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Kharmakazy posted:It was def less than 500, and I wasn't sure if I should count the opening description..or if notepad++ was to be trusted with such things. 1) Of course the opening description counts. 2) You can trust pretty much any automatic word count, Notepad++ is fine. Nobody's going to penalise you for being 3 words over the limit in a different counter. 3) I don't know either, but my assumption would be: Green - good dialogue Yellow - middling dialogue Orange/Red - bad/terribad/cliché dialogue Black - non-dialogue so he's not paying attention to it
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Apr 6, 2016 12:56
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Also, in, please flash me a song because it's been so drat long since I was into REM and Emphysema doesn't have lyrics. e: Looks like I failed on my last entry back in August so here's my  .
Maugrim fucked around with this message at 13:35 on Apr 6, 2016 |
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Apr 6, 2016 12:59
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Foreign Flower 1014 words https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IGI0v1Ul7eo Pulse. Pulse. Pulse. Pulse. The bass thumped through Sophia like a hydraulic hammer. She’d taken out her hearing aids and this, free of the distraction of higher-frequency noise and lyrical screaming, this was purity. Lights strobed, sweating people bobbed and gyrated, and the deep hum and pulse of the music submerged everything. She resurfaced when someone grabbed her shoulder. Oh yes – him. He’d latched onto her pretty fast after she came in alone. Cute and clueless. She grinned at him as she whipped her hair to and fro. Drink? He mimed. Thumbs up: yeah, sure. Why not. They were the same, here in the club. Mimes, mouthing like goldfish. As he weaved away, she found herself watching the other group again. A perfect circle of bodies turned inwards amidst the writhing mass at the edge of the dance floor. They danced like grass, swaying to the music, but their hands performed a different dance. Less rhythmic, more purposeful. She felt drawn to it. They’re like me, aren’t they? They get it. We’re all defective together. She glanced over to the bar, where her gallant was failing to make himself understood. Frustration already? You’d need more patience than that, my dear. And a beard trim, so I can see your pretty lips make the words. Demanding, aren’t I? She edged through the crowd towards the group. Hands fluttered incomprehensibly – person by person, rarely two at once. Effortless understanding. Laughter. A couple of them glanced at her as she approached. She smiled, hovered, watched. A girl flashed a few signs to a boy facing away from her. He turned, his prepared look of irritation softening when he saw her. It helped to be beautiful, sometimes. Can I help you? he mouthed. He was quite good-looking. She shrugged. Deaf, she said. Pointed at her ear, then at her lips and his. Lip reader. He looked puzzled, then spread his hands. OK. He turned back to the group, but shifted to the side, so there was room for her to join if she wanted. She stepped into the gap. It was hopeless. They carried on chatting as if she weren’t there, and lip reading alone couldn’t cut it – they spoke with a strange exaggerated sort of accent. Occasionally the boy who’d let her in tried to include her, but she was lost and could only smile and nod or shrug. One of the girls kept giving her sympathetic looks. She couldn’t tell if they were genuine or not. Eventually she caught sight of her cocktail-laden suitor scanning the crowd for her. She left the group without a farewell. Before she reached him, someone caught her elbow. The boy who’d let her in – and then ignored her – gave her a chagrined sorry. He really was quite good-looking. - There were communication issues, but less than Sophia had feared. His accent wasn’t bad. He was bilingual, he explained. Sign language syntax wasn’t much like English – a revelation to her – but he’d grown up knowing both. He started to teach her to sign. Hello. Goodbye. Wednesday. How are you? Your name what? My name S – O – P – H – I – A. My name J – O – N – A – T – H – A – N. You how old? You want food? Cute cat. My cat name Charcoal. I like. Sign K – I – S – S how? Kiss. Kiss me. I like you. Good. - “I always wondered what it would be like to date someone else who was deaf. Being understanding and really understanding aren’t the same thing.” He nodded. “Hearing people are dumb.” “I wouldn’t go that far. I mean, we lack something most people have. We’re deficient. Not being able to understand because you don’t have the same experiences isn’t dumb, it’s just... human.” No. He’d been watching her lips. Now he looked aside, finding words. “We’re not deficient. We’re just our own kind of person. Not better or worse. They talk with sound.” We talk with sign. “I can’t hear or sign.” I can’t hear or sign. You’re ??????. What? “You’re learning fast.” You’re learning fast. “But I’ll never be a natural at it like you. I’ll just be deficient in both.” His look of sympathy hurt. “When you’ve barely heard a sound in your life it’s just part of your being. The Deaf community is its own culture, as much as the... Sikh or Chinese communities. Why feel you’re missing something when you’re no different from everyone you interact with?” Then he grinned. “You have plenty of assets to make up for it.” The accompanying sign was unmistakable. She rolled her eyes, but accepted the kiss and all that followed. - The music blanketed everything. The same group was there – maybe a couple more. The circle parted smoothly to accommodate them. This time she could understand them – sometimes. She watched the expressions, caught some signs. She essayed a couple of slow sentences herself, earning neither praise nor contempt. Acceptance? Occasionally people broke away to dance in pairs. Jonathan danced with her. Then another girl seized his hand and he followed with an apologetic glance. The others ignored her. She stuck it out for a while and then looked around. There was no sign of him. She found them settled on a couch in the corner. Not kissing – talking. She watched from a distance. She could tell the signs for big-D Deaf and small-d deaf and was beginning to understand what the difference meant. She’s not one of us, the girl was saying. K loves you. Earnest. Jonathan looked uncomfortable. The music eddied around them. I’m not one of you, am I? I thought deafness was a shared illness, but I’m the only one missing something. And I’ll never have it. She took her hearing aids out. The raucous music faded to the steady grind and pulse of the bass. But this experience - this peace is my own and no-one else’s. The music covered everything. She let it thrum through her and whipped her hair to the rhythm. When Jonathan came to her, she held his hands and they thrashed and gyred together.
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Apr 11, 2016 00:11
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What, does nobody post FJGJ these days Thread's gone downhill since I was last here 
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Apr 11, 2016 16:57
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Apr 11, 2016 17:42
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I think I broke it crabs. I added one crit for one of my stories and now I can't add a second for the same story.
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Apr 11, 2016 18:38
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crabrock posted:WHATD YOU DO While you're at it please could you add a way to fix it when you gently caress up and attribute a crit to the wrong person? Asking for a friend.
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Apr 11, 2016 21:55
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Thanks for the crit!
Maugrim fucked around with this message at 23:13 on Apr 12, 2016 |
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Apr 12, 2016 23:03
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Sitting Here posted:Oh oh yeah, I still need a 3rd judge. Hello I heard this is the worst week & am a masochist
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Apr 16, 2016 23:14
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 Submissions are closed You've probably got a bit of time before sittinghere wakes up though if you want to sneak something in and hope she's lenient. (Hahahaha good luck)
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Apr 18, 2016 08:23
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Gonna help you all procrastinate with some crits from The Worst Week (#193)Sitting Here posted:So, my plan was to write down my reactions on a first read, then go back and critique the parts I didn't get to. Luckily, you guys kept your stories interesting enough that I read almost all of them all the way through (with the exception of Same. As is standard nowadays I was reading in judgemode so didn't know who wrote each story; however to try and reduce the impact of judge fatigue on later stories, I read them in alphabetical order rather than posted order. 11:11 Titlecrit: Intriguing. Want to find out the significance. Tense hosed up here and there. Not a happy thing especially in the first paragraph. You substituted “Alexis” for “Morgan” at one point. “Tears in her ears” a bit out of the blue given the tone of the story - not sure it was intentional. Pulls back collar to reveal burns on arm? Struggling to visualise this. The story, hmm. It’s not awful but not super wow either. The protagonist is creepy and one-dimensional, OTOH I enjoy her intensity of feeling and her singlemindedness definitely gives the story direction. Some nice touches of imagery in some places, but some mundane phrasing that could be pepped up in others. Quite middling overall I think. 6/10 Arms Bent Back Until They Break Titlecrit: Graphic. I shall read this with interest. For goodness’ sake if you pick present tense STICK TO IT. This is back and forth like a seesaw. Stinging seems a weird, superficial word for an arm that’s twisting itself until the bone splinters. Mom’s hand wrapped around the phone is a good image. Could do with a lot of tightening up in the mid section. It feels like actions are described in too much detail in places e.g. the raid on Mom’s house - very staccato, small actions so it's hard to follow the overall flow. For example this paragraph: "We walk over to the door and I let go of Daniel’s hand. I grab onto the doorknob, and Daniel touches my twisted arm." Why not just leave the walking over/letting go implied, they don't seem to add anything to the story. "As I grab the doorknob, Daniel touches my twisted arm." The descriptions of twisted limbs and pain and stuff are lacking something, quite detached, I wasn't really feeling it. Although maybe that's the point as grief can be numbing? Still felt like a missed opportunity. It actually took me until near the end to realise the twisting up is about the physical manifestation of twisting up inside from grief; this is a great concept but this story didn’t really hit the mark for me. Especially the way Daniel just accepts the verdict at the end. 4/10 Falling Star Titlecrit: I feel neutral about this. Suspect it will neither add to nor take away from the story. Decently written with regards to spelling/punctuation/grammar but some of the blocking actions (actions that take place alongside/punctuating the dialogue) feel either unrealistic or overly elaborated on. You could trim the description down a lot overall. Nice having a dragon PI but the young man not spotting it the second he walks in isn't believable. You spend way too long - like half the story - focusing on the young man's hesitation and grief, and then the "investigation" itself doesn't amount to much at all. The story mainly hangs on the interestingly weird fact that the girlfriend is a star, although that kinda feels more like surrealism than magical realism? "Exploded because she was so happy" is a bit of a stretch - it would be clever if it was a common idiom but it ain't. Overall you've given yourself a couple of good ideas to work with, but the piece doesn't quite scale the ladder to the heights of "actually a story". 4/10 Harper and the Rails Titlecrit: ??? I have no idea what to expect here. A few typos but I am enjoying the tone after the opening paragraphs. It feels like the makings of a story, even if the beginning is fairly well-trodden. Intrigued by George's apparent worry that Keane has learnt words. The first hint that there might be something darker going on, but hard to believe at this point. The tone of the writing - and George's speech - as he gets drunker doesn't feel in keeping with how you started. That may be intentional but it pulled me out of the story a bit. I'm sure there's a way of telling the same story with a little less of a jarring stylistic change. You brought a nice ending to a nice adventure. A longer story allowed you to actually tell a story at your own leisure, and while it isn't especially original, it is nicely written and I didn't get bored. Not my pick for an HM but was fine with it getting one. 7/10 Hex Titlecrit: Short and sweet. It's a good word, might be referring to curse or something to do with geometry. Either would please me. Proboscis twitching - thanks for not trying to save the fact that the actors aren't human for a twist. Lots of good imagery throughout this piece - you're making your sentences do work, which always pleases me. Not a fan of italicising the body parts though. (Also, do ants have blood?) Man, I like this but I'd like to like it even more. You've got a really nice, detached, dreamlike tone which you maintain well throughout the piece - but I'm confused as gently caress about the plot. The fact that I went back to re-read this and see if it made more sense a second time is a testament to your prose, but the fact that it still didn't make sense meant I couldn't wholeheartedly support its HM. 7/10 I Didn’t Start the Fire Titlecrit: Hmm, arson. Literal or figurative? Cautiously optimistic for this one. This is definitely an intriguing start, although it seems more like surrealism than magical realism so far. Noticed a stray "It's" - is this newtestleper’s story? (hint: no) Took me a bit of time to figure out what these chemicals have in common - flammability... are these people dragons? Not really, but you can see the inspiration there, that part of the prompt has been put to great use. Ock punchline? God drat you. Overall I enjoyed this, but marks have been deducted for "surrealism rather than magical realism" and "Ock". 6/10 Like Recipes for Love Titlecrit: Cookery and emotions probably involved. Neutral about this one. Nice start. First two sentences are weak, but do serve to establish names, and you clear up the crypticness pretty fast. The story in this piece strongly reminds me of The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake, probably my wife’s favourite book. Good magical realism. Overall I like it; much like the cake, very sweet although could have more substance. It surprised me (probably a good thing) when Rey came straight out and asked Aditi out rather than you waiting until the cake was tasted for the reveal. Only issue is I kinda wanted a more drawn-out awkward/suspense phase; there’s not a lot of conflict. Girl loves girl - girl loves girl back - all is happy times. 7/10 Miss Maron's 3rd Grade Class Titlecrit: Sounds like this is going to be an insubstantial, goofy one. Please surprise me. I like *whrrr* as an indicator of lying. Love the subtle lead-up to the fact that these are adults in class. And then "human disassembly" oh god. This started cute, quickly went through creepy and into downright menacing. I like the repetition of “three guesses”. I initially assumed the lightning wielders were the robots while the fire wielders were humans, making this a robot apocalypse story. It was quite intriguing when I realised I was wrong. You've got a good setting here with lots of story potential. The manager being the father of Christina’s children seems a bit random. I guess it does add to the sense of exploitation though - the more I think about this whole story the creepier it is. Despite the length of your story, I wanted to read more at the end. Great work. This wasn't my pick for the win at first as the ending doesn't quite live up to its potential, but after I'd finished reading all the stories this was the one that stuck in my mind more than any other. Well deserved HM. 8/10 Monday Night Meltdown Titlecrit: Promises drama AND tells us the day of the week! I’ll take it. First impression: OK, magical WWF. I don’t follow WWF so don’t expect me to be nodding along grinning at all the good ol’ tropes and staples of the sport. Guess I’ll be judging on story! “Right before integration” - bits of backstory slipped in smoothly - this is good. Why was the Labyrinth reeling? Did you miss a paragraph? "A blacksmithstress Pig monstrosity by charming a hero" - this badly needs a proofread. Overall, a decently fun fight description - good on magical realism, short on story, awful on proofreading. I didn't have it down for a DM but I can see why it got one. 5/10 Moonside Titlecrit: Not sure what this means. Neutral. Cripes, a lengthy one-sentence paragraph to start. Deliberately run-on I'm sure. Honestly, I think the main reason I made it past the stodgy, befuddling beginning is because I secretly love the elaborate, meandering style of sentence construction that was all the rage in the 19th century. The story needs a bunch more editing and proof reading. There's a lot of "started to", "began to" type stuff that should be raising red flags on a proofreading pass as it's almost always suboptimal - instead of writing "she started running towards the altar" just put "she ran towards the altar". I made it all the way to the end without too much difficulty, which I did not expect after that second paragraph, so well done. It’s a proper story! With a nice ending! Just not sure condensing the sprawling fantasy epic in the middle into a short story has done it any favours. 7/10 Ninety-Nine Dragons Titlecrit: Like ninety-nine problems? Well I like dragons, let’s see what you do with them all. Haha, yes it’s exactly like ninety-nine problems. I like this story. It starts off very normal and the dragons are thrown in without a bat of the eye on anyone’s part. My one gripe is it's a bit far-fetched how fast the protagonist figures out that dragons = problems, but this story is a great example of magical realism in a tidy short word count. Had it down for an HM, although not my initial pick for the win. 8/10 No-Fly Zone Titlecrit: Neutral, doesn’t give much hint of what to expect. The story will hopefully clarify it. Lol at Mayor Jarred, but what’s the no-fly zone all about? You don't give any convincing reason for it. "Some of my best friends are dragons" raised a smile as I'm not above being amused by a trope or two. It's nice to read something short and lighthearted and goofy, but it's all a bit TOO light to be a serious contender. The ending is vaguely funny in a subverting-the-pattern sort of way but not especially satisfying. 5/10 Scales and Fire Titlecrit: Sounds like this is going to be a bona fide, serious dragon story. Strap in, kids! First sentence is classic magical realism. Good. "Garnished it with a sympathetic look" - I like this turn of phrase. Mr Bartender - ah ok, a goofy story then. You sure fooled me with that title! This was a nice lighthearted read but I'm not convinced by the story-ness of it - or indeed the magical realism-ness, given that the dragon turned out to be a hallucination. Harry taking the dragon in his stride might count, or he might just be a nutter. Never mind, I actually enjoyed this up until the boring ending. Serpent in the Nest Titlecrit: Sssserpentular. Sounds like a poisonous, traitorous sort of story. Probably serious business. Dawn and Taye, interesting names (dunno why that struck me, never heard of Taye before). Egg lifelines on his hands is pretty out there, was expecting that to be immediately forgotten about and then come predictably into play near the end, so I'm glad I was wrong and you developed it quickly. Liking the feel of the piece - the story gets steadily creepier starting with Dawn’s... dawning disappearance. Overall - very surreal and no real resolution. I like the mood it creates. I think the impact of this story will depend on the reader’s state of mind. Needed to consult the other judges but for my part I decided it was just about worth... 7/10 Standing Water. Titlecrit: Getting bored of doing titlecrits now. This title has a full stop at the end of it. This is unusual. It's always a relief to encounter a really short piece late in the critting, and it's interesting to read something written in the second person as well. But it's hard for something this short to really make an impact - I suspect sub-500 word entries mostly get DMs rather than HMs, wins or losses. This was confusing on the first run through so it was a good thing it was short. Having seen your polished version later, the main thrust of the story with the girl seeing herself turning into her mother went completely over my head, but it nonetheless made me think, in a good way. It felt like you managed to carve a hint of story out of a vignette of vignettes. Scoring this one was hard... 6/10? The Boy Who Couldn’t Do Anything Right Titlecrit: Pretty different from most other titles this week. Could be serious or goofy. Seems like an interesting one either way. Initial impression: this is good stuff. Those tags though - preview your posts, people! This is a nice, tight, feelgood story. In judgemode I thought it might be Kaishai's (that's a compliment hopefully). It felt like at least an HM, possibly the winner, but my co-judges weren't as enthused so I guess I'm just a sucker for a happy ending? I did have to agree with them that this setting was much more straight-up fantasy than magical realism. 8/10 The Dry Times Titlecrit: A tale of hardship and woe, sounds fun Why is a white egg the size of a quarter attracting any notice/discussion at all? What merits them going back to check on it the next day? Why not move the eggs rather than your cows? These kind of questions prevented me ever really getting pulled into this story. Also, were the eggs supposed to be growing as well as multiplying? Because that's never mentioned, and I assumed right the way through that they were all the size of a quarter. Given that assumption, the ending doesn't quite read right. I dunno man, it's readable prose but I'm not really convinced by it as a story. 5/10 The Family Business Titlecrit: Fine title but I have a feeling I won't find out what the business is till halfway through the story Vashti and Mer, more unusual names. I like how the description of their driving gives us insight into their character already. Wow, someone's been reading the saidbook. Despite what you were taught in high school English class, it's okay to use "said" most of the time; it's an invisible word and by so conspicuously avoiding it you're just drawing attention to something that doesn't need it. And "struggled to say" twice in quick succession? Blargh. Why is it the end of days? And what does "I got the wrong one" mean? It took a bit of discussion for the judges to decide on a loser. While not irredeemable, this piece took the honour because it was pretty confusing, too short for the story it was telling and that story in itself wasn't terribly interesting. 4/10 This is a Story About Anxiety Titlecrit: I sort of like this idea of an anti-cryptic title, but it had better be accompanied by a not half-arsed story. This... could do with a proofing pass and a fair bit of polish to the wording. I think it's a good take on magical realism and I like the description of "slipping between". I think the overall concept and tie-in with anxiety are probably pretty good? However, I didn't finish this one on a first attempt and skimmed chunks on the re-read because you get bogged down in a lot of descriptive detail that just didn't keep me engaged. Cut, cut, cut please! And keep an eye out for cliches such as "so thick I could cut it with a knife". Wait, that's not what you wrote! Your version was "so thick I could reach out and cut it with a knife if I wanted to", which is a perfect example of the verbiage that makes this piece so hard to get through. 4/10 and I was totes gunning for a DM, but sittinghere rescued you because she's nice like that. Waiting For the Lightning Titlecrit: Dynamic and yet not! I wonder what this story will bring Another short one eh? It's the second last I have to read, so I'm ok with this. "Sharp molars" seems like a contradiction in terms. Overall it's definitely a vignette, not a story. I found it poignant and enjoyable but can't see my way to picking it for an HM. 7/10 You, Me and the Body Titlecrit: Not sure what to expect - neutral Ahhh what is going on is Frank a ghost and a body separately? It's cool that they’re taking this in their stride, that's a good marker of magical realism. But, I dunno, the whole scenario seems fairly mundane (calling the main character Frank wasn't a great sign in retrospect) and I can't find an engaging story in there. 5/10
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May 1, 2016 13:00
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sebmojo posted:Just do it you unbelievable bong ferret Seriously why the gently caress are you asking politely if you can stage a military coup in your own thread Worst OP ever In for the megabrawl In for the prompt My cat is so dumb he started eating carpet this morning out of sheer confusion & he could still write better stories than you
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May 24, 2016 08:52
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The Rain Beneath 936 words When the stars came out we panicked, because we had never seen stars. The fragile glow of the overlight collapsed before the glare of pinprick holes in the sky, one then two then three then dozens, and the dust of the firmament rained gently, inexorably on the slime-farms and desiccated the crops and the farmers, who lay twitching in the fields as their depleted nerves sputtered and misfired. Some we saved, those we could get to fast enough, rigging up mobile canopies to traverse between the shelter of the megacaps and hose them with cleansing slime, but the dust clung. They died later - days later - as their grit sacs clogged and failed, skin shrivelled, fronds sloughed off. Then the oil rain began. I was lucky: the hospital had a roof, and sat at the top of a hill. As I tended the basalt-poisoned, I heard the unfamiliar, irregular pattering and the cries of disgust from medics outside. At that time it was merely an annoyance, easily slimed away and sheltered from. But it was a new thing, a frightening thing. The firmament was failing. * “Everything is dying,” he said to me, uselessly, shivering with grief. The gondola was halfway built. I strung another rope through the hooks of the gas-bag. “Hold this a moment.” He wasn’t built for physical work, but it was better to keep him occupied. He held it. “Why aren’t the mothers organising an exodus? They’re just building shelters on the hills. What if the rain never stops?” “They’re in denial,” I told him, but I didn’t understand it either. * We launched amidst the oil rain, surrounded by gawpers. Others had had the same idea, but we were the first to escape. Slime-burners ignited, blew hot gas into the canopy. Black oil sluiced off the slime coating as the gas-bag inflated, trickled away to join the lakes in the valleys. Your language does not have enough words for slime. We rose steadily, straight up, controlling the pulsing rush of flame like the philosophers who’d first investigated the firmament a hundred years ago. They found rock, dry and coarse and abrasive; took samples, confirmed its sameness to the deep bedrock below the topslime. We found rock too, oily and slick; and we found light. Those pinprick stars grew large, beautiful, then dazzling, then unbearable. We tied scarves around our eyes and could see nothing but the light. We were pioneers. We were terrified. We entered the light. * “We haven’t hit anything,” he said to me, pointlessly. I love my mate, but a woman would be a better adventuring companion. “Holes in the firmament,” I said. “Perhaps we are journeying to God.” I unfurled an arm out of the gondola. Warm air rushed past. Oil soaked the tips of my digits. I felt vibrant, on edge. * The light had borne us many minutes when the tearing began. The gondola shuddered and yawed, the rush of air slowed, my mate shrieked and clung. The awful brightness dimmed as the canopy draped gently over us and I braced myself for falling, falling. We were still. In the dark and quiet I removed my scarf. Oh, the light was still caustic, it painted the rips in the canopy with fire, but I could see. We were settled in an oily pool on a wide jut of grainy rock. I removed my mate’s scarf too, shushed his panicked questions and squatted down to think. “What’s that noise?” he said after a while. I hadn’t been listening, but now, unfurling my fronds, I could hear it: a pulsing rumble from above. And from below, a distant shout, wordless amidst the echoes. Up, up they came. Another balloon: another group of refugees fleeing the end of the world. We called to them as they passed, warning them of the tearing rocks, and they called back, fearful, regretful; nothing to be done for us, nothing for themselves save to ride the light into the blinding unknown. * I took scrapings from the rock of the ledge. It crumbled easily, releasing dust into the air before the oil seeped in to hold it. Toxic, then. I emptied the slime from the useless burner over it; that would sting, but it wouldn’t kill us. I stepped gingerly out of the broken gondola. “Parell!” he cried. He shivered all over, fronds erect, as a scream resounded down to us. Thin scream, hysteria, breath snatched away. Starting again, closer. Blinding light, a rip yawning open, a mass tumbling through, tearing. The gondola groaned and slid away. I lunged unseeing. Caught someone. Not my someone. “Parell!” he shrieked, tangled and tumbling, falling, falling. ”Help.” whispered the one in my arms. “My eyes...” I dropped her to the ledge. Couldn’t think. I bound my eyes again and that was better. Bound her eyes too so she’d stop moaning, but I didn’t really care. She’d killed my mate. What did she deserve? “There was so much light,” she whispered. Her breath was weak. I confirmed by touch: perforations in the air sacs. Dying for sure. “Light and noise and... the angels that live in the dry dust. They hate us. They... killed us. Shredded us from afar. We were never meant for heaven.” * She died some hours ago. The terrible light has faded since then. I can see the walls of the firmament around me and I wait and write because I have nothing else to do. Above me, the angels of dust sing to one another with eerie voices and command their fearful machines. Soon I think they will come for me.
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May 29, 2016 14:08
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e: out like a useless bitch who can't write
Maugrim fucked around with this message at 22:42 on May 31, 2016 |
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May 31, 2016 01:03
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The Saddest Rhino posted:I'm in a plane and will have limited network. I allow the first person to quote this to choose for me the relevant senses for Wednesday Hearing and proprioception.
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Jun 2, 2016 09:44
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spectres of autism posted:spectral crit: post week 200 shitposting edition Thank you for liking and randomly critting my story! I'm in the process of editing it and this will seriously help.
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Jun 4, 2016 12:59
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Jitzu_the_Monk posted:Spectre's crit inspired me to do a line crit of "The Rain Beneath," because I really like the story too. <3 V useful crits, thank you. I'll probably poke you about this some time we're both on IRC.
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Jun 4, 2016 18:46
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Brawl with Spectres Merry-Go-Round 475 words The merry-go-round nestles in the woods, and nobody knows why it’s there. It was broken once, but five years ago (forever, to the current batch of undergrads) a couple of engineering students made a project of it, and now it spins and warbles and flashes like it’s the sixties again. The trees have grown up around it and their roots have humped up through the soil to tilt it, just a bit, so when you’re riding round and round, rising and falling, there’s a gentler rise and fall in counterpoint. Hugh sits on the unicorn and Arran sits on the dragon. They clutch the spiralling gold-painted poles that impale their steeds. The Painted Whore sits on the cockerel. She doesn’t clutch anything because she’s just a doll, but she’s strapped on with a couple of belts and her plastic smile shows childish anticipation. When the music starts and the beasts judder into motion she shakes with laughter, a joyful non-sound. Bottles rattle and spill old beer onto the creaking wood. It doesn’t go very fast, this ride, and the years have used it hard. Each year the art students talk about making it beautiful again, but the sprawl of graffiti on every surface is discouraging. Even the Painted Whore has “zaftig” spidered down her skinny back. Each year the novelty wears a little, and fewer students come, but someone did replace all the broken lights, so even as the merry-go-round creaks and grumbles, it strobes a rainbow on the tree trunks in the evening gloom. “Catch me if you can!” calls Arran, and Hugh tries, cheering, urging his pony on, but the surge of its will to chase thumps up against its fear of the dragon and it gains no ground. Up the hill, down the hill, round and round she goes. Arran is a big bear of a lad, but his dragon carries him effortlessly, as quick as the unladen beasts alongside it. Hugh is a tiger, tall and lithe, likes football and martial arts and big bear hugs that make him feel safe in a way he hasn’t since he was a child. The hum of the generator dies away and the prancing creatures grow tired in concert. The Painted Whore nods gently to the slowing rise and fall. A beer bottle rolls off the platform, rattling on the steps to give an end-note to the music. Arran’s bass laugh is the coda. He steps down and kicks the rest of the bottles into the grass. “Want to go another?” asks Hugh, hand poised on the lever, but Arran shakes his head. “It’s getting dark.” Nobody ever asks me, says the Painted Whore, but she doesn’t really mind. She watches the boys depart, hand in hand, bear and tiger, ducking into the undergrowth. She smiles, and watches, and waits for her next ride.
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Jun 10, 2016 23:57
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:The prose was very choppy though: despite better ideas, this had a worse execution. Fair cop! Thanks for the crit, Muffin, this is another one I might expand/polish later.
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Jun 16, 2016 08:54
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