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 IT'S MY PARTY YOU'RE GOING TO CRY IF I WANT YOU TO This was an interesting week to judge. Lots of different stuff, most of it interesting if not altogether good. First of all, I want to get something out of the way. I am so goddamn tired of Donald loving Trump making appearances in stories. It is almost always the hallmark of hackneyed satire, and I know you can all do better. In the spirit of political circus, I am making an example of two stories this week. Entenzahn and Surreptitiousmuffin, I am DISQUALIFYING YOU from this week for bringing this D&D gimmick-level posting into Thunderdome. If I am the boss judge and Trump is so much as mentioned in a story I have to consider for Thunderdome, I'm going to DQ it. So, nuts to you, cheeky bastards. You're both funny people, but good lord be funny about something else at least when i'm judging, tia. There was only one story we all agreed was unpleasant enough to warrant a negative mention. Not only was the prose rough and poorly edited, the whole story got pasted in twice. The lack of any sort of rudimentary proofreading made us wonder if this was a completely sincere attempt. Zerbra23, if you were really trying your best, I hope you come back and spend a little more time proofreading. On to happier things. Boaz-Jachim, you earn another honorable mention for your continuing adventures of a pious werewolf. It's funny because one of the judges didn't know this was a sequel, and still really enjoyed the characterization anyway. I hope you expand the stories of brother Thomas into something longer. Kaishai, you get an honorable mention. The judges were all fond of the audacity of your librarian and the warmth of your prose. Chili, your fablish tone and commitment to your flashrule earns you an honorable mention. I am pleased to pass the crown to first-time winner, Jitzu_the_Monk. Your story had so many cool elements to it, which I'll get to in my critposts. I'm a sucker for stories where luminescent flesh membranes do spiritual battle in limbo for the papacy, what can I say? The popehat is yours, brother Jitzu!
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Aug 9, 2016 04:47
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PALE SPECTRES aka Spectres of Autism You've earned yourself some fans in Thunderdome with your poetic prose and way-out concepts. Your stories are distinct, but I worry that you rely overmuch on that distinction. Therefor, I am issuing a flash geis On this day, let it be known to all judges that PALE SPECTRES must write three(3) works of realism before he is allowed to delve back into the luminescent quantum dream matrix of his native aesthetic. I will be watching to ensure this is enforced. by decree of the blood throne it is so. edit: obviously this excludes the 2 brawls he's presently in, this geis applies to regular TD stories only unless otherwise stated by a brawl judge. Sitting Here fucked around with this message at 06:26 on Aug 9, 2016 |
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Aug 9, 2016 06:23
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PALE SPECTRES posted:i was gonna ask who just lets 20+ crits stack up back in the day we just told everyone they were garbage and they liked it like that thunderome millennials 
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Aug 9, 2016 18:05
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sebmojo posted:
 This is the best, thank you!
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Aug 17, 2016 17:56
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s7indicate3 posted:poo poo. Now I've lost all 3 times I've entered. Gotta say I'm feeling pretty low right now. Any veterans got any advice on how not to suck as much? Here is a line crit of your story. That Much he Knew This is the story is of a man who, upon waking up, had absolutely no clue where he was. Let's start with your opening idea. How can someone who doesn't seem to know much about themselves or their situation be interesting? Well, they have to do things. And in fact, the less insight we have into the personality of the character, the more interesting their actions and the plot have to be He was laying on a bed, that much he knew eh. Probably a bed inside a house, that much he supposed eeehhh. Either his own or somebody else’s, that much he theorized eeeh ok I see what you're doing here with the repetition, but it's the kind of conceit that needs to be punctuated with a revelation or a keen or unsettling observation Scanning around the room, he would notice a framed picture of a woman in the negative that smiled at him through black teeth on the bedside table. There is a lot wrong with that last sentence. You don't scan 'around' a room, you scan a room. And as the other crits already pointed out, your tense is all weird. Also, a spooooky picture doesn't do much to instill a sense of dread or intrigue That much he now knew, too. Not wanting to know anymore, he would pull the bed sheets up to his neck and stare at the ceiling. He would think to himself, “if I don’t do anything; nothing will happen to me”. This thought would calm him down considerably. And so he laid, staring at the ceiling, achieving nothing and having nothing done unto "done unto" is really archaic and unnecessary him, for the better part of an hour, being as boring as humanly possible. Okay, so you have a character who's paralyzed by the desire not to know more about his situation. Do you see the problem there? You have a very inactive protagonist, and we don't even get much of an insight into the sort of person we're reading about. Think of it this way: we've spent an awful lot of time in bed with your character, so we should know something about him. He's clearly in denial, but what is denial? It's something your brain does when it's trying to hold on to the status quo. Denial is like, you want to feel good, so you ignore what's bad (to put it in the vaguest terms possible). Your character doesn't have anything good to hold onto, as far as the reader can see, so this exercise in extreme denial (staying in bed, trying not to 'know' anything about his situation) doesn't seem to have very high stakes. That is, of course, until the natural defects of such a plan would make themselves apparent to him and cause his stomach to rumble and his throat to ache. “Just a glass of water,” he would think, “Just a glass of a water and then I hop back into this here bed "this here bed" is a weird contrast to "done unto him" from an earlier paragraph. It's casual-sounding speech as opposed to archaic narration. This story jumps a lot between tonal shifts like that again and continue staring at the ceiling, achieving nothing and having nothing done to me.” Now out of bed, he couldn’t help but realize how painful it was to move his body. Not agonizing per se, but rather a dull sort of pain would accompany him every step of the way to the doorway on the far side of the room, the end of the hall thereafter, and finally to the open door of what ostensibly was the bathroom; the open door neatly framing the darkness beyond it I read this sentence out loud and it was like driving over a bumpy road while struggling to breathe through an asthma attack. Also 'thereafter', there you go with the purple prose again. . He would feel along the inside of the wall until he found the switch and flipped it on, causing all the light to flood out of the hall and into the bathroom. The door now framing the contour-less void from the other side, like flipping an hour-glass. This is the first sort of interesting thing to happen, tbh, but you've muddled it up with weird wording and sentence structure. The switch between "would do thing" and "thing is now happening" is confusing and distracting. IMO you should stick to barebones past tense for a while. He did this. They went there. Thing happened. Etc. Also, I want to examine that very last sentence fragment: The door now framing the contour-less void from the other side, like flipping an hour-glass The phrasing reads like the door's action of 'framing' the void is like flipping an hourglass. What you mean is, the sudden shift from light to dark was like an hourglass being flipped, except that in and of itself isn't a super great metaphor because light moves much quicker than sand. Like, I get what's happening here. He turns on the light in the bathroom, which turns the hallway into a void. But it's not super fun to parse all of that. He would think that the switch seemed a queer thing. same The bathroom was only big enough for the dazzlingly white toilet is the whiteness of the toilet really important enough to warrant a word like 'dazzlingly'? and sink, and a mirror which, upon further inspection, would seem to be seem to be? Is it or isn't it? held together by a piece of electrical tape along a crack that spread along the width of it. The reflection in the mirror showed the fractured face of a paltry old man in neatly pressed pyjamas with a cursive L.K. monogram stitched on to the breast. The man would be exploring his face with his hand along his smooth but wrinkled chin when he heard a maternal voice call out from the void beyond the door, So does he know who he is or not? At this point, he's kind of a cadaver being wheeled through an amusement park haunted house. Even when he's looking at himself in the mirror, I'm genuinely unsure if he's meant to know his own identity or not. But then, moments later, he confirms his own name, so I guess he does? Also, he's completely lost sight of his only real goal, which is to have a cup of water. “Good morning Mr. Kooenig.” L.K. stared into the void. He would feel his voice rebel into a ball in his throat. How does something rebel into a ball? I know what you mean, but the metaphor is too fuzzy to land effectively “You are Lars Koeenig, no?” L.K. would nod. “You were out of it for a lot longer than I had expected. Well Mr. Kooenig, if you can just step into the void, we can get on our way.” “Who are you?” L.K. would manage to push out of pathetically quivering lips. “It will all be revealed to you if you would be so kind as to show me the courtesy of stepping in to the void.” And so L.K. would step into the void and find his foot level with an invisible floor. WHY? WHY DOES HE DO THIS? All we know about this guy is that he wants to stay in denial and not experience anything bad. Why would he listen to a disembodied voice telling him to step into utter blackness? Would YOU make that decision? The womb-like darkness stopping at his very rim I am not sure what 'rim' refers to, anatomically speaking. I mean, I have some ideas, but I don't think we're talking butt stuff, here. Unless . He emitted no light, but neither did the darkness encase him. He was thing in a void of nothing. "void of nothing" is almost comically redundant Behind a blink ?????? , a glowing red pentacle would materialize. As L.K. would approach he would notice something floating upright in the centre: the negative of the woman from the bedside table. “Recognize her?” L.K. would nod. “You hosed her and made me.” The butt stuff theory is gaining some traction L.K. would start to see a figure form itself out of the darkness beyond the pentacle. Phasing in from the nothing as if being born. Pushing against it like film. All he would be able to make out was the contour of a human head. “Step into the pentacle if you wish to learn more.” This story is starting to feel like a clickbait article or maybe like the first 20 minutes of a japanese psychological horror game or something L.K. would step into the pentacle. Its glow intensifying as he would approach the portrait of the woman with black eyes. Okay, so, a pentacle is kind of a 2D symbol, right? Unless the pentacle is on the not-ground (because void) and the picture is floating over it...? Confusion like this is easily solved with just a few words. You have to remember to make the reader see what you're seeing in your head, hopefully in the simplest words possible. Also, "Its glow intensifying..." is a sentence fragment, but if you'd written this in regular past tense, that would've been easy to avoid. "Its glow intensified as he approached the portrait of the woman". “Who am I?” LK would ask. Uh didn't he just confirm his own name? “You are Lars Koeenig, incubus. The woman in the picture is your succubus. Tonight is our melding. Today is the culmination of centuries of struggle. You have grown old and I have worked tirelessly to bring you Youth. Today, we shall become One and take to the nether.” Ugh drowning in last minute exposition up to my very rim. Don't do this at the very end of a story L.K. would feel his skin tighten and his knees shake as his knee caps pushed further and further inward until snapping and dropping him helplessly on the floor. Amidst screams of agony would the creature emerge from the darkness to reveal she had the body of a bird and the face of a beautiful crimson-headed woman. The succubus would begin to pluck her vocal chords, “למה אתה מטריד לתרגם את זה” As L.K’s eyes would roll like lost cueballs do lost cueballs roll differently than other kinds? in his skull. As the slick stalks of wings would burst through the flesh on his back. As he would feel his rim mould itself out of the nothing. Now I am genuinely wondering what his rim is As he would become One with the help of the woman in the photograph. Yeah okay, sure One problem with this ending is that you dump a bunch of explanatory magical flimflam right in the last couple of paragraphs. It amounts to "hey protag, you're totally hosed, the end." The main character has no means to resist their situation, and the reader has no insight into what's happening until the very end. And even then, it's just some literal talking head telling us the backstory before promptly doing some gory poo poo I don't care about to the protagonist. Because he didn't have much of a personality to connect with, I'm not terribly moved by his fate. I pointed out some awkward phrasing. The biggest barrier to reading this story was the tense you used, which I think the judges already talked about. Stick to past tense for a while. It's easy, and invisible to the reader. Simplify your sentences and don't feel the need to use over-elaborate language. It's better to tell a good story in plain, serviceable prose first. You can always go back in and add the poetic stuff later. There are times when the mood or characterization necessitates a little bit of flourish, but it needs to be used in the right proportions to be effective. Write characters, not scenes. That's not a rule, but for you specifically, I think you should work on writing plots that center around one person with explicit motivations and a drive to achieve their goals. This will help you avoid that cadaverish feeling i mentioned in my linecrit. Finally, read more of what you want to write! Cram your brain with it. And realize that a loss in Thunderdome is just a loss in Thunderdome. It's just a gigantic spotlight on what you need to work on. And that's not a bad thing to have. It's good information. I know it sucks and feels lovely, but you're learning poo poo every time you try. And that is the fundamental purpose of this whole dumb thread.
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Aug 23, 2016 08:56
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anime was right posted:fun fact that link wasn't updated last week so it didnt actually work I accidentally linked the results post instead of the prompt post right below it you unrelenting tittybabies, learn to scroll down you're all welcome to try to fight me about it instead of taking up space with your feeble pisswords
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Aug 26, 2016 22:35
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anime was right posted:im gonna point some evolutionary scientists towards your per-neanderthal brain because i found a missing link. 
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Aug 26, 2016 22:56
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anime was right posted:this is why i never win thunderdome  ffs lou you can't get anything right
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Aug 26, 2016 23:05
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WEEK 209 CRITS, ingrates Yeah, these are my live impressions of your stories from week 209. Many of you saw these as I was writing them. They are very candid, and in some cases sparse. I was varying degrees of drunk throughout writing these. So if you think I didn't give your piece a fair shake, hit me up and I'll do my best to answer any questions you might have. IRC or SA PMs are the best way to do that, though I also keep an eye on the fiction advice thread if you want to talk shop over there. Bonus feature, all of the weird poo poo goons wrote on my doc wtf guys BREAKFAST TIME Zerbra23 You first paragraph doesn’t fill me with a lot of optimism. There’s a typo in the second sentence, and I feel like I’m getting suckerpunched by a bunch of ideas at once. I feel sort of startled awake. Like, NO YOU CAN’T WAKE ME UP I WAS IN THE DEPOSIT UNDERGROUND AND THE ARMBAND WAS HELPING ME. Soldiering on. Tense shifts all over the place. Second person is a challenging POV to write in, so you’ve got to be very clear and spot on with stuff like tense. I mean, you should always be clear with that stuff, but the POV and the meandering tense give this a very off-kilter feeling, and not in a good way. Yeah ok this protag is wearing some sort of evil fitbit but let’s talk about cereal for 400 words “This was boring, you thought” OH MY GOD HOW DID YOU KNOW WHAT I WAS THINKING The prose level here is...not great. The blocking--the placement of characters and objects in the scene--is really clumsy, like you have a clear image in your head and are only approximating it in your words. It would help if you read your own writing out loud. I’m following the plot so far, but it’s hidden behind a lot of bizarre and tedious “action” so this story is coming dangerously close to losing my attention. Aaaand then you pasted your story in twice for some reason. How did you not catch that on a preview? Kaishai pointed out to me (way after judging) that if you look very closely, this story does kind of capture the perspective of a caveman being painfully forced to act like a modern human. Unfortunately, the execution didn't match up with the concept. PRISONERS OF SPEED Schneider Prediction: this will have tight descriptions but a fairly thin plot, and try to do a bunch of character things that would be better suited for a novel. Pls prove me wrong. Mhmm, I’m enjoying Hisako’s general competence and her commitment to this rivalry, but this whole thing better not be a race. I’m a little disappointed that my initial prediction was spot-on. I liked that this ended on an upbeat note, and technically it was really clear and tight. But as soon as the narration tells me Ghost is guiding Hisako with her taillights, I was like “oh, rivals are going to become friends and team up”. Not bad, but not exactly earth-shattering flash fiction. This would work as a scene in a longer piece. I’m really disappointed how the “cheesemonger” part of your prompt was used. It felt pretty tacked on, even though you could’ve done a lot of interesting stuff with it, even within the premise of the story. Oh well. A METAL HEART WITH PLEASURE FILLS AND ETC ETC ETC Meeple I guess I like the hook and the banter. I felt a little disgruntled when Anna forced a landing when she's aboard a sentient vehicle. So you’ve made me care about your protagonist’s autonomy. Pls don’t gently caress it up. Huh, well this sort of derailed in a big smoldering jumble. I guess Anna just...gave up fighting Huey? Or something? I don't think the conclusion of this story was very satisfying. Realistically, I don’t think Anna would try the same flight aboard a sentient aircraft that was not cooperative. I’m not entirely sure what the ending suggests. That they found a way to coexist? That Anna has given up her career and just rides Huey around to various inspiring locations? IDK. Side note: I didn't like the brackets you used for the autopilot. That's more of a nitpick. I think italics work just as well, though that is purely my opinion. BENEFIT CONCERT a friendly penguin I’m...tentatively okay with this premise so far. Some sort of touring lounge act, and one of the musicians or w/e feels bad that he’s living in luxury while poverty stares mournfully through the gates, or something. He better not just sit in the bar and mope about it, though. ...Okay i guess I think the whole “everything is beautiful” bit is a little bit saccharine, but I like when Ken is instantly like, “uh no we don’t need a white savior tyvm”. Still, this is feeling a bit heavy and soapboxy. You’ve set the situation up, now please expand or subvert it in a cool way tia Okay, this was….75% satisfying? I think it needed to be more subtle, but that was the best way to end it. WAR IS HELL Pippin Nitpick: how is a mass of writhing skulls “formless”??? Don’t be lazy with your words IMO. Dig deep. The first three paragraphs are a little heavy on like, “haha this is HELL only wacky and bureaucratic.” This is amusing but what’s-his-face protag demon guy is like...he's all impotent bluster in the face of people who clearly just do not have the time. It got a little bit tiresome after a while. Like, I need his character to do more than be out of touch with modern hell culture, or whatever. So I’m reading this, and I can see the scrollbar thing is almost to the end of the story, and I’m really getting worried it’s only going to be more banter. Pls assuage my worries, o anonymous writer. … So this whole story leads up to the HILARIOUS revelation that a mighty undefeatable demon is being given a janitor job. I dunno man, I dunno. The whole premise is that a guy thinks he’s cool and tough, but is actually lame and useless. You must've done something right though, because one judge had this on their HM list. THE CURSE OF WANT squidtentacle I think your third paragraph is...not quite a flashback, but it’s referring to the last job the protag and his partner were on. The tense makes it seem like the stuff with the ring and etc is happening in the “present” of the story, but since Kleio is dead, that’s impossible. Something to watch out for. Or maybe the protag is just reflecting on how he wished he’d given her the ring before she died, but as written, it’s not totally clear. Either way, the reminiscing is phrased in a way that takes me away from the immediate conflict, which is: someone has a contract out on a dead assassin. FINALLY. He accepts the contract on his dead (“””dead”””) loved one. I didn’t reeeeally need the recap on her death; you could’ve done that more gracefully, or just assumed that we’d get the gist. But okay, carrying on. This got fairly magical and “woah man” pretty fast. Kleio’s dead! Only, no she’s not. Here she is! I’m having trouble visualizing this big magical storm she’s caught in. The way you describe it makes it seem both frozen like a photograph and turbulent like a storm. Not sure if that’s intentional or not. Oh okay, so they end up in the magical Matrix together. This is one of those stories that sets up a conflict, then immediately sidesteps the conflict and runs face-first into a wall instead. Like, based on the beginning, I couldn’t have even remotely projected that they would both end up in some inexplicable magical storm matrix thing. I don’t even know how Amon FOUND Kleio. He just does, and then she’s like, “come trip like i’m trippin baby” and he’s like “okay” and then the end. Maybe the girl at the end isn’t even Kleio, but actually I don’t really care. BLESSED IS THE WOLF AND ETC ETC ETC boaz-jachim Hmm, another werewolf monk? This feels really familiar. I am 100% sure this is a continuation of a story I read in week 200, so I’m going to read it that way. Oh dang, Thomas has moved up in the world, being considered for abbot. This would not be nearly as interesting if I hadn’t read the first story, but alright go on then. Okay, I finished this without feeling the need to stop for commentary. That’s good. I’m a fan of Thomas the Werewolf but I think all(both) of his stories would work better in a longer work. You had no word count this week, so like, why not expand this? The best part of this was the scene where Thomas soothes the wounded deer instead of killing it. And then when it dies anyway, he eats it. That was cool, but it’s the kind of thing that’s more meaningful when we’ve spent more time with the character. I would read about his hunt for the god of animals, though. WILLOW’S END steeltoedsneakers So here’s the thing. I’m a short way into this story, and I think the premise is very sweet. A ghost wants to throw a party for his very old, still-living friend. But there’s got to be an obstacle bigger than “they’re ghosts”, or they have to confront that obstacle in a super interesting way. I hope this story does one or both of those things. Not a super huge fan of the way the narrative is just sort of telling me the rules of ghosts. This was one of those stories that sort of made up the logic to support its plot as the words went on. Like, THIS happened because of THIS thing about ghosts. In the end, I’m happy two friends are reunited in ghostland, I guess, but it’s like you felt like you had to explain the how and why of it in the most sterile terms possible. This was ultimately sweet, but a little clumsy. FAMOUS Entenzahn ffs goons why do you like to write about donald trump so much Um, i don’t know if male bees have stingers (a quick google suggests no, they don’t). In fact, i think that bee just put his penis in trump. This is...kind of dumb on so many levels. It requires 1) that I don’t know anything about bees (only kind of true) 2) that i feel the same about donald trump as the author (probably true, but that doesn’t make it a fantastic story) and 3) that the idea of some magical conversation between trump and a bee that results, ironically, in trump crying will amuse me. The answer is: I guess??? But it doesn’t make for great flash fiction. MISSING IT FOR THE WORLD Thranguy Oh boy, almost 5K *cracks knuckles* Okay, I instantly like the premise here. It’s weird and I’m interested to find out how/why this boy has a shadow that can be stolen by a skunk. “The world is not at all kind to impossible things” quotable quote Haha well this took a turn for the ridiculous, but i like it. You’re doing a pretty good job of giving the sense that there is this whimsical, magical world behind the scenes of mundane life, but I hope there isn’t too much more of it, if that makes sense. I’m at the point where I’ve got the gist, so now some serious action (“action”) needs to happen. It’s not quite “as you know bob”, but you’re doing a lot of work to suggest all of these secret connections between seemingly normal people. I like it, but at the same time, i don’t want to get tired of it, if that makes sense. Oh nooooooo you’re explaining it allllllll I will say, I am enjoying how this story sort of frolics around in its own semi-logic. Like, magic and space travel work exactly how the user needs them to, except where that pesky, unyielding science is concerned. I am starting to feel like the whole shadow theft thing was...like, it seems like this story started out one way, and then quickly spiraled out into something a little different than the tone of the beginning suggested. I thought i was in for some taut suburban magical realism or something, and now I’m getting magical space opera. I’m not mad, but it’s something i noticed. Hmmm well it sure is lucky there’s been an easy solution to every problem so far So this felt like kind of a very sincere episode of Rick and Morty. Rick and Morty meets like, John Carter, or something. I read the whole thing and was interested, but it had something of a campy serial vibe, which worked at some points and didn’t work as well at others. I’m impressed that you wrote almost 5K and kept me engaged, though, so good job. THOUGHTS IN THE FOREST Flerp This is a pretty trip, but it’s spent a long time riffing on WHO AM I?! And not adding a whole lot to the handful of ingredients we got in the beginning. I mean, as a description of ego death or something, it works, but so far I’m waiting for something to change up the feel of the piece. Okay so, while the writing was pretty good, I’m generally not a fan of plots that hinge on “character remembers/thinks/feels [thing], and then everything is okay. Like, this kid(?) who, as necessitated by the plot, doesn’t know anything about themselves decides that it’s probably better not to die and instead live on to discover who they are and why they’re in the forest. That’s all well and good, but you had no word limit, so I’m really disappointed that this story didn’t move beyond this one situation and into an exploration of who the character is and why they’re alone. It doesn’t really tell me anything new about life, memory, or identity. It sort of just is what it is, which is a bunch of pleasant words about no one. WE SWIM INTO THE FUTURE Scridiot Okay this character is like Conan the Barbarian meets Rorschach. Which could be good, maybe? Mostly what’s carrying me through this is curiosity about this tyrant’s “love”. Ah so the tyrant is perhaps not the total villain he seems to be. Right so, the ending is almost forcefully uplifting. The tyrant lives on with his love as a benevolent whaledude. It’s frustrating because like, this story is made up of moments that should be satisfying, but because I’m thrown into what is clearly the climactic moment of a longer story, it doesn’t feel particularly earned. Like, this mysterious “project” somehow turns people into whales. Again, no word count, so why not flesh this out more? THAT’S DEMOCRACY QuoProQuid Thank you for not opening with donald j trump I’m kind of into the mundane absurdity of the white house being beholden to an HOA Ouch and then it gets really cynical for a sec, re: shot up daycare. Maybe I’m just a big baby, but i feel like that detail adds an unnecessary bite to this story. Like, i get it, but at the same time, i dunno. This doesn’t read like a story that’s meant to be a sharp reminder of the horrors of gun violence, so it’s a weird detail to add in so incidentally. Oh actually, this has kind of veered off into cartoonish cynicism Okay we’re back in parody town. I dunno. The tone of this is weird. I don’t hate it though. The last line of the story really sums up “the joke”. I feel like whoever wrote this didn’t trust themselves to get The Joke across. THE FLUTIST CANNIBAL GIRLS DONT’ STAND DON'T STAND SO DON’T STAND SO CLOSE TO ME what “Digging some courage from her bowels” is a weird turn of phrase but okay. I kind of like the tension of this situation, since it’s twofold: will the protag bone her teacher? And what does he actually want? I….I really cannot go along with the logic that, because someone is deft with an instrument, they would be good at surgery. I mean, Isabella seems to share my disbelief, but i just can’t believe anyone would ever think this was a good idea. Valdez is horrible AND crazy. I guess I’m into this, even if I think the rationale is dumb. Oh Huh Okay then There’s a feeling to this like, “you know this thing that seemed good? Actually it’s bad and sinister.” and then the story sort of just leaves you with that and walks away. BEAR-Y MY DICK IN THE NATION’S rear end in a top hat muffin Brb getting more drnk I guess i should’ve foreseen political satire being the Thing this week Or should i say BEARSEEN har har har No Lol American politics are broken also bears are adorable MORE IMPOSSIBLE Twist So, I read this all in one go, and the feelings are right, and the writing is right, but something about it doesn’t hang together. Then, when I looked at the flashrule, I was like, ah, okay. It’s not that the motivation wasn’t clear from the prose, it was just muddled in a way that I’m struggling to put my finger on. I think it has something to do with the second scene, in which it seems that Maya has discovered she’s pregnant in a flashback. I think what’s happening is, Tom is berating her for not taking advantage of her success as a stuntwoman/actor? It’s not entirely clear from that scene what their precise relationship is (are they co-actor and co-director? Just costars? Some other combo of those things?) and whether Tom knows she’s preggers. The ending suggests yeah, he did, so it’s pretty cruel of him to chastise her for backing away from her career. I think what is giving me a fuzzy read on this story is that there are all of these little elements to it. And like, I appreciate the attention to detail. The writing is solid. But you’ve got the sort of ethical question of filming these stunt-heavy, found footage films with your own daughter (meaning she’s stuck in the set trailer listening to you have arguments with her colleague). And you’ve got Tom’s dickishness regarding the pregnancy, which he may or may not know about? And then you’ve got the issue of performing a dangerous stunt while pregnant. Maya seems set on backing away from her career to look after her kid(s), but then she goes and makes this big, dramatic gesture to...I guess show Tom what-for? I’m still kinda sleepy while writing this crit, but something about all of the feelings and motivations swirling together made it hard to feel like I had a good grasp on why the characters did each thing they did. LOL I had no clue the daughter was supposed to be a hallucination. After you told me that, it changed my perception of the story significantly. I wish you'd made it just a little more clear. CIRQUE DU JOUR The Cut of Your Jib I’ve never seen food service described so jauntily. I mean yeah who doesn’t ninja it up a little on their work breaks? I guess this is normal since the rear end in a top hat dude doesn’t seem particularly concerned that she could be hurt. Man what an rear end in a top hat. I’ll bet he’s the bad guy. Well this was mostly fun. I don’t know if I particularly feel like Gordie, who is mostly just an idiot, deserved shoe soup. Katie seems good at her job, but at the same time, her preoccupation with circus tricks would be somewhat of a liability. Still, the writing danced along in a way that worked well with Katie’s character. I could see every scene really clearly. It’s easy to make stories about everyday jobs kind of tedious and boring, but the descriptions throughout were written in a way that pulled the eye along. I smiled when I looked at the flashrule. You did a good job of incorporating both. One of your characters was very straightforward, and the other was more subtle. I think that was a good choice that let the piece retain some realism while still waltzing around in its mildly ridiculous premise. GUMMYSHOE Jonked Some early typos tsk tsk But no seriously, why the makeup? I’m not sure a PI would be terribly effective if they were painted up in clown makeup all of the time. Unless they only took the wackiest of cases i guess. Hmmm. I don’t know if you can just google a license plate and find a car in real time. Ah, the ol’ "act like a cowering clown and steal the keys and gun" routine. Truly, this private investigator thought ahead. Okay this was kind of silly. It was paced well and like, the action was all really clear. But the logic of it, and the big reveal at the end, were sort of...it felt like an idiot plot i guess. Meaning, everyone in the story had to make some sort of dumb decision for the story to work. Bozo is probably the only non-idiot, but he’s also a man inexplicably wearing clown makeup. I know, I know, your flashrule, but you spent words having Allen ask about it, and it never comes up again. THE ASCENSION OF PAUL VI ETC ETC ETC Jitzu Vatican intrigue and an alien cardinal, cool i’m intrigued. Haha, this story sort of begs the question in the best way. This alien wants mass to be broadcast in his home language, but how did they make contact in the first place? Why would they want to adopt a human religion? I’m glad you’re not battering me over the head with worldbuilding. It’s just fun to muse over as I’m reading. I’m really liking the way that BRV (not typing his full name) sort of livens up every scene just by virtue of being a luminescent membrane. I’m also a sucker for fleshy dudes who communicate via color. I really like octopuses. Anyway. Carry on. I’m torn on the speeches. On the one hand, they’re a pretty credible sort of debate on the merits of conservatism vs embracing something that is perhaps dangerously new. On the other hand, it comes off as a little pontificating, but then, that’s kind of hilarious given the context. I think it works, but I reflexively went ooooh nooo when i saw the big chunks of dialog coming. That might be a symptom of reading too much thunderdome, though. POPE DUEL  This alien’s conception of the virgin is really cool. Oh my god it’s a magical pope duel This went from being interesting to being pretty dang cool I like how the virgin mary doesn’t actually get involved in this battle. It’s set up to seem like there’s going to be some magical intersession because BRV is so pure of faith~ but in reality he just uses the church’s own iconography against his rival. It works because like...when you already have your characters locked in what is, for all intents and purposes, a magical battle, adding something even more magical/spiritual is like adding more frosting onto a fully-frosted cake. So having BRV use a mundane (“mundane”, he is an alien after all) trick to get the other dude to yield was a good way to end the battle. The ending was good, plot-wise, but the last couple paragraphs felt a little sterile. I don’t know if the dry, historical tone was the best way to end on, but overall this was a really nice read. PAPER CUTS Spectres Hmmm, creatures made of sound or song is something I’ve always wanted to play around with in fiction, so let’s see how you do. So I am pretty affectionate toward the idea of something foreign and incomprehensible who just wants to touch and feel, and in the process of doing so, accidentally causes harm. I think what this needed is more action in the “human” segments of the story. On a purely mundane level, this is about a woman who hears this all-consuming music and sort of drifts away from her partner and into dementia. There is so much poetic description, but there needs to be some grounding action. Even something like, I dunno, Van and the nameless POV character trying to accomplish banal chores, or something. The best example of what I’m talking about is when she’s like, “the neighbor needs to turn down the music,” because it gave a pretty concrete illustration of how she’s being affected by these(this?) beings (being?). The ending feels really inevitable. I wish there’d been more of a “fight” so to speak. There isn’t a formula for like, the ratio of abstract description vs concrete description, but this definitely needed more of one and less of the other. The alien perspective was convincingly alien, buuuuuut the human perspective was also very alien and it was hard to find my footing at times. Thinking about it more, I wish the POV character had reacted more uh, actively to her situation. Like, when she talks about not hearing words so much as vibes and vibrations, I almost wanted to see this character branch out and try to interact with a world that, to her, is dissolving into this sort of alien cacophony. How would she see people? What might she notice about them in her altered state of mind? You hint at it, but could’ve delved into it further. 323.6, CITIZENSHIP AND RELATED TOPICS Kaishai I haven’t felt much need to break for commentary so far, but I smiled at the bottle of booze stashed in the librarian’s desk. It’s just really charming in a weird way. “Why not go for broke” is a question i wish more characters asked themselves this week. Well this was fun. The only issue is, there isn’t a sense of any real danger from the outside? Like, the police chief shows up eventually, but I was sort of envisioning a standoff between a bunch of bookworms and the national guard, or something. It puts me in this weird situation where like, I’m happy for the characters and interested in what they’re doing, but it seems like the real climactic conflict would happen a couple beats AFTER where this story ends. I definitely didn’t want to read about a standoff like the one that took place in Oregon, but I mean, I feel like seizing government property (and creating a trending hashtag about it) would ruffle a lot of people’s feathers. I’m not sure what I wanted to happen, but I would’ve liked to see a bit more of the world outside of the library I guess? It felt very interior. I thought it was :3 that they had air rifles and not real firearms. There was definitely a safe, cozy feeling to this. Which, for the reasons I mentioned above, both worked and didn’t work. FROM COLD WAR TO HOT PIE Kuribo The beginning of this is well done. Introduce a quaint folksy setting like a county fair, then, with a straight face, you introduce us to DOCTOR KILOTON. Who comes complete with a white cat that he strokes evilly. Ooookay now they’re spending too much time telling each other about their old exploits. I get it, they were nemeses who did a bunch of James Bond movie antics. Boy this quickly turned into you explaining the plot to me as it’s happening Huh well that was a thing. It’s not really a good thing when you’re protag is sort of standing in place while a villain (ex or otherwise) explains who’s doing what, how they’re doing it, why they’re doing it, and what the history of the whole situation is. I wanted to see more realistic interplay between the two main characters, but the vibe you set up in the beginning didn’t really carry through. Side note, and this has nothing to do with you, but i feel like 9/10 times there is a story about a contest at a county fair, the protag doesn’t win but does learn a valuable lesson about friendship, or at least resigns themselves to some consolation prize. I think that’s yet another symptom of reading too many TD stories, though. IT’S A METAPHOR FOR PROCRASTINATION dmboogie This is fun but it’s getting rather aimless. Magical tax collection…..no wait, ridiculous antics in a fragmented pocket dimension. Maybe you can bring it back around but I’m suspicious of this plot, i think it might be drunk. I think terry gilliam might be a goon Every scene change leaves me with a resounding “yeah ok why not” lol I don’t think this is a good metaphor for procrastination tbh. No one procrastinated, it was more like they meandered through the author’s whimsy until the story was over. At least it was funny. I got kind of excited when mary was like “you need to audit reality”, and in a story where the author hadn’t blatantly been like “gently caress it”, that would be a pretty cool premise. (note: as I was critiquing this, I was about 90% sure it was Sebmojo, which isn't an awful comparison, although this would be mojo on one of his ramblier days) LOVE IF POSSIBLE Tyrannosaurus Another crime-solving clown? Okay. At least this clown seems really committed to his gimmick, as opposed to being a PI with some makeup on inexplicably. I laughed at the jokes in the beginning. Oh ho ho. The clown is not just a clown. You see, he knows bubbles float up. Aaaand suddenly he’s got the bad guy at his mercy. Why bother to explain how that happened? He’s a clown of many talents so we can just go ahead and assume that he used them in such a way as to make the plot happen. No need to show it, you’ve already told us that this guy can do basically anything. Uh ????? I guess we’re left to assume Limbo smothered the guy. This is a weird little story. Technically all the events happen in order, but I feel like I’m seeing snippets from a longer story. There’s no real conflict or peril. I mean, obviously these gangsters tried to kill the clown, and the clown obviously is trying to kill Pisani, but these things are all so glossed over they seem almost incidental. Which sounds weird to say, given that they’re the whole of the plot, but it just doesn’t hang together. I don’t really know how or why anything happens, so it reads like a bunch of disjointed scenes. THE RABBI’S DOVE Chili You really carried the lilting, fable-like tone of this piece through the whole thing, which was well done. I don’t have much to critique. The ending feels right, but it’s not quite as tight as it wants to be. There’s this idea of like...faith and tradition at the expense of fellowship. Which is a good, subtle topic to explore. I just think the conversation at the end could be tweaked a little to drive that home? I’m not reallly sure what I’m looking for. Overall this was tight and good. SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL Bad Seafood Not sure how I feel about this so far. We know Moira’s about to do something big and flashy, but you’re playing coy with it and giving a lot of backstory. This kind of chronological back and forth works better in movies, IMO, but you haven’t lost me yet. I’m kind of loling at the idea of parents who would rather their child be a musician than a pilot. In what universe is it not respectable to be a talented pilot? That’s a highly skilled job. I reckon it’s meant to be the setup for whatever big artsy thing that Moira’s about to do, but it’s not the most credible motivation. So moira does the thing and chooses to stay anonymous, literally flying off into the sunset. I guess it’s meant to be kind of a cathartic gently caress YOU MOM AND DAD moment. Or, if not that, then it’s supposed to suggest that Moira is content with her skills and chooses to forgo recognition because of that. Either way, the story feels very linear. Not narratively--it jumps around a lot--but in terms of characterization. There’s no real change in Moira’s character. The change is in the reader, when we have to adjust our expectations, since it becomes clear that Moira was never interested in the fame or glory or whatever. WILD HORSES Smebojo Are dragging me away help Okay, so I was weirdly preoccupied with the imaginary pingpong ball for a while. I thought that was going to be a story thing, but i guess it’s just what bored, well-meaning little demons do when they’re not trying to “help” people. Not sure. Otherwise, this was a cool, alien view into family tragedy. Clearly this household is hosed, but our little friend is only vaguely aware of that. What I’m left wondering is, what’s the demon’s exact effect here? It seems like he might have something to do with Meredith’s evident depression, but it’s not clear if everything in the story is a result of his misguided interference. Still, here’s fairly likeable in spite of the fact that he doesn’t speak much and his presence is vaguely sinister. WHY YOU SHOULDN'T LET GOONS EDIT YOUR CRIT DOC: This story broke SH, ha pee Shouldn’t it be “the flautist” Nvm, both are acceptable Omg this is the best I Don’t Even Own A Television episode ever and everyone should listen to it Too many trees. Too few trees. One time I was a kid and I was at the zoo and this huge bird took a dump right on my dad’s head and mind you this was not one of those small bird dumps, not like the little white stuff, no. This was like antelope grade but it came from a bird. And this big scary guy was helpless and covered in bird poo poo and crying and god drat it’s good to be alive. Wtf are you guys doing I AM TRYING TO EXPRESS MYSELF THROUGH ART What’s up everybody I’m TYPING. This document is officially a party. Erogenous Beef can eat a sandwich or some cake. Boop a doop, schmoop a loop. One day there was a Moose called Beckinsale. The Moose was like “I want to go to the shops” but it couldn’t fit through the door, so it went home and killed its entire family. This is why Thunderdome can’t have nice things. rip AND TEAR YOUR HUGE GUTS PAC MAN FEVER IS SWEEPING THE NATION; MAKE SURE YOU’VE HAD YOUR SHOTS. If you’re comin at me son, you betta step strong. My poo poo is always calculated never get it wrong, so add it up son, ‘fore I subtract you from the earth, divide your body into bits put them shits in a hearse, my poo poo is radical, like the square root of three. More meticulous than calculus or trigonometry.And I’ll always be on top, cuz I always want more. I want the whole pi, uhh...be from before? And with the rhymes I spit, so motherfucking complex, get below me son, I’m sittin on the vertex, and that’s where I’m gonna be til the day that I die, making money look imagined just like a+bi. This is the math rap so step back if ur whack, or imma bout to take a poo poo all up ur napsack so get set, you will never best me, I’m the best Thunderdome has to offer, B.
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Aug 27, 2016 01:28
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PALE SPECTRES posted:yes lol if someone wants to dignify this by judging, be my guest maybe we can have some fun lols
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Aug 27, 2016 02:56
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Aug 27, 2016 06:20
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Entenzahn posted:Hey guys how do I sign up for this? Do I just say in? If I say in am I in? Do I get a prompt then? Can I still sign up? Where is the prompt? Do I just make my own? Can I write whatever I want? Can I just write fanfic erotica? Is it okay if I submit this? Is it-- I swear I have a really good reason but I forgot to say it when I submitted. Can I still edit it in? Or does that disqualify me? And does that mean I cant win anymore? Can I disqualify myself and not lose? How do I wipe my own rear end? Do I just print out one of flerps stories and then roll it up and bend down and shovel the poo poo out my rear end in a top hat? Is it weird if this excites me? Please help Im confused don't isgn your posts
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Aug 27, 2016 21:21
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Entenzahn
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Paladinus posted:Just wanted to say thank you to some poor saps who not only read my lousy words, but read them out loud for some reason. In return, here are some words (mentioned by the very same saps) read out loud by me while sitting on the toilet. We  you Paladinus
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Aug 27, 2016 22:07
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IN WITH ELFPUNK
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Aug 29, 2016 06:52
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Of the River 1852 words Even at sixteen years of age, Morgan Mckenna knew much of myth and politics. She sat at the breakfast table and watched her father, Governor Mckenna, stab at overeasy egg yolks with the corner of a blackened piece of toast. Like all of the secret children of the Tuath Dé, he seemed just a bit realer than average folks. The morning light glinted off his perfectly groomed coif a little more sincerely. His eyes were a profound sort of brown, dead leaves backlit by autumn sun. Morgan listened to her father masticate and waited for him to say something. “We’ve already had your dress fitted for the gala,” he said at last, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with a cloth napkin. “For the gala. Not some hormone-riddled spectacle of teenage foreplay.” Morgan permitted herself a moment of discomfort with her father’s bluntness, then let it go. “Homecoming is important,” she said. “It’s about camaraderie and school spirit. Not...that other stuff.” The governor made a huff noise, something between a laugh and a sigh. Morgan preempted his inevitable response. “‘Don’t lie to a professional liar,’ I know. Okay, so, I want to go dance with my friends. Like a normal teenager?” “You’re not a normal teenager,” Governor Mckenna said, “and you should thank the Mother for that.” He dropped his voice to a harsh whisper at the word 'Mother', as though his constituents might be eavesdropping. Had she been born a poor man’s daughter, Morgan would’ve been able to spend her days in the forest learning the old ways from the great forum of wind, tree, and earth. But she was a governor’s daughter in God’s own U.S. of A., and she went to God’s church and gave thanks for God’s greatness. Her father prattled on about connections and networking and how grateful she’d be someday for the galas and meet-and-greets. It was all about laying groundwork, he was fond of saying. When he was done, Morgan took one of the cars and burned a hot trail east, toward the mountains. The foothills rose with increasing audacity toward the sky until Morgan felt like she was a mote drifting between giants. The sheer vastness of the mountains plucked at her soul and made her body shudder with deep, ancient tones. Why shouldn’t she be allowed to feel this way? She pulled over at a scantily-marked trailhead. Morgan hadn’t come prepared for a hike, but no matter. She was of the Tuath Dé, tribe of the gods. Her ancestors had descended upon ancient Ireland in a stormcloud. The untamed places on Earth were her birthright. Morgan ascended to heights of elder wood and elder stone. The trail stretched relentlessly upward, and then the alpine forest gave way to hardy grasses and naked stone. Soon, she stood on the spine of the mountain. The path flattened out and narrowed, flanked on each side by steep slopes littered with scree. A few tenacious flowers swayed among the rocks. Morgan reached for her phone to snap a picture of the impressive view afforded by the ridge. A trophy to taunt her father with later, maybe. Then she saw she was totally out of range of any signal, and frowned. She’d hiked for nearly two hours. No one knew where she’d gone. “Kraa!” The throaty call of a raven. Morgan saw its shadow as the bird briefly passed between her and the sun. She shielded her eyes, looked up-- A swarm of black feathers filled her vision. Not just one raven, but a storm of ravens, an amalgam of wings and dark, glittering eyes. Morgan bellowed inarticulate violence, swung her arms to ward off the attack. But her fists beat only empty air. I am the river, a voice said in the deafening whisper of a thousand flapping wings. Through you I shall flow. Morgan felt a sharp sting in her back as she fell to the stony earth. And then the ravens bore her downward, into the sunless skies beneath the living rock. She opened her eyes to pure black, darker and smoother than ravens’ wings. There was a faint glow to her right. She rolled over onto her side, saw a languid river of liquid light. Do you know what you are, girl? said the luminescent river in a soft, lazy voice like water flowing over stone. “I’m Tuatha Dé Danann,” Morgan said. “Scion of the god-kings of Ireland. Child of Danu, Mother River.” Yes, sighed Danu. I flow through you, but my currents grow weak. Morgan pushed herself up to a sitting position and looked down the glowing length of the river. Further downstream, almost invisible in the blackness beyond the water’s light, there were clusters of folk hunched over the water, staring into its brilliance. All of them were thick and crude-featured, but they had that undeniable air of thusness and gravity innate to the Tuath Dé. Morgan knew with dream-like certainty that she was looking at the first-born of Danu, those who had invaded Ireland on the backs of storms in the era of myth and magic. There is another kind of river, a river of ideas that flows between the domiciles of men, said Danu. I would clarify it with my own waters and quicken myself in the minds of mortals. “You mean the internet?” Morgan said. A million thoughts warred for primacy in her mind. “You can’t just...I mean, the internet is a crazy, busy place. No one would believe--” she was cut short by a pulse of vertigo that rippled out from her forehead, down to her toes. Gather my children and give my body unto the rivers of men! the goddess bellowed, then fell silent. There was the roar of flapping wings; ravens, come to take Morgan back to the world above. They bore her body back to the realm of men, down the mountainside, to her car, and Morgan drove home with her ears full of feathery whispers. She barely noticed the days leading up to the gala. She stopped pestering her father about the high school homecoming dance, too consumed by the problem of Mother River to care about petty socializing. She needed to somehow put the word out to the other lost Tuatha Dé Danann, children of Danu, Mother River, and bring them together. And then...and then… Somehow, they would clarify the rivers of men. And then Morgan could be who she’d been born to be. Governer Mckenna was pleased that she’d dropped the issue of the high school dance, but quickly became suspicious. He cornered her on the evening before the gala, after he caught her trying to eavesdrop on his speech rehearsal. “You’ve done something,” he said bluntly. They stood in the high-ceilinged hallway, facing each other like sparring partners. The weight of his glare was tangible. Morgan glared back. “You need to tell the world what we are.” The words fell out of her mouth before she could think twice. “This gala is a big deal to you, I can tell. Not just another handshake expo.” She took a deep breath. “If you don’t honor the Mother, I’ll show people what we are. I’ve seen the River.” Morgan looked dead into her father’s eyes and thought of ravens’ wings. She could almost feel them, beating at the back of her skull like a second heart. Governer Mckenna actually stepped back. Morgan glowered at him. Let him believe she’d unlocked some hidden god-power. Let him believe she’d found a way to disseminate this information. Never lie to a professional liar. Unless you’d learned every trick in the book from one. The governor made several alterations to his speech that night. Both father and daughter had an uneasy sleep, woke early, and ate breakfast in silence. Morgan cinched herself into a forest-green gown whose hem lightly kissed the floor. She let her hair flow wild and wavy, left her face bare of any cosmetics. She was Tuath Dé. She didn’t need makeup to catch the eyes of normal folks. The gala was held in the grand ballroom at the Portland art museum. The generous hall was filled to the brim with portly senators from up and down the west coast and beyond. Waiters drifted between idly chatting clusters of politicians and their entourages with trays of hors d'oeuvres. The room was electric with excitement and anticipation. People fussed over Morgan, said things like you must be so proud of your father! “I hope to be after tonight,” she would reply, and give them her most mysterious grin. And they all laughed knowingly, as if they were in on her private joke. Finally, one of the event coordinators drew everyone’s attention to a raised podium at one end of the ballroom. And now Morgan could see the cluster of news cameras near the front. She didn’t know what she would do if her father went back on his word or lost his nerve, but it would be sudden and shocking and on camera for all the world to see. Governor Mckenna took the stage. The room fell silent. “Friends, we all come from somewhere,” he said, smiling out at his audience. “I myself can trace my heritage back across the Atlantic, to the emerald isles. My grandmother used to tell me of a great race of Irish kings, the Tuatha Dé Danann--my forebearers, if you’d believe it.” He chuckled, and the room buzzed with perplexed muttering. Camera lenses glittered like ravens’ eyes. Morgan held her breath. “But in America, it’s not about who your great-great grandaddy was. It’s not about who your daddy was, or it shouldn’t be, anyway. Life in America is about looking ahead, and working as a diverse community toward equal opportunities for all.” Now the room was silent again, fully under Governor Mckenna’s control. Morgan clenched her teeth and fists. “It’s in that spirit that I announce to you, friends and colleagues, that I intend to run for the presidential office. I humbly ask for you…” The rest of the speech passed in a blur for Morgan, and soon people were hugging her and clapping on her back, and she was posing for pictures with her father and his impeccable smile. “Don’t be furious,” he whispered to her when they had a moment alone. “Think of it like a dog whistle. The word is out there, now, and our people will hear it. They’ll know one of their own is in a position of power, and then…” he trailed off, shrugged. “They’ll search each other out. Make hashtags, or whatever it is you kids do.” “‘It’s all about laying the groundwork,’” Morgan muttered, unwilling to look her father in the eye. Black wings fluttered against the back of her skull. She hated that he was right, that he had outmatched her in a game of wills. But even at sixteen years of age, Morgan knew much about myth and politics, and there was still time yet to quicken Mother River. She forced a grin and went to pose for another photo.
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Sep 5, 2016 04:35
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stay safe fastjudge ghost
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Sep 6, 2016 18:05
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ty for the crits, judgescurlingiron posted:Sitting Here and PALE SPECTRES, by divine benevolence, I am extending your deadline to 11:59 PM Pacific tonight. Cusp 495 words They come together each year on the cusp of autumn. Not too hot, not too cold. Her sneaker scuffs over noisy dead leaves. He looks up. The air has a chilly bite to it. He’s wearing a tank top. He perspires like melting ice. When she steps into the hesitant circle of his arms, she smells cold air, like inside a walk-in freezer. She encircles him with her own arms, careful not to touch him. He tilts his head down and breathes her in. Her hair smells like scorched pavement. They can’t hug, so they stand like that, together but apart. Summer dissolves around them in frenetic gusts of wind. The sun is setting. Tomorrow is the first day of fall. The equinox should feel like homecoming, but all he wants is the molten touch of summer’s fingers. If winter is a house, and fall is the door, then the door is locked to her. She says they should go down to the waterfront, so they can make the most of summer’s last light. As they walk, she crosses her arms tightly, warding off the specter of chill from winter winds to come. Every year, she forgets what cold feels like. They sit together at the end of the pier, closer than is safe and infinitely far apart. The sun is a bitter third wheel. It seems to relish in reminding them that it’s almost time to part ways. The temperature drops in leaps and bounds. She’s shivering now. She wonders out loud why they can’t just mash themselves together, become one, and create an autumn that lasts the whole year round. He tells her that’s stupid, that’s not how these things work. She asks him, well, how do these things work? It’s a fair question, and he doesn’t have an answer. There’s nothing particularly strange about him except that, in the summer, he ceases to exist. He doesn’t summon the winter as much as the winter summons him. She reaches up to touch his face. He flinches away. He looks into her eyes. She would undo them both with an embrace, so he has to show her. Her wrist is in his hand now. There’s a sizzling noise. A pillar of steam rising from the forbidden intersection of skin. He lets go before too much damage is done. He inspects his burnt palm and fingers, which are now the blood-and-rust colors of dead leaves. She stares at her charred and puckered wrist. She looks up at the sky, where part of her is drifting away in a cloud of steam. She says, gently caress the weather, and plunges her hot summer hands into his cold winter heart. Fingers like magma splitting a glacier. Cold older and deeper than interstellar space. They consume, ignite, and melt each other until there is steam, only steam. The rueful sun sets, and the seasons turn to nothing at all.
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Sep 7, 2016 05:05
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Just a reminder that you're always more than welcome to discuss critiques in the Fiction Advice thread if you didn't know that before, grats now you do!
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Sep 8, 2016 08:31
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i wish more people would talk shop in FA, actually. It's like the same 5 questions over and over and there aren't even funny dogpiles anymore
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Sep 8, 2016 08:36
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Erogenous Beef posted:GUERRILLA STORY! what is this blasphemous and unholy union god help us
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Sep 11, 2016 22:37
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prompt.
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Sep 14, 2016 00:15
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Our glorious champion has forsaken us. Who will fill the farty power vacuum that remains?? Djeser I choose you! Use: Fast Prompt!
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Sep 14, 2016 04:50
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woops
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Sep 14, 2016 05:45
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Djeser posted:
lol gently caress it, in with this one, though i'm too lazy to look up which it is
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Sep 16, 2016 19:07
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Prompt: Capricho No. 69: Sopla (Gust the wind) Helpers 1090 words Duncan was eleven when human beings stopped aging. Twenty-two years later, Duncan was eleven-plus-twenty-two. He practiced calculus while eating Fruit Loops and buttered toast, courtesy of Mom. Duncan wanted to maybe study theoretical physics or become an astronaut, but it was slow going. His brain didn’t like new stuff, but he found he could carefully stack old ideas together in a way that helped him suss out an approximation of new ones. Math was easiest because as long as you could grope your way through the rules, the numbers usually cooperated. Duncan didn’t want to be a leech. That was a word that showed up in maybe year ten of the post-aging world. He wanted to be a helper, one of those wiz kids you saw on Jimmy Fallon or the Daily Show. The scientists said that people under twelve weren’t fit for any adult roles in society, but some folks thought that two decades of life ought to make anyone an adult, except for the infants and toddlers. “You’re a very smart little boy,” Duncan’s mom told him one day, after she’d served him his Fruit Loops. “It’s just--Unless something changes around here, you and I are going to live this life forever.” Duncan stared at her, uncomprehending. He was pretty sure Mom hadn’t ever talked like that before. “There’s a place in Alaska that found a loophole in the laws. You could get some real-life work experience and study in the afternoons. It would only be for a few months, and…” Duncan understood, and cried. “I can’t live like this anymore and I don’t know what else to do.” Mom’s voice was raw, may as well have belonged to someone else. Duncan stopped crying, got up from the table, and went to his room. Duncan wanted to be a helper, not a leech. He reminded himself of this again and again on the airplane, and on the bus to Camp Cayden, because if he stopped reminding himself he would forget what the heck he was doing and start to cry. When he got sick of repeating his purpose inside his brain, he re-read the camp literature. Founded in honor of Cayden Jaworski, who’d taken over his father’s manufacturing company at the age of ten-plus-nineteen years, the camp was billed as a place for particularly brilliant kids who wanted to “practice” adult jobs, which they were otherwise forbidden from doing. Cayden probably never cried, Duncan told himself. At first, Duncan thought they’d arrived at the camp. He peered out the bus window and saw kids and tents and fire pits and some men. Everything was muddy and there were lots of tree stumps between the messy campsites. But the bus didn’t stop there. It rolled on up to a big iron gate set in a tall cement wall, and waited. Duncan pressed himself against the window and tilted his head so he could look back at the kids outside. Lots of them wore rags, or nothing at all. Some of them sat on the laps of the men, and the men held on tightly with their big hands. Then the iron gate opened, and the bus trundled into a walled community full of low, brown buildings. On the far side of the compound was the factory, which loomed, mountain-like, over the tidy little grid. The main thing Duncan had to remember was to look at the signs, which were everywhere, because the signs told you the Rules and Standards, and following the Rules and Standards meant you didn’t get ejected. Kids who were ejected had to wait outside for their parents, except parents didn’t usually come, and outside was where the lechers lived. The signs helped Duncan and the other camp kids remember: Ejection is for leeches, and leeches are for lechers. Playtime is over, let’s get to work! Ten hours of work a day keeps the ejection man away. Good grades = You can stay And so on. In the factory, simply-worded signs at each workstation reminded the kids how to assemble everything from T-shirts to cheap cell phones. In evening class, they mostly practiced mnemonic devices to help them remember how to have a good work ethic. “The world is changing, and you’re going to be very important to the new economy,” the teachers would remind them each night. The fire crept through the factory like the rising tide, and then all at once it was on them. Duncan and the other kids pressed toward the exit, and soon he was out in the fresh air, following the kids in front of him who were following the kids in front of them. Behind him, there was a splintery crash! and a belch of heat from the mouth of the factory. Duncan turned around at the sound of screaming from inside. Those who’d been unlucky enough to be just a little slower than Duncan were trapped behind a burning mound of collapsed ceiling. Sirens wailed in the distance; someone had alerted the fire department in the nearby town of Willow, but they were still a few miles off. Duncan wanted to be a helper, not a leech. He charged into the collapsed entryway and kicked at the wall of smoldering debris with his work boots, trying to bludgeon a path through the fire. Screams road the smoke like banshees in a storm. Dozens of blistered little hands reached through the flames. Duncan chose a hand at random, grabbed on to the other child’s bubbling arm, and pulled. Skin sloughed off like a lady’s long glove. Duncan fell backward onto his bottom, stared at the limp tube of flesh in his hand without comprehension. Then, with a long groan of resignation, the whole factory folded in on itself. The fire spread to the neat rows of little houses, and the surviving children were forced beyond the walls of Camp Cayden. Firefighters rushed past them into the compound. The teachers and foremen had vanished. The fire would attract national attention, and there was no way in hell they wanted to be under that lens. The kids wandered between filthy tents and greasy-haired men. Even if they’d had phones, calls back home would’ve gone unanswered. The age of moms and dads, they were beginning to understand, was over. The lechers understood completely. The lechers were kind. They herded the children away from the remains of the camp, murmuring there, there, little leeches. There, there. We’ve got uses for you yet.
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Sep 19, 2016 05:18
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anime was right posted:welcome to the quoteless club   
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Sep 19, 2016 07:08
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my cat is norris posted:Thanks for the crits! Sorry to see myself on the DM list, though I guess it's not surprising, given my status as Complete Amateur. uh TD is just for practice, it's a big writing dojo where we hand out mentions to add stakes (because any good plot needs stakes). Skilled writers writers get DMs/losses here and imo a loss in TD is way less painful than submitting your actual soul to the magazine/agent of your dreams and getting a form rejection after 6 months. Anyway, I'm doing a crit for another story this week, but if you want, I'll do yours too. Plus, we always break down the DMs/loser in our audio recaps for each week, if you can stand listening to goons bullshit with each other in poor audio quality. writing is pain, norris, anyone who says otherwise is selling something
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Sep 19, 2016 17:51
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Oxxidation posted:
what is this pathetic showing, did a video game come out this week or something
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Sep 21, 2016 22:46
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flerp posted:weird i dont c ur name there either I like to give other people a chance sometimes 
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Sep 21, 2016 22:59
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flerp posted:true, other people need the losertar 2 then maybe it is you who should abstain this week 
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Sep 21, 2016 23:14
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flerp posted:sh only tries to own me through her shitposts but im gonna own her in a gosh darn brawl yeah alright, I guess the concussive trauma I gave you last time probably made you forget how hard i routinely own you  for whenever the brawl prompt goes up
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Sep 22, 2016 00:28
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Mercedes posted:Whenever the second failure of a parent spawn toxxes up, this is what you two will be writing about. Entenzahn posted:flerping all over here brawl ummmm can i take the parts that i like from these prompts, combine them, and disregard the parts i don't like mainly i just don't feel like setting a story in Russia because i don't want to fall down a Wikipedia hole trying to sound credible
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Sep 22, 2016 01:57
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can we get some arbitration in here, or...?
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Sep 22, 2016 01:58
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Entenmerc Brawl You have to write your respective prompts. That means Merc, you're writing about an immortal coming to terms with their love for a mortal. Ent, you're writing about depressing Russian poo poo hitting the fan. I'm sure you'll write exactly the kind of thing you'd want to read. Words count: Who cares don't be boring Due date: October 1st Judge can be me, or me and flerp if he wants. If you both agree and , I will do my best to write both of your prompts, with the caveat that there is no word limit and the due date for Flerp and I is also on the 1st of October. Flerp can agree or not agree to this i don't care, ur already toxxed fucker
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Sep 22, 2016 02:39
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So how I am envisioning this is: flerp and I will each write one story that incorporates both prompts. For simplicity's sake, I won't ask you to judge together because idk how feasible that would be. Instead, you will each give our stories a score from one to ten. Obviously whoever has the highest score wins. Since you were both so eager to judge, I don't see why we should deprive you of that Your brawl with each other will work exactly as I explained in my brawl post. Deadline is between October 1 and 3 for the benefit of all combatants. 
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Sep 22, 2016 07:01
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:The point of that was fightin, not crittin. Re fightin u didnt even make the 3rd round lol Yeah but where are the crits
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Sep 22, 2016 07:14
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Mercedes posted:What the poo poo?! I thought I was brawling this cock smuggler? uuuh which cock smuggler a bunch just posted Sitting Here posted:So how I am envisioning this is: flerp and I will each write one story that incorporates both prompts. For simplicity's sake, I won't ask you to judge together because idk how feasible that would be. Instead, you will each give our stories a score from one to ten. Obviously whoever has the highest score wins. Sitting Here posted:
I feel like what's going on is p clear here, jesus christ i can't believe how much hand-holding i'm doing in this brawl against my person sebmojo posted:what the poo poo is going on in here sort it out pronto k [calling to another room] no it's fine grampa you don't have to get up go back to bed we've got this
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Sep 22, 2016 18:17
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Ironic Twist posted:Next THUNDERTOME book, to fit the season: I want to reiterate that this is a really cool collection and I hope people jump in. The last few Thundertomes have been pretty fun.
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Sep 24, 2016 04:38
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I will help judge. Heavy metal lol TD is the aluminum foil of metal.
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Sep 27, 2016 18:28
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| # ¿ Apr 26, 2024 15:54 |
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Driveby Crits! Because I love/hate you all very much, I'm trying to get in the habit of doing more random crits. Here are three: My Cat is Norris Claudia and the Black Wood I was going to do a line-by-line of this, but honestly, it doesn't really need one. If you listened to our recap episode for week 215, you would've heard some in-depth discussion of this piece. In which case, you'll already know I found it generally competent. I decided to crit this piece because I saw you post in the thread that you were feeling not-ready to have your stuff seen/critiqued by a bunch of mean goons. Well, to hell with that. Your words are fine. You could write good stories, but that'll mean getting bopped on the nose a few times. What this story suffers most from is a lack of anything specific to your characters/where they live. You've got Mother, Father, Monsters, Priest, etcetera. A regular little LEGO town of stock characters. Even the foreboding Black Woods themselves seem like a fairly standard monster haunt. IMO there are a couple ways to get around that, via characters or via the setting. Via characters: give your protagonist or one of your supporting characters a goal that has nothing to do with the actual plot of your story. The actual plot of your story is basically that some spooky creatures want Claudia to come join them in the woods. There's nothing wrong with that, but it needs a little spice, something that tugs the protagonist in the opposite direction of her destiny. So, to make up a stupid ad hoc example, maybe Claudia wants to win a prize for spelling at school, but the voices distract her from memorizing words. In my example, the voices wouldn't have to be particularly scary or evil, even if the townspeople still see them that way. Maybe Claudia secretly knows she belongs with the voices in the woods, but gosh darnit she needs to prove herself to the town that's ostracized her. Maybe she even succeeds at this spelling bee, but she's still "that girl who hears spooky voices," and so she embraces her destiny and dances off into the woods, only to find the monsters weren't so monstrous all along. Something like that. Basically, the goal is to give your character(s) something unique to their story (and your writing). Then there's the other way I mentioned, having some unique characteristic of your setting. This is a little harder to make interesting, since no one wants to read a bunch of description. But one thing I noticed about this story of yours was that the setting was fairly generic. I'm not saying you need to describe the local geography and customs in depth, but we are very much shaped by our environment. Is Claudia meek and obedient because she grew up cowering beneath massive, unyielding mountains and heavy storm clouds? Is she strong because she's carried water for miles across a desert every day? Is she bold because her town is a frequent stop for passing merchants, who reward her precociousness with stories of far-off lands? I'm not trying to put my ideas in your head. But what your writing needs most is just...a dash of detail and originality. And I feel really weird telling someone "be more original". I'm not questioning your creativity. I just think you need to expose more of your ideas to daylight, see all the possible ways you can develop them. QuoProQuid Dinner with the Parents I'm critting this cause I told you I'd crit you, but tbh you turned around and wrote something really fun and charming so it's hard. I like this story. My impression as a reader is positive. But ok now i'll give you my impression as a writer. Which means I'm gonna get all nitpicky, because you're at a place where the path to "better" is getting less and less obvious. Ok. So. I think my issues with your story are actually kind of similar to what I talked about with Noris's story above. You have a really inherently good juxtaposition: the awkwardness of meeting the parents combined with the terror of facing an unholy horror. I just wish the characters had a little more going for them. Henry was kind of predictably nervous but agreeable. I wish you'd somehow found a way to work more conversation into this. The bumbling "Hi how do you do" shtick worked just fine, but if we're in the business of pushing our writing farther, which I hope we are, then we should always consider how to make something more memorable. I would like if the conversation had lent itself to more personal details about Henry and Momdad. Some humorous common ground for them to have, or something. Henry's reflection on how awkward Astrid must've felt at his family's house didn't ring completely true to me. Like, I think if we're being honest, we know that meeting awkward human parents is very different than meeting hellbeast parents from beyond the void. The forced equivocation cheapened things for me a little bit. That's why I wish there'd been more insightful conversation beyond the awkward greetings. You could've ditched Henry's musings on his own parents and established a different, more credible reason for him to be totally cool with hellmom and helldad. I mean, The Joke is "lovecraftian parents are just like normal parents if you think about it!!" And it's a fine joke, and this story made the judges smile too, I think. But there are ways to twist that joke and put your own spin on it. I would've liked more on the embedded dad head, for example. He was there and it was weird and funny, but I don't think that device got used to its fullest extent. Lastly, the language was all fine and good, but most of it was pretty standard re: describing eldritch horrors. I wasn't really a fan of referring to Astrid's mom as "the thing". quote:The appendages seemed almost too long, as though they had been made by someone with only a vague idea of what arms were supposed to look like They seemed almost too long. So were they too long or not? In this case, 'seemed almost' weakens your image. Maybe her sinuous arms hang down so far her hands are parallel with her stooped knees. Maybe her torso is shrunken and hunched, making her limbs look longer than normal. IDK, far be it from me to tell you how to describe hellmom, but again, I think you could've been a little more specific with your language. The second part of that sentence touches on somewhat of a personal pet peeve of mine: "...As though they had been made by someone with only a vague idea of what arms were supposed to look like". I get what it's supposed to mean. The thing you're describing is a distorted or malformed version of a familiar shape. But again, it's not very specific, and it makes me feel like the narrative is sidestepping actual description. Anyway, just some stuff to think about. SkaAndScreenPlays (or whatever your name is now) Terrible Purpose Line crit time! quote:A painstakingly chosen ensemble lay neatly at the foot of his bed as Charles prepared for the evening's outing Not gonna lie, I'm not that interested in where he's got his clothes laid out . August had always been a grim month for him. It had been August that impulse had bested self control. It had been in August that he had met her. It had been August that he had doomed a young girl to life as a pariah. I would've started with the last line of this paragraph, maybe. It's a hell of a lot more interesting than "a guy has some clothes on his bed" Okay, so. You asked in IRC about alluding to things in flash fiction. TBH, this story would've benefitted from some straightforward exposition. You spend way too long playing coy about the fact that Charles is a killer-turned-avenger. You seem to be really into the banter between your two characters, kind of at the expense of everything else. What I like to do is put all of the basic info about my setting, characters, or situation up front, then use the rest of the story to put an interesting spin on it. Flash fiction is weird because you can actually do a lot of telling, assuming you then turn around and show some unique or interesting consequence of your plot elements. To that end, I don't think Charles's dark past~ or relationship with Justice should've been as vague as it was. I actually like the idea of Justice as a sassy lady who works through a penitent killer until she ultimately drives him to suicide. I don't like the ending because, if you hadn't dropped that line about how "these were the last two murders he'd ever commit" or w/e, I would've have no real way of knowing whether he pulls the trigger or not. That, and the story just kind of ends. Literally trails off with an ellipses. There are things I do like about this piece. As I said, the concept is kind of neat. I'm a fan of character-driven situations where people find friendship in weird situations. There's this really dumb but fun show called Lucifer, where the actual, for-real devil teams up with a no-nonsense cop and they solve crimes together. I wanted this to be like that. One nice thing about the show is it's very unambiguous about the bigger plot details. Lucifer himself doesn't try to hide the fact that he's the devil at all. At no point does the show play coy with the cosmology of the world its characters inhabit. God is a real-life entity who's got real-life uncooperative kids with immortality and magical powers. Hell is a place, but it sucks to be in charge of. All of this over the top stuff is basically presented ASAP so the show can get on with doing fun, character-centric plot things. You needed to have taken a similar approach here. Also, in retrospect, the dude's shooting skills were only very lightly touched on, since you basically glossed right over any actual avenging he and Justice did. And, hell, now that I'm thinking about it, it's really unclear what you meant in the beginning when you talked about making a girl a pariah. I get he killed people in the past due to Reasons (impulse, I guess), but it really seemed like the story was going to hinge more tightly on his guilt over that one girl. I'm still not quite sure how it all fits. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- (crits over) Sitting Here fucked around with this message at 04:00 on Sep 29, 2016 |
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Sep 29, 2016 01:14
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