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Jul 13, 2016 00:14
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| # ¿ Apr 28, 2024 19:21 |
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In, and I'll do a redemption at some point for last week. I straight up forgot about deadline. Flash rule?
Flesnolk fucked around with this message at 07:17 on Jul 21, 2016 |
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Jul 21, 2016 04:28
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The Cut of Your Jib posted:Sunday at midnight Eastern Standard for the regular prompt submissions (bottle episode). There are some other events going on that have different deadlines. As in one minute after 11:59 PM Saturday (it's now Sunday), or one minute after 11:59 PM Sunday (it's now Monday)?
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Jul 24, 2016 00:43
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In, if I have time. A GRIZZLY BEAR wants to RUN FOR PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES
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Aug 3, 2016 04:54
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Meeple posted:ONE OR MORE BEES (swarm optional) that want(s) FAME AND FORTUNE Wasn't that the plot of Bee Movie
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Aug 3, 2016 10:59
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Jitzu_the_Monk posted:Still could use a third judge if anyone's interested. Sure.
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Aug 12, 2016 17:13
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In. Flash. My finals are next week and I have a paper that's due Saturday so I guess this is hard mode.
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Dec 8, 2016 13:12
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Is that the smallest wordcount we've seen in Thunderdome? It feels like it. Anyway, in, flash rule please. I'll also work on a redemption for the past week, it was not a good idea to sign up during finals week. Edit: I'm apparently toxxing for the redemption. Edit edit: Correction: toxx for the week. Flesnolk fucked around with this message at 20:47 on Dec 13, 2016 |
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Dec 13, 2016 11:09
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Night on the Front 798 words Flash rule: cooked in drained crank case oil Sergeant Laurence Knight had joined the Army looking to die. A worthy death for an unworthy life. Instead he had a medal and a section of Tommies hoping to share his fortune. Early April 1918 found them clustered around a pair of fires in what used to be a French forest. Fourteen men were scarcely illuminated against the night around them; war had stripped the Earth of almost anything worthwhile as kindling. The rest, they’d collected themselves and prayed the Kaiser’s finest didn’t notice. “Forget this stupid hill,” said Corporal Harston after an hour’s hushed arguments, glowering over strips of bacon in his pan. Fading orange light danced across long symmetrical features practically carved from Dover’s chalk, and he jerked his head west. “We should run for our own lines before Fritz remembers we’re stuck up here.” Laurence forced down cold bully beef while the other man at the fire, Corporal Gattrell, stared into the darkness. But built like a stone wall and strong enough to heft around the Lewis gun at his side as if it were a slingshot, Gattrell tended to think of himself as the sergeant even while his superior sat next to him. While Laurence chewed, Gattrell contemplated. “We move before dawn, we could make it,” the corporal mused. It was Gattrell who newsmen always mistook for Laurence. Each time, Gattrell would sheepishly correct them and they’d recoil in horror when they saw Laurence’s ratlike, lopsided form. The sound of his voice made Laurence want to stab him in the throat but he held back. Not worth the firing squad. “Of course,” he said instead. His voice was the screech of a screen door caught in a hurricane, but he could still make himself heard. “Let the lads get a last bit of food and sleep in, then we’ll move. Harston, gather up some of the men and find us a bit more fuel so we can keep warm for the night.” Silence. In what light remained he saw them stare. He might as well have suggested the King was a giant chicken. He repeated himself. Nothing. Well then. Laurence rose, turned and stormed off the crest of the hill. Behind him, one corporal asked the other why he was even sergeant. “Ask Haig!” It echoed through the night, more to show them he heard than to make a point. It hadn’t exactly been his call; a mad unarmed charge across no man’s land had been too mad for German tastes so what should have ended with a bullet in his heart instead had a whole line of trench deciding they had urgent business elsewhere. So did anything that would pass for fuel. The silhouette of a slain Mark V stood among stumps and stripped bark. Trees were trees to him and these had been blasted and chopped to uselessness. He reached the foot of the hill when the smell reached him, pungent and metallic. It hit like a punch to the nose but he followed it until it took him to the dead tank. An anti-tank rifle had ripped into its metal hide. The smell lingered, too strong to be old, and so Laurence stepped into the beast’s innards where his suspicions were confirmed. The floor was black and slick with petrol, and in the engine compartment, the sump had been shot loose. *** Gattrell stood waiting when Laurence returned and looked shocked the sergeant had actually found something. “Where’d you get that?” Laurence nodded to the tank before he realised Gattrell, his back to the fire, maybe couldn’t see the gesture. “That dead tank. Bit of petrol couldn’t hurt.” As he stepped up to the fire, Gattrell tensed and barred the way. “Tank petrol? Are you mad?” Laurence tried to step around him, only to be blocked at every turn. “You can’t use that!” “I don’t remember needing your permission.” Laurence shoved past but the corporal grabbed at him. The sump flew from his hands, petrol leaking from one opening. Too close to the fire. The flames roared back to life, tall and bright, and Harston screamed when his trouser leg caught fire. A bullet from the night silenced him forever. Gattrell tossed Laurence aside and replied with a long defiant burst from his Lewis gun while below, the section raised the alarm and returned fire. Muzzle flashes nearly turned night to day. In the dirt by the fire, the smell of smoke and petrol bit at Laurence’s throat. Oppressive heat tore at his skin, but he made the mad scramble to his rifle and did the only thing he could do. He turned on his belly, took aim, and held his ground. Sergeant Laurence Knight had joined the Army looking to die. He would be the only survivor of his section.
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Dec 19, 2016 05:58
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Mrenda posted:I wrote a statement of intent for my latest TD story. I can post that here if you want. All well and good, and it's good to see you're passionate about writing, but the rules are the rules. Flesnolk fucked around with this message at 20:00 on Dec 21, 2016 |
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Dec 21, 2016 19:47
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Danke schön. (Also, oops. Turns out 800 words is hard!)
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Dec 24, 2016 04:01
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About three hours, forty minutes left for subs.
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Dec 26, 2016 05:21
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One hour left. If you're toxxed you'd better get your story in soon.
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Dec 26, 2016 08:00
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| # ¿ Apr 28, 2024 19:21 |
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29 minutes remain.
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Dec 26, 2016 08:31
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