euro coin beneath the bruised silver moon."

“Save your breath, Sbirro.” I swore, no patience left for formalities of corruption. If he even gave me a ticket he’d be fired or worse.

He was young and blonde. His freckles were disappearing into his flushing face.

Capo said you have something for me.” The previous dialogue is good, it gets the information across without stating it outright. This line feels a little on-the nose by comparison.

Inside the glove box was a pistol for rival Camorra and an envelope for his Captain. It was stuffed thick and sealed with red wax. I held it out the window. He reached half-way then stopped. His hand was shaking.

“What’s in the envelope?”

His voice was quiet and hesitant, he was even younger than I thought. Stupider too. Could have been his first day.

Lucre. Just take it.” Likewise, I think this would be stronger if you cut "Lucre".

Welcome to the force kid, now go take a bribe from a half Believe this needs a hyphen since it's a compound adjective drunk gangster trucker.

“I want to know. I’m from Nola. My mother died last year. Cancro.” He was breathing quickly. This is a nice set-up for the conflict / tension in the piece.

“Join the club, kid.”

We normally dumped the waste between Nola and my home town, Acerra. Under bridges, by the road, we didn’t care. Cancer rates had tripled. I’d started driving when we were trying for a baby, we needed the money. The gynaecologist had found the tumour. The Camorra, the police, myself, we were all complicit in the slow death of a generation on the lava plains of Vesuvius. More dignified to burn like the Romans. This is good stuff. I kind of agree with the judges from this week that it feels a little backloaded, though. Maybe find a way to hint at this a bit earlier on?

His hand still wasn’t moving, and I could see tears in his eyes. I wished he’d arrest me. We’d both be dead long before I could testify, but I should have offed myself years ago anyway. At least I’d go with hope. He took the envelope.

Per mama.” I spat on the ground at his feet.

His fist clenched, creasing the envelope. I’d never thought about what it looks like, the moment a cop goes bent. As he walked away I took the pistol and trained it on the back of his head. I pictured his skull exploding like a volcano. Maybe if he died something would be done. Ridiculous idea. I put the gun away and turned the ignition. Best he die slow with the rest of us. I really liked this ending. Not much else I can say about it.

The judges mentioned clarity issues on this one, but I didn't think it was too bad. From what I gathered, you've got a gangster / truck driver illegally dumping cancer-causing medical waste for profit, and a crooked cop is taking a bribe to look the other way even though his mother died of cancer. I think that's a pretty slick set-up for a story, and you pull it off well. The tension doesn't really ramp up until the end, so it would be nice to get a glimmer of what's to come earlier. Your dialogue is mostly strong, and you built a lot of atmosphere with so few words. Feels a touch vignette-y, which isn't a big deal considering the wordcount (you could probably run with this and turn it into a longer piece). I honestly liked this a lot. This might be one of my favorite stories of yours.

Grizzled Patriarch fucked around with this message at Feb 19, 2015 around 04:23

Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

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




SadisTech posted:

I toxxed so I'm gonna have to eat the I'm afraid, just been told I'm flying to another state for work in 15 hours.

Write your story on your phone during the flight. The Japanese write entire novels via text message, you got this.

Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

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




The Thing Beneath the Waves
(677 words)
Gods: Vorun (me), Ush (God Over Djinn)


*snip*

See Archive

Grizzled Patriarch fucked around with this message at Dec 30, 2015 around 16:55

Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

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




Benny Profane posted:




Also, linecrits are a good thing. I am offering two line-by-line critiques, to be completed within one week, with the only catch being that anybody claiming a crit must themselves pay two forward. That is, if you take a crit, you must offer two linecrits of your own, each to be completed within a week of their being claimed. I will happily crit any story, not just those from the most recent week, so please provide a link to the story you would like critiqued when claiming a crit slot.

2-for-1 Linecrits

1. Unclaimed

2. Unclaimed

Guess this offer got lost in the shuffle or something, but I'll take a crit for my Crossroads week story. http://writocracy.com/thunderdome/?...l+We+Meet+Again

So now there's two more line crits available for anyone that wants 'em.

Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

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




Screaming Idiot posted:

If I wanted to weasel out, I'd just say "Decided not to post this week" or something to that effect -- it's not like I toxxed myself. I wasn't satisfied with my story, but I still worked my rear end off on it and I'm genuinely annoyed I can't let a fresh pair of eyes take a look at it to tell me where I went wrong.

If you find it and post it, I'll crit it for you.

Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

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




Fuckin' finally Twist!

Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

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




In.

Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

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




Lilies of the Valley

*snip*

See archives.

Grizzled Patriarch fucked around with this message at May 5, 2015 around 16:41

Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

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




Bompacho posted:

What's the etiquette on crits for the same week? Wait until after judgement or do I just dive on in if I want to tear someone a new rear end in a top hat?

Wait until judgement is rendered, then dive in.

Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

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




Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

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




Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

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




In. Let's see what you've got for me.

Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

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




Crit for Benny Profane!

Benny Profane posted:

Goliath
1187 words

She slinks out onto the empty stage, creeping in the darkness like a predator towards the column of blinding light in the center. Nice, understated opening line. "like a predator" sets the tone and establishes tension right away. Ebony castanets clack between her fingers. Her steps follow their rhythm.

ONE two three ONE two three ONE two three ONE two three. A long step, toes stabbing the wooden boards. Two short steps, circling like a spider.

Specks of dust float in the spotlight, oblivious to her approach as she stalks the upper stage. Her expression is flat. She gives no warning.

She launches into the air, tucking her legs up beneath her with her arms stretched forward hungrily, sailing through the silent dark to land powerfully in the center of the stage in a crouch, illuminated by the spotlight. Inhale. Exhale.

###

Thera crept out of her bedroom past a stranger sleeping on the couch, an apparent leftover from the night before. She'd slept with earplugs again, so she had no idea how late the party had gone. Her gym bag slung over a shoulder "a shoulder" reads a little awkwardly. Maybe "Gym bag slung over her shoulder,..?", she weaved between bottles both empty and otherwise, careful to avoid a mysterious pool of congealing liquid on her way to the door. She closed the door behind her, quietly, and turned her key in the lock before descending the four flights of stairs.

Saturday mornings were always unpleasant on her street.This line is a bit too much tell, not enough show. You've got some nice descriptive language in this paragraph, so I'd say paint the picture and trust the reader here. Broken glass and vomit decorated the crumbling pavement in patches of tragic narrative; a hunter could perhaps follow these in pursuit of hungover game, but Thera ignored them as she walked towards her decrepit car. She fumbled for her keys and then stopped suddenly, her breath caught in her chest. Her car sat low in its parking spot, its tires slashed open with ugly gashes. For a full measure her brain refused to comprehend, and then a flurry of ideas came in double time. Her roommate's car was undoubtedly still parked near whichever bar she’d been at last night; based on the state of the apartment there was no way she'd driven. The streets were empty and calling a cab would take forever. She hefted her bag onto her shoulders and ran down the street towards the bus stop.

When she burst through the door to the studio, her face burning red and her hair matted with sweat, the auditions were already well underway. The director looked up just long enough to acknowledge Thera's entrance with a disapproving eyebrow before turning back towards the stage, shaking her head slightly as she scribbled into her notebook.

Anna's light frame flitted back and forth across the stage like a hummingbird, grace succumbing to frenzy as the music pounded to a violent crescendo.Nice image. With a final crash of drums, the movement ended, leaving Anna kneeling in the center stage, her chest heaving with exertion. Enthusiastic applause erupted as Anna took to her feet and curtsied. As she left the stage, her gaze sought out and found Thera in the audience. Her mouth curved into a tiny, malicious little smile, and in that moment Thera knew. You've got that "peak and valley" approach going on, with the shift between the tense energy of your opening and the aftermath of a party. The trick is balancing both sides out. So far, so good.

###

The drum booms loudly as she rises slowly to her feet, droplets of sweat beading from her scalp under the intense heat of the spotlight. Her castanets answer. Clack clack.

She springs backwards, out of the spotlight, landing on the ball of her right foot in time with the next beat of the drum, her left leg lifted out behind her, torso folding at the hips. Two quick steps, left followed by a crossing right. She looks outward, facing the hidden audience, clack clack.

Boom goes the drum, more urgently now, the tempo building as she stomps at the boards with her left foot, her arms aloft like feelers. The stage is her web, she knows each board as if she had placed it herself. The spotlight is her prey, its struggle desultory and hopeless. You've got a good eye for describing motion. Just enough detail to see what's going on in my head, not so much that it reads like a manual.

###

With an exasperated sigh, the director motioned Thera to the stage, tired of her begging.This is another line that would have been more effective if you did more showing. Instead of telling us outright that the direction is exasperated, and why, show it through body language and dialogue. Obviously this is easier said than done when you don't have a lot of words to spare. Anna frowned in the audience as Thera took her mark, but she need not have worried. Thera's agitation bled messily into her performance, and she awkwardly fumbled two steps in the final movement of the piece, her exhaustion from the morning's ordeal taking its toll. The applause was scattered and polite. The director finished the note she was writing into her book and thanked Thera flatly.

In the following weeks, Thera trained as Anna's understudy, off to one side, in the corner, lurking while Anna shone brightly under the director's watchful eye. Anna barely acknowledged her presence, basking in the adulation of the studio, but Thera's eyes never left her, burning darkly. She had no doubt that Anna had been responsible, somehow, for the tire slashing, that she had purposefully ruined Thera's audition. Thera practiced her steps, always matching the intensity of Anna's training, her face never showing any expression, waiting.

On the opening night, Thera crept into Anna's dressing room before the show. Anna sat in front of her brightly illuminated mirror, adjusting her costume, preoccupied with an uncooperative strand of hair. She did not notice the intruder until Thera was right behind her, her hands barely beginning to rise up in defense as Thera brought the heavy sock down on her skull.

Anna slumped in her chair and Thera quickly went to work, unspooling silver strands of duct tape and wrapping Anna's wrists, ankles and mouth. When the hallway was clear, Thera hauled Anna out of the dressing room, easily carrying her tiny body over her shoulder. She had found a perfect hiding spot, old foam cushions strewn in the darkness directly underneath center stage, a tiny gap between the boards just wide enough to permit a razor thin beam of light from the spotlight to pass through.

Anna's delicate rib cage lifted and fell as she lay across the cushions. She was still out, but she would surely wake with the noise of the audience's arrival. Of course, by then it would be far too late. This bit feels almost like one of those "Little did they know..." lines; it kind of deflates the tension you're building a bit. Maybe have Anna wake up after she sets her down? You'd create an opportunity for more conflict (both internal and external) and it would make it absolutely clear that Anna is awake at the end of the story, instead of simply implying it.

Thera slinked back to the communal dressing room, practicing her astonished expression.

###

The tarantella is in full swing and she spins across the stage, a frenzied clattering of castanets responding to the insistent pounding of the drum. She leaps into the air, twisting clockwise and landing in a low crouch. Her feet turn beneath her and her legs explode to launch her up again.

She glides through the column of light, the air briefly hot on her face, her back pulled into an arch, her leading foot stretching away into the darkness beyond. Her breath is ragged, her lungs scrabble desperately for air. Her sweat runs freely, her costume thickly wet and clinging to her skin.

The drums pound and pound, building wildly to their climax, and she follows with her feet and castanets, spinning and twisting as jewels of sweat fly away from her face, and she's flying, flying through the air, leg collapsing beneath her as she lands, sliding on her knees across the slick boards, coming to rest under the spotlight with the final pounding of the drum, looking down into the thin crack between the boards. Inhale. Exhale.

The audience roars. Strong ending, great sense of manic energy in this last section. Having her look down into the crack between the boards is a great example of characterization through action.

You've got some really nice imagery and kinetic prose. The story wears its Black Swan influences on its sleeve, but you're exploring different themes here, and thematically, the tarantella is a great alternative to ballet. The tense shifting has its desired effect, and I think it was definitely the right call for this piece. My biggest issue is that the story feels noticeably constrained by the wordcount; it seems like there's a significantly longer piece under the surface. I would have liked to see Anna's character fleshed out a bit more, but the pacing is strong regardless. Nice work, and if you'd like me to elaborate on anything, just let me know.

Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

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




Fault Lines (763 words)
Song: "Narrow Your Eyes"


*snip*

See Archives.

Grizzled Patriarch fucked around with this message at May 5, 2015 around 16:43

Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

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




Sitting Here posted:

this is love
131w

Wild clumps of human bush lined the mouth of the hole. This, Rod thought, is how you show a woman you really love her. As he worked his tool deeper into the hole, clots of unidentifiable matter stuck to its length. He had to use all his leverage to force it deeper, until her hair wrapped around his pipe snake like seaweed. A foul odor filled the room as he pumped; in and out, in and out. But love was his nose plug, and he was nearly finished.

Finally, with a grunt and a final, rough thrust, Rod wrenched his tool from the hole. A fat wad of hair, skin, and slime arced across the room and hit the wall with an organic splut.

“Shower’s clear, love,” he called.

Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

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




Alright, alright, unshart your jorts you gibbering ingrates.

Thunderdome Week CXXXVI: Famous Last Words



I don't know where this picture is from but it sums things up nicely, I think.


This week, you are going to write me some (pseudo) historical fiction! But not just any historical fiction: I want you to show me the last day in the life of someone famous.

Some things to keep in mind:

Your story does not have to center around, or even feature, the actual death. Feel free to leave things on a high note, or simply imply what's coming next. Your story does have to have some sort of conflict. If you write me a story about some old person dying in their bed, it had better be heart-wrenching as hell.

Stick to the historical record, or don't. I don't care! Create an alternate history where Slobodan Milosevic chokes on a hoagie instead of dying of a heart attack in prison. Do you want to write a story about Elvis and Tupac engaging in a bat'leth duel inside a scale replica of the USS Enterprise? Go for it!

In fact, your famous person or persons do not even have to be dead yet! They do, however, have to be famous; if I can't figure out who they are after a cursory Google search, they aren't famous.

Word Count: 1400 Words
Sign-Ups Close: Midnight EST on Friday, March 13th (spooky!)
Entries Close: Midnight EST on Sunday, March 15th
Rules: No erotica, no fanfic.

Judges:
Yours Truly
curlingiron
Tyrannosaurus

Word Criminals:
Maugrim
Broenheim
SadisTech
Capntastic
Ancient Blades
newtestleper
Noah
sebmojo
contagonist
Bompacho
SurreptitiousMuffin
Jitzu_the_Monk
Screaming Idiot
crabrock
Benny Profane
Ironic Twist
Paladinus
Entenzahn
PeteZah
DXH

Grizzled Patriarch fucked around with this message at Mar 16, 2015 around 20:45

Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

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




Noble soul curlingiron has stepped up to fill one of the judgin' seats this week, so pander accordingly.

Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

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




Ironic Twist posted:

Really, motherfucker.

Really.

In.

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Grizzled Patriarch
Mar 27, 2014

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




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