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thanks for the good crits, which were also fast crits. these two qualities were independent of each other.
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Jan 4, 2016 22:46
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In. You know me, you know what I do, gimme something.
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Jan 5, 2016 23:42
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E: scrub'dd
Ironic Twist fucked around with this message at 04:30 on Dec 30, 2016 |
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Jan 11, 2016 04:08
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THUNDERDOME WEEK CLXXX: Maybe I’m A Maze Let’s get right down to business, Thunderdome. I know what you want. I know who you want. THIS GUY RIGHT HERE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z4VU3U4zJZo wait, wait, hold on, wrong guy. THIS GUY:  This man ruled over a maze, with his beautiful and angular face, and the turnip stuffed down the front of his tight white pants. Today, we pay tribute to his androgynous benevolence. Write me a story about people who are trapped in a maze. A maze, or a—longer word for a maze. Coming up empty here. Anyway, the maze can be literal or metaphorical, but the innate conflict from being trapped in a confusing situation with twists and turns has to be there. In addition, for 200 extra words, you can request a song-as-flash-rule. Simply say which judge you’re requesting the flash rule from (me, Sitting Here, or curlingiron), and they will provide it. Words: 1300 Signup Deadline: Friday, January 15, 2359 EST Submissions Deadline: Sunday, January 17, 2359 EST No: fanfic, nonfic, erotica. Judges: me Sitting Here curlingiron Maze Oddities: Broenheim (Shook Ones, Part 2) God Over Djinn Chairchucker (Starman) Wangless Wonder Grizzled Patriarch crabrock (Beauty and the Beast OR Lazarus) Thranguy (Always Crashing In The Same Car) HellishWhiskers (This Fine Social Scene) Entenzahn (After All) Bleusman (Life On Mars?) Lazy Beggar (Breaking Glass) Jeza (The Man Who Sold The World) WeLandedOnTheMoon (I Luv The Valley OH!) Ceighk (D.J.) CaligulaKangaroo (Rebel Rebel) docbeard (Moonage Daydream) Masonity (I’m Afraid of Americans) ghost crow (Heroes) sebmojo (I’m Deranged) SkaAndScreenplays (Sons of the Silent Age) Amused Frog Julias Pham Nuwen Panthotenate (Saviour Machine) Killer-Of-Lawyers Bad Seafood (Warszawa) Ironic Twist fucked around with this message at 06:27 on Jan 16, 2016 |
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Jan 12, 2016 06:15
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Broenheim posted:oh wow i guess i was passed as a judge. well then twist, that's fine, im in, and youre going to flash rule me. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PosV5zVNWlc
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Jan 12, 2016 06:25
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WeLandedOnTheMoon! posted:I am signing up. I would like a dong. I don't care who gives it to me. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dztURk0_DOg
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Jan 12, 2016 22:09
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Well, I might as well join in: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GIfKqgWPVvk https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dl-CcC7xRAw https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yg5eXOPvF3Q Double bonus points if you use vvvthisvvv one, because I might never get to: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uNA7yrIysDg Signups close in just over 8 hours
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Jan 15, 2016 21:48
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Under 3 hours left to make a total gut decision and write a story for this week~~~
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Jan 16, 2016 03:12
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Bad Seafood posted:I'm in and would like to request a Bowie song. Sitting Here posted:
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Jan 16, 2016 05:24
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Signups closed, write and write some more.
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Jan 16, 2016 06:13
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SUBS CLOSED DAMMIT https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rsNWsrKDvNo&t=43s
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Jan 18, 2016 08:33
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WEEK 180 RESULTS So, this was a mixed bag of a week. Turns out, maybe the concept of “confusion” might not be the best starting point for a story. Some of you made it work, and some of you were lost forever in the grey foggy labyrinth of your own story, doomed to be consumed by obscurity. Judging was insanely fast, as we were all fairly quick to agree which stories stood out…for better or for worse. Our first two undisputed Honorable Mentions went to Entenzahn and crabrock, for writing emotionally moving stories, one with a more physical maze, one with a more metaphorical maze, but both were memorably detailed, human, and emotionally moving. Thanks, guys, you helped pull this week out of the gutter. Another headjudge fiat Honorable Mention goes to docbeard for writing the most genuinely enjoyable story this week, with characters that were some of the most likable and interesting out of all the stories we read. Conversely, the non-headjudges submitted Panthotenate’s story as another fiat Honorable Mention, and I ultimately agreed—the story was technically polished and captivating even though relatively low-key. Congrats, you both earned your high honors. On the other side of the week, Dishonorable Mentions go to both WeLandedOnTheMoon and Ceighk, one for writing an all-but-incomprehensible story about a pregnant woman trapped by smoke and clunkers and talking unborn babies that was a mess to read, and one for writing a Myspace entry that took forever to get to the loving point. Our Loss this week is Julias. If you read even a bit of this story, you’ll know why. The judges had a lot of fun laughing at it. We were not laughing with it. And that just leaves the Win, which goes to a story that is very polished, very detailed, and is one of the most resonant and softly heartbreaking things I’ve ever read in the ‘Dome. God Over Djinn, take a seat on the throne. You’ve absolutely earned it.
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Jan 18, 2016 23:22
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Face The Pain
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Jan 19, 2016 00:40
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Sitting Here posted:Twist's best quality is how easy it is to own him tbh pfft, your feeble owns roll off me like water off an Ock's back
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Jan 20, 2016 03:09
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Chairchucker posted:I am officially a sitting here superfan now. After she absolutely brutalises ironic twist in SPORTS, I am gonna go and set things on fire and put cars on their side, it is going to be the best. I'm also pre-emptively tattooing SITTING HEAR SPORTS CHAMPION 2016 4EVA on my left buttock. enjoy your 9 words sitting here
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Jan 22, 2016 06:30
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Flight of Whispers 1298 words (thank you, Jagermonster) Red twilight glinted off fishtails and feathers for as far as Aon could see. Mermen and mermaids alike floated together in the vast ocean, salted tresses draped over suntanned shoulders, unfurling down to the rippling water as they reclined in the ocean’s embrace. Some of them used their tails as a perch to support the weight of the larger birds: eagles, pelicans, albatrosses, pouches of woven seaweed tied tightly around their necks. But Aon’s bird perched comfortably on his outstretched arm, pecking lightly at itself, letting out a sharp quack every so often. His pouch was in his other hand. He felt frozen in place, even though the water wasn’t cold, had never been cold or uninviting. Everyone kept one eye on the sun, sinking closer to the horizon. The evening marked the yearly Flight of Whispers, a celebration of the recent end of the War between the Oceans. The competitors each year trained fowl to fly from one side of the world to the other, carrying messages to those on the other side as the opposing factions did during wartime, back when rusted steel clashed and blood dripped from flesh and fishscale. Now the merfolk collected in the East Ocean, birds held high, each claiming that they were the fastest, that their words would be the first to grace the far waters. Even though it was a competition for the sake of sport and timelessness, many claimed they had the best strategy. Seabirds were superior, said one school of thought—the hardy seagulls and albatrosses were suited for long distances. Those that preferred the eagle and the falcon scoffed at their frayed logic—surely the faster you flew, the less time you needed, and the less energy you expended. Tailfeathers were clipped short, talons were sharpened and filed, and regal crests were adorned with gold and jade flights—all sworn to improve aerodynamic effect. Aon felt like a mullet in the belly of a whale in the midst of all the rabid tacticians, winning birds strutting back and forth across their upturned tailfins. He was just a boy at play in the surf, whistling to his pet duck. How could his pet stand up to these birds twice its size, meaner birds, tougher birds, birds that could snap a neck with one swift motion? The sun was halfway below the water now. The noise and chatter from the crowd stilled. It was now or never. Aon took a deep breath, and remembered. He set the bird down on his bare shoulder and fished a curl of red hair out of the seaweed pouch. He held it in front of the duck’s face, trying to get its attention. It looked for a moment, then pecked at the blond hair over his right ear. Aon sighed, then brought the pouch to his lips before he could change his mind, slowly whispered something only he could hear. He grabbed the duck and tied the pouch around its neck, where the brown breast-feathers met the velvety green down covering its head. Then, he waited. They all waited. The sun was a semi-circle, a crescent, a line—and then gone. An explosion of rustling and squawking happened as the merfolk threw their hands to the sky. Aon watched the winged cloud disappear into the distance, hoping, filled with desperation borne of longing. --- Aon’s face vaguely flitted throughout the duck’s mind as he flew, head pointed forward with the single-mindedness of an arrow fired by a god. As the birds dispersed, fell off to the side or down to the earth below in disinterest or fatigue, the duck kept flying. Everywhere the duck looked, there was Aon, waiting. Flying through the grey clouds reminded him of the sea spray against his face as he looped and twirled above his master’s watchful eye. The rays of sunlight cascaded through the clouds like his master’s golden locks, flowing behind him as he leapt over the crashing surf. And in every calling bird, every jeering whistle or mocking ululation, he heard the sound of Aon’s voice, singing a song passed down from his mother, a melody that was mostly sound but every so often formed itself into words, grew clear like an endless blue sky: …I never lose the ones I love… And something burned inside him that was stronger than pain. --- “It’s late, Marius,” said Lia. She traced a finger along the small of Marius’s broad back, twirled a coil of his long hair. “Get someone else to stand as sentry for a few hours.” Marius’s expression didn’t change. He stared off into the moonlit night, unflinching. “I said it already—I will be there for the winner.” He ran the palm of his hand over the scars on his chest, crisscrossing from his collarbone to his waist, dulled and yellowed in the aftermath of battle. Lia sighed and turned away. She spoke to herself, just loud enough for Marius to hear: “Sleep isn’t for the weak, you know.” Marius didn’t budge until Lia slid beneath the ocean’s surface, and then he grunted, ran his fingers through his thick beard. The waters were rising every year, they said. Each year, the waves advancing further and further up the shore, lapping at the heels of the walkers. Keep the water rising, rushing forward over the land, and then maybe he’d find peace. His brother was peaceful, incredibly peaceful. His brother was at the bottom of the sea, crabs eating at his eyes, the beak of a stingray lodged in his throat. And Marius was still alive, for some reason, and everyone worth loving or killing was far beyond his reach, and then what was there to do? Lia had suggested collecting sand dollars, “just as a way to pass the time”. It had taken all of his strength not to scream in her face. Time flew when you could take your vengeance. Out here, with no one around, time slowed to a crawl. And now, the Flight. The annual Flight, to celebrate Peace. Oh, how valuable they all said Peace was. Peace was just the furrow between each bloody wave of War. There was something off in the distance. Marius craned his neck forward, looked. It was a bird, a strange sort of bird, flapping half-heartedly and coasting on gusts of air. Marius grinned, then let out a whistle. As the bird flew closer, he could see the pouch dangling from its neck, and his smile grew sharp. He held his arms out to the bird, and it collapsed against his chest, shuddering and quacking. One simple motion, he thought. One twist of the wrist, and then someone’s happiness would descend into nothing. Them and their outstretched arms. He’d cut them all off at the elbows. For a fortunate second, the duck fell silent. Something in the back of Marius’s mind stirred. He wasn’t sure what he’d just heard. He kept his hand around the duck’s neck, and opened the pouch. Now he could hear it more clearly. Marius took out the seashell, a pearlescent-pink nautilus, and held it up to his ear. The recognition hit him at once. …I never lose the ones I love… He sank beneath the water as the sound ran through him. The duck squawked and slipped out of his grasp, settled down among the rippling waves. Marius couldn’t think straight, could only stare down at the boundless depths he’d once welcomed. He was still alive. Aon was still alive. He threw his head back and laughed underwater, silvery bubbles escaping from his mouth and bursting against the night air. Above him, the sea softly crashed, whispering through his flowing red mane, sounding more and more like the voice flowing through his ears until he could barely tell the difference.
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Jan 25, 2016 06:06
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Week CLXXXII: Domegrassi I don’t know about y’all, but I loved all the saltiness and whining that came after last week’s deadline. And by “loved”, I mean “was completely disgusted by”. “Waaaaaaah I didn’t win my braaaaaaawl you dumb judges didn’t get my stoooooooryyyyy I’m going to spend all these words on Monday afternoon complaining when I could’ve used half of those words on Sunday to not poo poo the bed half as hard”. You sniveling little fucks belong in junior high school. So that’s exactly where we’re going.  Welcome to Domegrassi Junior High School, a modest-but-large educational institution in the heart of America Town, America. Reminiscent of Voidmart Week, all of your stories will take place inside or around Domegrassi Junior High. You can be a teacher, a student, a lunchlady, a secretary, the delinquent smoking cigarettes under the bleachers, whoever, just so long as your story takes place in the same shared universe. Three roles are restricted to a single story, however. They are: The Principal, The Vice Principal…and The Janitor. First come-first served. Wordcount: 1300 Signup deadline: 2359 PST, Friday, January 29 Submissions deadline: 2359 EST, Sunday, January 31 No: fanfic, nonfic, erotica Judges Ironic Twist Sitting Here curlingiron Snot-Nosed Punks Killer-of-Lawyers BlueWher (Janitor) WeLandedOnTheMoon Grizzled Patriarch Wangless Wonder God Over Djinn Broenheim (Principal) Bleusman newtestleper Thranguy Pantothenate Phobia Bad Seafood spectres of autism kurona_bright Titus82 Boaz-Jachim Ceighk docbeard Tyrannosaurus Ironic Twist fucked around with this message at 00:01 on Jan 30, 2016 |
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Jan 26, 2016 14:37
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WeLandedOnTheMoon! posted:Are you open to other roles as well? I would like to sign up as a maintence/repair person. Not sure if that is too much overlap with janitor for your liking. Sure, go for it
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Jan 26, 2016 19:37
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SadisTech posted:Is the third judge spot filled yet? I'm keen to help if not. I appreciate you stepping forward, but curlingiron volunteered as well, and we're thinking of doing the livecrits again. Thanks anyway, though!
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Jan 26, 2016 23:17
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Your ratio of bluster:actual accomplishments is strong, kemo sabe
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Jan 27, 2016 23:34
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As agreed upon in IRC: God Of Muffins Poetry Brawl God Over Djinn, SurreptitiousMuffin: Write me a poem that has to do with sound. You cannot use the word “sound”. 1000 words, due Sunday February 7th, 2359 PST.
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Jan 28, 2016 02:18
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Judge Notice: Signups deadline is 2359 PST, which is in nine hours, but I'm going to change the submissions deadline to 2359 EST on Sunday, where it should've been in the first place, because that's more conducive to livecrits. Just giving y'all a heads up ahead of time.
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Jan 29, 2016 23:56
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Signups closed, time to https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3MUGAxpI0Bc
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Jan 30, 2016 09:00
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Reminder: Deadline is now at 2359 EST, as mentioned earlier. That is in  EIGHT HOURS.
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Jan 31, 2016 22:01
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submissions closed
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Feb 1, 2016 06:28
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WEEK 182 RESULTS https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pOF_oo3EgnQ And so Domegrassi Week ends as it began: with the salty tears of teenagers. This was a week that was heavy on style, low on substance. Y’all wrote a lot of charming stories that ultimately didn’t do much in the way of a satisfying plot. The parts did not add up to a satisfactory whole, and as a result a lot of these stories fell apart fast. Honorable Mentions go to both Bad Seafood and Grizzled Patriarch, for writing stories that did one thing really well—character and language, respectively—and for this week, that was enough to land you in the top. Dishonorable Mentions go to both BlueWher and Panthotenate for both writing stories that didn’t really feel complete and didn’t really have a lot of believable, likeable, or intriguing characters. You took different approaches, but ultimately fell at the same hurdle. And now, the Loss. docbeard, man. This was a giant surprise. I don’t know what happened here, but this was a story that made—as previously stated—less than no sense. I’ve seen you have more of a handle on character and plotting than this. I really want to see how you come back from this week. I know you will. And, with the Win this week, another surprise. Boaz-Jachim, you brought your A-game when a lot of others this week slacked off. This was a tight, vivid, and interesting story that stuck with me long after I read it. Welcome to the head of the class.
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Feb 2, 2016 05:45
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In addition: ing right now to have crits for Week 180 and Week 182 done before Week 183's results post.
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Feb 2, 2016 05:54
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In.
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Feb 4, 2016 06:27
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Week 182 Crits Part 1 Dicking Around I’m not going to lie, I kind of loved the opening paragraph. It really nailed down the tone you were going for, it was a good use of character voice, and it created this tension that made sense to the character and was portrayed well for the reader. The story’s very tongue-in-cheek, but it still works fairly well as its own conflict, within the confines of the world you’ve established. It seems almost fable-ish, from the way people act—they all have their own fixed personality and method for dealing with problems, and even though the end was a bit of an unexpected one, it felt a bit fixed as well. Again, it’s a very pleasant story, but pleasantness isn’t exactly the root of conflict, change, or emotional resonance. This story is a well-crafted joke told at a bar—it’s funny and really good for what it is, but no one’s going to be moved by it. Still a decent effort, and a good way to start the week. New Year, New Life I get what you’re going for here, epiphanies don’t always have to be these world-shaking proclamations, sometimes they can be as small as a guy looking up community colleges. But that’s sort of like how writing really good flash fiction is harder than writing a really good short story—the smaller the epiphany is, the more crystal clear and well-crafted everything leading up to it has to be, because you don’t have the natural gravitas of a death or a birth or a break-up or a marriage. Here, it doesn’t work, not just because the memory about his wife telling to go to community college comes too late in the story, but because we don’t have any sense of his wife as a person. Again, that’s one of the pitfalls of writing stories this short, but every detail has to be both concise and sharp, and a lot of the ways you were trying to “subtly” fit in his wife and son’s death were both blunt and vague, especially in the scene with Charlie. It’s good that you’re trying to be ambitious with this story, but it might have gone over more smoothly if you had simplified it, maybe restricted it to one scene. A Photo Of Mr. Kellogg I felt like this story was only a few tweaks away from being an HM or even a win. Everything involving Mr. Kellogg is really interesting, I enjoyed the concept of this shut-in janitor who’s able to fix almost anything, and the major scene where Hector goes to search for him was blocked well and had some legitimate tension to it. It would’ve had more tension to it if Mr. Kellogg wasn’t just seen as a regular part of the school, rather than being shrouded in more unknowns. I kind of knew that Hector would turn out okay while reading the story because there wasn’t that worry that Mr. Kellogg would turn out to be a villain. The ending where his leg is fixed is pretty good, but again, it’s not in service of much change within the story, so I feel like a lot didn’t change over the course of it. It’s more of a plot than a story, because the emotional dimension isn’t really there, and that’s what hurt its chances the most. Re: Teacher’s Lounge Biohazard Incident I want to give you props for having the guts to take a risk by playing around with format, but ultimately it was a gimmick that didn’t pay off. The characters weren’t stereotypes, but the confessional-style format kind of isolated them and kept them from progressing and gaining depth and interacting with each other within the story, so giving them their own voices actually turned out to be a detriment. Also, the plot makes no real sense, and the addition of Violet being a ghost at the end just sort of ruined it further. If you’re not going for a plot that makes sense or is about more than someone just taking a poo poo in a trashcan, and the characters aren't exactly interesting or humorous enough to make up the difference, then yeah, you have an issue. Don’t Be Too Smart In Middle School or The Universe Might Collapse In On Itself Yeah, this was the week of Roger Ebert’s “idiot plots.” I didn’t find this charming, which I think is what you were going for, but I didn’t find it offensive either—for me it was just kind of boring. The tone of the narration contributed to that sense of boredom a lot—there’s a black hole in the school and the principal can barely be bothered to hustle to fix it. He’s really the only character in this story, too—everyone else is either a cipher, like Amy, or a stereotype, like the kids. And beyond that, the title is basically the only logic holding this story together, because the story really does nothing to enhance or flesh out the premise. It’s just a laser focus on this character drama that doesn’t resonate with people who don’t agree with the sentiment that it’s not okay to be too smart as a kid. And then in the end, we find out that the final scene is all held up on a lie anyway. Cool story, Bro. The Finger This is one of those “talking-heads” stories, where you take things that could possibly be interesting and you confine it to a mostly-dialogue conversation between two people. It can, on occasion, lead to a good story. This was not that occasion. If you wanted to write a story predicated on these two characters and nobody else, then why would you make both of them try to blackmail each other? I sort of understand that you weren’t trying to make either of them likeable, which is something I’d advise against, but okay, sure, we’ll go with that. But if you’re not going make them likeable, at least make me care about what they’re going through. A guy trying to get another guy to take the picture of him picking his nose at a D’n’D party by blackmailing him with a video of him wearing a dress is a very junior-high conflict, but there are other conceivable junior-high conflicts that are much less convoluted and a lot more immediately interesting and relatable. Here, you just sort of drenched the whole story in this back-and-forth dialogue and ended it with this sanctimonious speech from Jonas that was supposed to come off as this big epiphany, but just sort of fell flat. Really, my advice is to just simplify. Characters, situation, conflict, everything. “so it’s gonna be forever or it’s gonna go down in flames” This was really charming in a way that a lot of other stories weren’t, and nailed the junior-high voice in away that a lot of other stories didn’t. I felt like it would have stayed charming without a lot of the subtle digs it was going for—if you just made this a story meant to be taken with a realistic tone, it might have increased its effectiveness even more. As it was, I felt like I could’ve stood to know more about the main characters. The only real bit of character information I got was the baseball thing, and that didn’t really end up factoring in or going anywhere. The ending was really cute and heartwarming when run through the concept of the Cyclops, but with the characters being sort of faceless, it still has more in common with a joke story than I’d like. It was very enjoyable, nonetheless. Outlier Yeah, if you saw the livecrits, you know all my problems with this story’s nonsensical plot involving a serial chips-and-coffee pisser. So we’ll try to focus on other things. Spencer was the best character in this story, but that was because he was the only active one. I could’ve read the story from his perspective and it would’ve been an improvement. Sarah’s just sort of there for almost all of the story, until the end when she changes Jordan’s grades, which is meant to be this masterstroke that will…do what, exactly? Okay, I can’t focus on other things. The dialogue’s reasonably well done, the characters are alright, Mr. Ashley’s sort of a cartoon villain, but whatever, I was assuming it would pan out to something. The raw elements of this story aren’t terrible, it’s that they’re all used to craft a story that’s aggressively nonsensical, to the point of being offensive. And for a week that was intended to produce stories about junior-high-schoolers in a junior-high-school environment, this story was A) full of characters that either were adults or that acted and spoke like adults, and B) took place in an environment that was a junior-high-school on its surface but demonstrated a complete lack of understanding of how a junior-high-school was supposed to work. And even that can still work—the winning story this week took a non-standard interpretation of the prompt and made it work through stellar execution. This was just half-assed in terms of execution, and it hurts to say that, because I know you’re a good writer and that you’ve written good stories in the past. Ironic Twist fucked around with this message at 20:32 on Feb 6, 2016 |
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Week 182 Crits Part 2 Don’t Let Your Star Go Out From what I remember of this story before it was taken down, it had a plot sort of in that Beatrice Sparks YA-Novel vein of a kid developing this attraction to this older teacher, and then the story ends with the teacher getting removed from the school for being involved with a different student. I’m going to say what I said about the story before, because I think it still stands: it’s a familiar concept that doesn’t stray far enough away from the familiar. Yes, there’s the fact that the protagonist has real feelings for the teacher, which I thought was illustrated vividly in the scene where he was writing on himself, but we really didn’t get to see much of him as his own person. There’s a hint that he has a bad home life, but not much else. There was never a point where he had to make a critical decision that would reveal more about him as a character, the decision was made for him when the teacher was removed, and that, more than anything, held this story back. The Girl With The Dead Mom The main character in this story was captivating, but not because she was likeable—more captivating in the way that something not quite right would grab your attention. I could tell right from the beginning that there was something off about this character in terms of her believability as a junior high student. It might’ve been that the tone was aiming for pre-teen and failing, or that I didn’t know what mood you were exactly trying to establish in her. Either way, I don’t think the character was entirely successful. I liked the scene with Violet, even though it didn’t seem like it fit within the story. I sort of wish that the story had ended there, because having it end with her father showing up and delivering his perfect lines and bringing out the notes to tie a perfect bow on the entire story—I don’t know, it all felt too manufactured. I didn’t believe that this changed the main character into a better person, or that she was having too many problems with not being honest to begin with. It was a solution to a problem that I was never completely sure existed. Ask yourself: what exactly does your main character want? The Little Bird Don’t Sing No More It’s your story. It’s a very GP story, in that it’s very visually striking, but I’m not entirely sure what the end to it is. We joke around about your stories having no ending and I’m sure you’re sick to death of hearing it by now, but this one’s lack of an ending comes from the lack of its main character having much of a purpose. I have no real idea of who he is or what he wants, he’s just beset by this lasting ghost of the dead bird for a reason that’s very vague. Did Sarah raise the ghost of the dead bird? Will it haunt him forever? Does he feel any sort of emotion over it dying? You have genuine writing skills and it’s worthwhile to think about these things that would provide your story with more depth than it currently has. The Case of the Shy Ghost: A Domegrassi Jr. High Movie Club Mystery This is just…odd. It feels very dependent on continuity and extraneous information, as you mentioned in the title. I feel like this was the story that suffered the most from the collaboration this week, because it really was not a stand-alone piece, and the characters could’ve been interesting if they weren’t tied to this pop-up canon you guys made. Also, if there was a clearer and less convoluted plot. Also, if the dialogue wasn’t as corny and stilted. It really does feel like another story where you were hit with too many ideas at once, and even though some of them were good, they all just crowded each other out. It’s a very frantic story, and it feels like plot point after plot point is being shoved onto the page and there’s no room for anything to breathe. There was enough of it that was still weird enough to be interesting, but it ultimately made little sense. I didn’t know why there were demons in her mp3 player, why Moira was being set up as this murderous villain, why the story gets so moralistic about socializing at the end…it was all just Too Much. The First Last Road Show This was sort of in the same mold as the last story, for obvious reasons, but I can see the places where things held together just a little bit better. The little details that establish character make more sense, the dialogue is a bit more believable, and the whole thing feels like a stand-alone unit, even if the ending is sort of limp. It felt less like a story with a conclusion than a brief look into the lives of these characters, but it was fun to read and it captured the tone of junior-high school well enough. Solid job. Liberation This story won for more than one reason, but the reason that immediately comes to mind was that it was the best at establishing tension. You, out of all the people this week, actually made me give a poo poo about what happened to the characters in your story, and for that you should be commended. It was a clear struggle—that of student government vs. personal attachment—illustrated beautifully over the course of mostly one climactic scene. Rebecca did come off a bit robotic at points, even if it did work in service of the story’s conflict. I would’ve liked to see more personal details about her, rather than having her just reveal her humanity through her lingering attachments to Steph. But the setting was well-constructed, the voice was effective, and the ending was great. Gold star. Pray to Dionysus This was just okay, really. I think what really kept it from going further was how closed off your main character was throughout the story. While reading, I didn’t get the sense that any of the events really changed the main character all that much. “I don’t hate her, I just feel sorry for her” doesn’t read to me as empathy, it just reads as more walling-off of the emotions. I have no idea what this character really wants or how she succeeds or fails at getting it in this story. She’s just sort of in the right place at the right time for there to be a story in the first place, and as such she just comes off as an [at-best, uninterested, at-worst, malicious] observer to this other person’s meltdown. Beyond that, it doesn’t really stand out as an interesting story, he drives her home, she kisses him, and that’s it. Not a whole lot happens. I feel like your intentions were for this scene to be really emotionally striking, but that comes down to how vibrant or interesting you make your characters.
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Feb 8, 2016 00:04
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Flash 1166 words E: gone Ironic Twist fucked around with this message at 04:55 on Mar 1, 2016 |
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Feb 8, 2016 07:42
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Week 180 Crits The Rondeau. Ultimately, I came away from this story not sure of what tone you were trying to establish. I don’t know if James is supposed to be likeable or not—the narration tends toward likeable, but he does so many unlikeable things that I never felt myself relating to him or sympathizing with him. So you take that away, and then you’re left with a story that doesn’t really have that much to it—a guy goes to his ex-girlfriend’s mom’s funeral in order to make amends, and we’re told how much he’s changed since the breakup, despite seeing none of that in the story. I wasn’t a fan of this at all, but I’m glad to see you’ve kept at it. Smitten There’s a delicate balance you want to adhere to when using the unknown as a device in your story. It’s okay for certain things to remain unexplained, usually when the blank space inspires more fear or sympathy than something tangible. But if your story is littered with those blank spaces, then it just falls apart, and that’s what happened here. Everything that happened inside of the factory was almost completely inscrutable, and I thought Eli could’ve done more work as this mysterious counterpart to all the weirdness and macabre happenings inside this abandoned place. But nothing really came of it, they made it out, they parted ways, and that was the end. It was like a riddle that I couldn’t solve, and ultimately didn’t care enough to want to. Saviour Machine It’s odd that the robot is the most human character in this story, but also sort of brilliant. Like I said, this was an example of quiet drama that nevertheless hit hard. I think the Asimov nods sort of help it and hurt it at the same time—it gives the story a strong baseline but also keeps the story from going much further into anything original. Also, to echo curlingiron, the kid was sort of saccharine and irritating, even when he was talking about the murdered cat. Nice job overall, though. Labyrinthitis Grey. So much grey, throughout this story. It comes from nowhere and goes nowhere. Why did you write this? I’m not asking that question to dismiss this story outright, I’m asking because I’m genuinely curious and I want to know what the process of creation was for this. What themes are in this story that would appeal to a potential reader? The character doesn’t change or learn anything over the course of the story, and the reader doesn’t learn anything either. The character isn’t anyone to begin with. I remember enjoying your story from Imitation Week and pushing for it to HM because it had elements that were vibrant and unique. This story is neither of those things, and it’s a shame. A way to not be lost forever Nothing really negative to say about this piece, to be honest. It was a quiet drama illustrated brilliantly and heart-rendingly, and it absolutely deserved the win. Well-done. The Woman in the 73-Market I enjoyed the labyrinth in this story until I lost my confidence that you knew enough about how it worked. At a certain point my eyes glazed over the numbers and the directions because I knew they were arbitrary and only there for comedy’s sake. More actual physical details, especially small ones, would’ve been nicer. My main impression is that it’s more of a pitch or an opening title sequence than a story, to be honest. There’s some character there, but the two characters feel more like chess pieces than people, like the love story between a Rook and a Bishop. It’s okay, but okay wasn’t going to get you anywhere this week. The Delivery I think you got a good enough impression of this story from the livecrits, but just to say it again, the fact that she was pro-life didn’t hurt this story, it was the fact that not a lot of it hung together or made sense that hurt this story. I feel like if you had worked in a less-physical maze and made the characters a bit more present and interesting, you might not have had as much of an issue, but as it was, the characters took a backseat to all the magical bells and whistles you threw into the story in the hopes of creating interest. Remember Yes, this was another one of the stories this week that just came off as wholly bland to me. It’s the whole amnesia thing again, but beyond that, there’s no real objective to this story or motivation to the characters. They wanted to get out of the maze, but how would they do that? What was beyond the maze? If this is purgatory, then what would their heaven or hell look like? There was no light for any of them to move towards, and thus I didn’t know what direction the story was going in. Solid middle-to-low for me. An Escape Velocity Needs Both Speed And Direction This story was different in a positive way from some of the others in that there with different dimensions to the characters and the setting, but again, it ran into the problem of not having much of a motive or direction. I liked what I read—save for the excessive literary references, which came off forced—but ultimately it was just a segment, a scene to something much larger. And the language and characterization, decent as it was, wasn’t enough to make up for the lack of a story. Triplicate Four Out of Three You had way too much fun writing this, because it was really more about the minutia and the bureaucracy-speak than any sort of story that would captivate someone. Filling Out Forms: The Story. No thanks. But if you had this as a concise prelude to a much longer story, I’d be more open to it. The voice was strong, even though it was disembodied. Closed Circle I had the toughest time seeing the maze in this story more than any of the others. You could argue that social strata are a type of maze, but that’s still very thin reasoning. And again, it was light in the “things happening” department. Comparing this to Saviour Machine, the kid here was less saccharine but also less interesting as a character. The scene between Mark and the kid is meant to be the meat of the story, but it takes way too long to get there, and ultimately it’s up for debate whether a whole lot changed or was set into motion because of it. I would’ve started at the kitchen, and made the conversation much more meaningful. Some inner glimpse into Mark’s mind and feelings would’ve helped. The Monster at the End of Infinity This felt like much more of a tangible journey than any of the other stories this week, and I don’t know if the fantasy setting was partly responsible for that, but it was a definite positive. I enjoyed the world you created, and I was surprised by it at different points. I felt like you took all the themes that people gravitated towards this week and did them better. Simte, especially in his epiphany about Alya and her death, was my favorite character, even though he was lost in an unfamiliar environment. Well done, all around. Halfway For Too Long I immediately want to say that this story was flat, but that’s not true at all—it was just quiet. Quietly intense. It was brushing right up against the top mentions, and I’m trying to figure out what extra thing you could’ve added to put it over the top. SH calls your stories “circular,” and this one makes me agree, but I think that sort of hurt it. It wasn’t just a circle, it was a perfect circle. There wasn’t really a moment where the narrator found himself at a crossroads where he could make a choice to be a different person, it was just a steady portrait of this one person and his issues, throughout. Maybe that’s why it fell short. At any rate, the characters were solid, and human, and real, and I genuinely cared for them. You should count that as a success, no matter what. Clubbing The ultimate breath of fresh air, after so many dark and monochromatic stories. I loved this. I loved the characters and how funny they could be, I loved the setting, I loved the way you pulled off the scenes switching back and forth…I loved the ending a bit less, just because it seemed too easy, and I don’t know whether to chalk that up to the word limit or not, but otherwise, this was really well-done and it made me give out my first fiat HM just because of how enjoyable it was. Nice work. Invisible Fortress A guy thinks he’s being stalked, then it turns out he is. Wocka wocka. It’s a bit of a disappointment, because if nothing else, I believed in the strength of the character and I felt like you could’ve done something more substantial with him then just validate all his delusions at the end. I liked the premise, but not how it paid off. Ah, well. Weekend of Lights Really, you needed to pick a plot development out of a hat or something. Tornado, return of the Black Plague, cannibalistic streakers, something. This was just dull. All of the characters that could’ve meaningfully interacted with the protagonist were woefully out of reach, and when that meaningful conversation finally does happen, it’s tossed in as an afterthought. Something important needed to happen and it needed to happen much sooner than it did. Start your next story knowing that a potential reader’s looking for any excuse to close the book on you. The Land of the Lost This stuck with me a lot longer than I expected to. It had that Beckett or Sartre one-act play feel, mixed in with a lot of macabre desolation. But again, it’s that whole thing of deciding how much to leave unexplained, and with this, I was hoping for a bit more of a payoff at the end, or any payoff, really. I guess you could argue that that’s not what life gives you sometimes, and I thought your characters put in more work to compensate for the lack of a real resolution, but nonetheless, this was missing something. I still liked it, though. Corn! This was a rush job that turned into something magical. I think that if you could turn the unintentional funniness of this story into something that you could master and have control over, you’d take TD by storm, but I doubt any of this was intentional. It felt like you drove the story off a cliff ten minutes before you submitted it, and it showed. I’ll match curlingiron’s free crit on your piece if you come back and submit again. Sounds in the Forest Portend Evil Within This was much better than you gave it credit for. It was short on the literal maze, but I felt boundless conflict within this one character and his struggle to be good. Your prose is always very solid, and the environment you set up was well done. I hope you can come back to this type of story even though it’s something you profess to dislike. Had to go Somewhere so We Crashed Into You Standard Chairchucker story with a Bowie twist. I wish your efforts were longer sometimes, because your dialogue is always interesting and worthwhile and hinting at something larger. Thanks for joining this week, even if you weren’t technically on time.
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Feb 9, 2016 02:17
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Poembrawl Results Muffin, I appreciated the clarity in your words for the most part, and I liked the uplifting tone of your piece. But as a poem, it sort of fails. There's not a whole lot of rhythm or meter to it as it's written, not much creativity in the language that's used, and not much effort expended to evoke any sort of stimulating imagery. It reads more like a speech than a poem, maybe a commencement speech given to a graduating class. Also, the one thing I told you both not to do was use the word "sound", and then you go ahead and write "here is the sound and the sound alone". It almost makes me think you took a dive. Djinn, your poem read better as a poem, read with a much better rhythm out loud, played around with language to a satisfying effect, brought forth interesting imagery that stuck with me after I read it, and ultimately had a message that was more complex and original. There were some points where the meter sort of stuttered a bit, but this was rock-solid for the most part, and it felt more worthwhile as a whole. Djinn blows Muffin's speakers out and wins.
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Feb 9, 2016 22:25
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In. 16) Broadway Boogie-Woogie, 1942 by Piet Mondrain
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Feb 9, 2016 23:37
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newtestleper posted:Very excited to see the painting week stories! I'll give crits to all those who choose a painting week prompt. I will do line crits for the zero people who choose a song by The Books as their prompt
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Feb 10, 2016 05:54
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2nd flash rule: 92) They sliced the cake and found more Krugerrands with every slice. | Gold in Every Slice by Superb Owls - http://writocracy.com/thunderdome/?story=2671
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Feb 12, 2016 23:07
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Where The Devil Says Goodnight 1489 words Flash rules: Broadway Boogie-Woogie, Gold In Every Slice Arlen took an extra-deep drag on his cigarette as his wife hit the high-note. The sound turned him into Pavlov’s stage manager, brought him right back to two nights ago. He and Aviva loving in the back of the orchestra pit, right next to the third trombone. He remembered holding Aviva off until right before that high-note, then surging forward as Cathy’s mouth formed a perfect “O” onstage, heard Aviva’s moans of ecstasy tumbling out of it. He’d pulled his pants back up, plucked a few hundreds out of his wallet and dropped one into each of the waiting bells of the brass section. Not a bribe, just a courtesy. They knew enough not to cross him. He dropped the cigarette butt, stamped it out, snapped his fingers. “Fran-swah. Wine. Now.” A short and thin man in a red vest picked a bottle of Merlot off of the prop table and poured it into a glass, then strode over to Arlen’s outstretched hand. Arlen plucked the glass away, took a quick sip, then smiled. “Meet me after the show, Frenchy, I’ll slide you some foie gras, compliments of the house,” said Arlen, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together. “Merci, Monsieur Bandel,” said the man as he turned around and left. Arlen chuckled to himself. There would be no “after the show”, just a long procession of people that could kiss his rear end as he and Aviva made their way out of the country. A quick escape out his theatre’s back door, and then he’d slam it shut on his old life. Uciekać, diabeł mówi dobranoc. Run like where the Devil says goodnight. If it was going to be the last day before those boys uptown broke his legs for not paying them that protection money, he might as well run with them. Those hundreds he’d tipped the trombone players with were the last in his wallet, and he’d sooner wipe his rear end with the singles that were left. Now it was all up to Aviva, that bimbo, it was up to her to set everything up nice. “Christ,” said Arlen to himself. He drank more of the red wine. The wine was like jazz—he’d never understood all the notes, he just knew how it made him feel. And in a way, that was his life—charmed, and always falling into place, even if he couldn’t understand it. He’d work it out. They’d work it out. They’d make their way up to midtown where the ports were, pay their way onto a steamer bound across the Atlantic with the stash he’d told Aviva to bring over, and then—Paris? London? He’d take one of them Norway cities at this point. Arlen drained his glass, gripped the stage curtain with his free hand. The lights dimmed, and the Bandel Theater’s stagehands went into motion, shuffling chairs and tables into place in a meticulous and hunched dance. The only one who stood still was Cathy, in her Marie Antoinette frippery and lace, staring into distance with a faint smile on her face, like she liked what she saw. Aviva’s thick heels clomped against the stain-studded pavement, taxi lights shimmering against her sequined dress. She stopped, steadied herself against a lamppost. Everywhere was lights, blinding, flowing, flashing lights. It all burrowed into her eyes and blazed against the inside of her skull. She put her head in her hands, grabbed at her temples. It wasn’t fair. This wasn’t supposed to happen. The directions Arlie’d given her swirled around her head in her panic, building names and right turns swimming out of her ears and hitching themselves to the headlights of passing cars. Chelsea Left. Astor Place Way. Right Turn Across Stuyvesant Square. Six blocks from his apartment to the theater, but what did a block mean to her? She was born in South Jersey, farm country. She didn’t live inside of a circuit board. Arlie had always been there with a hand on her shoulder, telling her where to go. Aviva walked to the curb, waved her hand back and forth in the air like a crazed metronome. “Taxi!” she screeched. No one stopped, even after her arm dropped to her side, its strength gone. She tucked her chin to her chest and yelled through gritted teeth, stamped her heels on the sidewalk. She had to get to Arlie, tell him that his stash wasn’t there. The canvas bag was there, back behind his stack of empty Chesterfield boxes, but it was empty, upended in a crumpled heap. She knew by the glint in Arlie’s eyes as he gave her the directions that whatever had been there would’ve impressed her, but there was nothing there now. Aviva had torn the closet apart, emptied shelves, coffee mugs full of gilded cufflinks and used shaving brushes, thrown polished black shoes against the wall like cannon fire in frustration. Nothing, nothing that would buy their way to Europe, hand-deliver her into a life of luxury. Just a pile of broken and scuffed things. She took a breath. Don’t stress yourself, she told herself. Think. Think hard. What did he say? Something about Broadway, the main street— Aviva snapped her fingers. “Broadway runs right down the middle,” she said out loud. Of course, that was it. She’d stick to moving left and right, and once she found Broadway, she’d follow it down to where all the theaters were. As she walked, the lights fluttered around her. She pretended they were the flares of light from the sun, glinting off wrought iron and tin shingles as she made her way down the Champs-Elysees, a shopping bag strung over each arm—and with Arlie, of course! Arlie with his arm around her like the cameras were flashing, pointing up at the Eiffel Tower, French wine on his breath and stars in his eyes, saying they’d get married at the very top, where they could see everything and want it all for themselves, the streetlights sinking below her as she walked on top of the world, until a puff of exhaust wafted into her face. “Friends,” said Cathy, her voice lilting under the spotlights, “I welcome you.” This was the centerpiece scene, where they took audience members up onstage to dine with the “aristocracy,” then whisked them off the stage in time for the Revolution to start. “We are at the center of a Golden Age,” said Cathy, addressing the guests at her table, made up nobility and giddy spectators alike. “Tonight, we dine in celebration of the everlasting pact that holds us together—“ She could feel Arlen’s eyes on her, watching from the wings. Fitting. He owned the entire place and didn’t have the decency to stay in his back office where he was supposed to be. Instead, he dragged his filthy little fingers over everything in front of him. Everything he thought he owned. She’d seen a glimpse of him and his little tramp out of the corner of her eye, screwing in the orchestra pit like rats trapped under railroad ties. She’d finished the end of her number, looked down, and stared directly into his eyes, his hands resting on his girl’s bare hips. The way he’d looked at her was the way he looked at his shoes in the morning before he put them on—just another thing for him to step into, another void he only wanted to fill with himself. “It is time,” said Cathy, smiling. She clapped her hands, and the two servants brought out the cake and set it down at the head of the table, pink frosting dappled with white streaks of piping. “Bless us, bless the Lord, and bless the revolution.” She picked up a wide knife from the table and sank it into the pink skin of the cake with two tight slices, then lifted a wedge out and placed it onto the plate of the theatergoer next to her. Something clinked against the china plate. The man picked it up, held it to the light. To her right, Cathy heard Arlen’s wine glass shatter against the floor, followed by a single expletive in Polish, whispered out like a last breath. The thick gold coin shone like a morning star under the stage lights. The man’s jaw dropped. “Holy hell—“ “Hey, there’s more!” said the younger man next to him, grabbing at the slice of cake. “Hands off,” said the first man, grabbing the knife from the table and brandishing it, but a minor noblewoman plunged her manicured hands into the cake before anyone could stop her. The table tipped over towards the audience, sending gobs of frosting and gold splattering against the hardwood before the actors and audience members fell onto it in a pile of grasping limbs. Someone screamed in pain. As the front rows of the audience rushed the stage, Arlen let out a full-throated scream of rage. In the chaos, only Cathy heard it.
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Feb 15, 2016 06:30
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Week CLXXXV: Music of The Night, Vol. IIKaishai posted:Songs can chill the human spine. To this day, I can't hear Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor without imagining a rotting Gothic castle. This week you're going to explore the power of music to haunt, to creep, to terrify: your prompt is to write a horror story inspired by a song the judges will assign to you. http://writocracy.com/thunderdome/?week=98 It’s a prompt from a year and a half ago, but it led to some of my favorite stories from TD, so let’s see if we can get that lightning back in the bottle. One thing, besides the no nonfic/erotica/fanfic rule—the song prompts from the original week were mostly 80s hits. The prompts for this week will be updated—00s and on. Have fun~ WC: 1400 Sign-ups Deadline: Friday, February 19, 2359 EST Subs Deadline: Sunday, February 21, 2359 EST Judges Ironic Twist Bleusman Kaishai Sign-ups spectres of autism—The Weeknd, “Can’t Feel My Face” skwidmonster—Elle King, “Ex’s and Oh’s” Tyrannosaurus—Jay-Z, “99 Problems” curlingiron— Guiness13—ILOVEMAKONNEN feat. Drake, “Tuesday” CANNIBAL GIRLS— QuoProQuid—Lady Gaga, “Poker Face” Lake Jucas—50 Cent, “Candy Shop” Grizzled Patriarch—The White Stripes, “Seven Nation Army” flerp—The Darkness, “I Believe in a Thing Called Love” Thranguy—M.I.A., “Paper Planes” jon joe—Chairlift, “Bruises” Bad Seafood—Feist, “1234” newtestleper—Robyn, “Dancing On My Own” crabrock—Kanye West feat. Jamie Foxx, “Gold Digger” docbeard—Daft Punk, “Digital Love” SurreptitiousMuffin—Taylor Swift, “Shake It Off” kurona_bright—Rihanna, “Diamonds” Bird Tyrant—Janelle Monae feat. Big Boi, “Tightrope” ghost crow—Bastille, “Pompeii” Djeser—Florence + The Machine, “Dog Days Are Over” JuniperCake—Amy Winehouse, “Rehab” BlueWher—Owl City, “Fireflies” hotsoupdinner—Lorde, “Royals” Benny Profane—Gorillaz, "Feel Good Inc.", +200 words Ironic Twist fucked around with this message at 02:37 on Feb 19, 2016 |
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Feb 16, 2016 15:37
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CcNo07Xp8aQ
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Feb 16, 2016 22:58
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