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fjgjs to you
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Oct 7, 2016 06:41
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| # ¿ Apr 25, 2024 09:54 |
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Sure I'll read Herbert West's Dunce
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Oct 15, 2016 19:50
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Beige posted:I reluctantly withdraw. Several irl things are eating away at my time and I can't realistically produce anything for Thunderdome in time. Cool, thanks for the tips!
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Oct 16, 2016 17:07
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Chairchucker posted:Cool, thanks for being a passive aggressive sniping jackass! Haha, me too, all the time! I don't know how he does it!
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Oct 17, 2016 00:34
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Fleta Mcgurn posted:Actually, because I didn't realize 1300 words was the limit, I thought it was the minimum and then after writing like 2500 words went "fuckkkkk." The word limit is the number of words you should not exceed. If you go over the word limit, the judge is free to disqualify you. A couple hundred words is pretty significant when you're dealing with flash fiction length stories.
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Oct 26, 2016 02:38
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Djeser posted:The word limit is the number of words you should not exceed. If you go over the word limit, the judge is free to disqualify you. A couple hundred words is pretty significant when you're dealing with flash fiction length stories. (psst sittinghere might be good if the OP mentioned something like this since it's a question that comes up a lot)
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Oct 26, 2016 03:30
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Greetings from IRL Voidmart, and in
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Nov 3, 2016 02:13
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Goons please write all stories this week as political satire and forward to sittinghere@thunderdome.edu thanks in advance
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Nov 9, 2016 18:43
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nvm
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Nov 16, 2016 08:57
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Sitting Here posted:Lemme know what you think. 
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Nov 28, 2016 21:17
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In.
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Nov 30, 2016 22:05
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sebmojo posted:poo poo yeah mark me down in the man skin bound tome of the cursed choosers of the slain Okua, you may have missed mojo's mealy-mouthed mumblings
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Dec 1, 2016 07:56
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PROM oh wait oh geez sorry I think I messed up there haha whoops. You want to go again or just--yeah I'll just--yeah
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Dec 12, 2016 08:24
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c.f.
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Dec 15, 2016 08:38
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Entenzahn posted:im literally screaming at my screen irl and all my coworkers are looking at me funny so, normal day at the entenoffice
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Dec 20, 2016 19:14
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Boaz-Jachim posted:a bunch of terrible words that are probably about animals or religion I've never seen anything as pumped up as your prose, and I've been to Muscle Beach in Santa Monica. If you want to get flowery, start a garden. This is Thunderdome bithc. Brawl me.
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Dec 23, 2016 21:33
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Sitting Here posted:brawbl 
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Dec 23, 2016 21:59
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Dec 26, 2016 20:26
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Sitting Here posted:
Code Crimson 1449 words As a werewolf, Michael really hated working at AbyssMart. He spent his afternoons stocking things he was too poor to buy, and he spent his evenings as a monstrous beast that had to straighten all the shelves after the customers (no, "guests") had strewn Christmas ornaments and Lattecopter-brand coffee cups all the way through Housewares and Home Improvement. He had learned to associate the sound of laughter and the voices of children with messes he would have to clean up. And with his wolf ears, he could hear a teen snickering over spelling out SEND NUDES with the monogrammed bath towels all the way in Cosmetics. Also, sometimes little kids pulled his tail. He wanted to punt them. God shouldn't have made little kids so small and football-shaped if they weren't meant to be punted. Tonight, Michael was in picture frames. And he'd already turned (in the middle of lunch, at least), so as he lined up each frame, he stared down at the price tag. It wasn't that he didn't want to look at the sample photos of stock models in heteronormative positions: it was that if he looked at the frames, he'd be able to see his reflection. *** Meanwhile, at the front of the store, the automatic doors slid open. The man standing outside fumbled with his coat, casting a dark shadow across the little carpet slat thingies that were probably for brushing off your feet, or something, but which make a BRRRRBRRRBRRR noise when you push your cart across them. The girl who'd been stuck on greeter duty that hour poked her head out into the wintery cold and offered a smile that might have been sincere. "Come on in, welcome to AbyssMart! The abyss is gonna hug you whether you like it or not." Her breath fogged in the chill air. His breath didn't. He smiled an awkwardly-closed-lipped smile, nodded, and stepped over the threshold. Winter really dried out the blood. *** Right next to picture frames was shampoo, and that was at least two dicks, probably more, to deal with. Everyone was expected to finish sectioning by ten, so they could clean up all the leftover stuff at At least when it got late there weren't any people around. No one to stare and look at how ugly he was and how he had to compulsively shake out his fur if it got parted funny. No one poring over fake marble deer heads to hang in their house next to the rest of the meaningless clutter they bought to simulate having actual life experiences. It could have been worse, he guessed. He could have applied at Voidmart first. And then his walkie-talkie went off. "Code crimson, code crimson, code crimson in Arts and Crafts." "I'm on it!" chirped another voice. Michael squeezed the walkie between his paws. "Emily, you're a mermaid. Stay at Electronics, I'm right there." Raising himself up to his full, werewolfy height of six-foot-four (with hunch) Michael took a shortcut through tampons, turned left, and stalked down the Arts and Crafts aisle until he saw it: a man, his winter coat spread behind him like black, leathery wings, standing over some kid who was probably five or some bullshit, with a Lattecopter-brand Kid Kaffiene Cup in her hand. The vampire looked up at Michael, then down at the nametag affixed to his fur with velcro. His skin wrinkled as he hissed violently, grabbed the kid around the torso, and heaved her, football-like, up under his arm. Michael barked and lunged forward, claws out. The flap of the vampire's coat-wings ruffled Michael's fur. He hit the floor, right in the puddle of spilled kid-friendly espresso, and skidded across the aisle with fruit-flavored coffee seeping into his belly fur. The vampire's snow boots bapped him right in the forehead, kicking off of his skull as he went bounding off across the aisles, victim in tow. Michael's whole head stung, and it was worse when he moved, but he had to move. Hand over foot, he heaved himself up on top of the aisle. He perched for a moment, then leapt, tearing across the store in great strides as he caught up with the fleeing vampire over Shoes. Claws out, he sprung for the bloodthirsty beast. His right paw met flesh, but his face met the vampire's coat, spinning behind him like a whip. Four bloodless gashes gaped open across the vampire's chest, while Michael was thrown into a display of women's running shoes. That wasn't Michael's section, though, so he didn't mind. "You can't run!" he howled. "Yes I can!" the vampire shouted back. The kid was wailing now, and it had been for a little while, but Michael had figured it was still part of his headache. Michael had stopped bothering to gender it at this point, because he wasn't sure how to appropriately gender a football. With a clatter of New Balance and Reebok all around him, Michael lifted himself out of the pile of pastel-tinged shoes and sprinted after the vampire, crouched on all fours. He skidded around corners on the tile floor, weaving through the aisles to funnel the vampire toward one section: Kitchenwares. The vampire tried to feint and lose Michael's trail, but if there was one thing his ears could pinpoint, it was the hellsound of a crying kid. Flanked by meat thermometers and mixing bowls, the vampire could see the glowing green Exit sign of freedom just past the self-check lanes. But then Michael came skittering from the next aisle over, a frying pan in each hand. For a moment, a furious glare blipped between the two of them, like when two Pokemon trainers lock eyes and are bound to do battle. Michael swung. The vampire reeled back. Not quite fast enough; the lip of one of the pans clipped his arm, and made his skin sizzle where it touched. The vampire screeched and fumbled the kid. "One-hundred-percent cast iron. Made in the USA," Michael said. He swung again, both arms beating the air, forcing the vampire to scramble backwards. Clutching his coat around him, the vampire burst into bats, but Michael was on a roll. "Nineteen-ninety-nine, on sale from twenty-eight-ninety-nine." He caught one bat with a swing and smashed it against the shelf. A small, satisfying splurt of green bat goo glushed out onto the Pyrex bakeware. "Buy ten, get a five dollar gift card." Clang, clang. Good, American iron turned the bats into green pancakes splattered against the tile floor. He clapped the pans together, crushing another bat between them and shattering the pans with his werewolf strength. Panting, he stood in the midst of green bat goo. A rustle of winter coat came from behind him, and he whirled around to find the one bat he'd missed turning back into the vampire. A paler, sweaty, gasping version of the vampire. "You dick. I just wanted blood!" he hissed, then sprung toward Michael. Michael reached out, snagged something from one of the racks, and held it in front of him. The vampire's eyes widened as the tip of the meat thermometer skewered his chest. His own force drove the steel straight into his heart. His mouth hung open, wordless as he struggled for breath. With a big, dumb werewolf claw, Michael tapped the thermometer dial. "Looks like you're well done," he said. He was going to be thinking about that for weeks. While he'd be straightening toilet paper and making sure teens hadn't built secret forts behind the rolls, just, 'yeah, and then I said he was well done' going through his head. The vampire crumbled into ash as Michael grabbed his walkie. "Cancel code crimson, cancel code crimson, cancel code crimson," he said. He'd have to mop up the bat goo, and take a shower to get the coffee out of his fur, but first things first. The kid. It was wide-eyed and quiet at this point, which was an improvement. Michael kneeled down and leaned toward it, trying not to bare his fangs too much. "Can you tell me where your mom or OW." It had grabbed a fistful of his whiskers and pulled as hard as it could. Michael peeled back his lips and snarled, and the kid turned and ran off down the aisle, like a football flanked by goalposts, just waiting to be punted. Michael rubbed his cheeks as he stomped off to the nearest price check to grab a roll of paper towels and a spray bottle of holy water.
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Dec 29, 2016 08:14
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Boaz-Djechim Brawl
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Thunderdome 2017teen: Bunker Down In Our Abonend Thunderdome 2017teen: Like A Modest Proposal, But For Writing Thunderdome 2017teen: You May Already Be A Loser
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Dec 31, 2016 03:44
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Thunderdome 2017: Five million words and we still haven't found the good ones
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Dec 31, 2016 20:15
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*in kayfabe voice* i hate every 1 of u assholes...... *in normal voice* lol actually i just hate most of u 
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Jan 1, 2017 02:57
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Thunderdome 2017teen: word counts are upper limits you utter dunces
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Jan 3, 2017 03:56
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| # ¿ Apr 25, 2024 09:54 |
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Thunderdome 2017: we finally stopped making the same joke about a five-year-old story
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Jan 3, 2017 03:57
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