wtf is this bullshit. you know what titus, real talk, i love you kid. you got heart, and you can write good sometimes, but im so loving tired of you posting this poo poo. i think the problem is that the dome has been going too easy on newbies. all this love and caring bullshit. not anymore.
Wow. You really doing this, flerp? You steppin' up to me? You might want to think about this, man. Maybe pick on somebody in your peewee hack league. Don't get me wrong, kid, I get that you are looking to make a name for yourself but I think you are biting off more than you can chew.
Dude, you ain't poo poo. Hell, even poo poo has got a leg up on you. poo poo causes people to feel something, revulsion, a genuine reaction. Your writing? All it does it make people feel bad for you, because try as you might you just can't seem to crack it.
fight flerp titus
... Fine, anything for you Seb.
Let's brawl, Flerp.
|# ¿ May 17, 2016 02:01|
|# ¿ Dec 3, 2021 23:24|
|# ¿ May 20, 2016 14:51|
Pretentious trash, both of them. The writers, not the stories, the stories are beautiful and I truly hope they do something with them.
I was going to write a long post... But it was pretentious trash as well, so instead I'll cut to the quick:
every feeling is a love of the thing that made it
Is such a beautiful sentiment. It stirs a part of my heart that at times I forget is even there. He wins roundly for this.
That doesn’t mean green doesn’t exist, it means that we invented the colour green. Colours are easy, but what about directions, then? What about memories? What about identity?
Is dumb. We got it already, you needn't ask an existential question when it has been posed suitably by your story.
Let me find some earth for you to plant yourself in. Here’s your frame of reference - in Japanese there’s no word for the colour ‘green’. Instead, there’s a word for ‘turquoise’ and green is just another shade. The names of colours are arbitrary patterns put over specific wavelengths of light.
Were I the sort of man who wore panties they would be wet by this point.
gently caress you for that, I hate you. But only because I am not good enough to have somebody like you.
the middle half of sebmojo's story
Could be cut and we would essentially miss nothing of note. Just some more build up for the conclusion, which I don't even know if it really connects with the central idea.
THE WINNER: Duh, Sebmojo.
|# ¿ May 22, 2016 15:57|
I want to judge a bigass slaughterbrawl. I've got a prompt ready and everything.
I'm as in as your mom should have been at the abortion clinic.
nobody bothered to read this, just like all of my stories
Holy poo poo, you actually WON a week?
The only ball will be the ball I crush under my cyber boot in
Well, that's still one more ball than you've got between your kiwi legs.
In, and I need to go up against Oxxi so I can face him in a Homestuck Fanfiction brawl and still win.
Okay, so this isn't a burn on you, as it is on everybody else... But why the gently caress are you still wasting your time posting here? You handily win practically ever week you enter, so I can only assume that you are afraid of testing your metal in the real world.
GET THE gently caress OUT OF HERE AND PUBLISH FOR REALZIES!
The only reason I won was because everyone else was utter poo poo.
^ Slightly paraphrased.
my insult is that everyone but me is gay and im only like half gay
poo poo or get off the penis.
Um... I dunno where I was going with that one.
Hi this is your high school Algebra/Geometry/Trig teacher reminding you that you are exactly as stupid and inept as my class made you feel. Megabrawl me.
This is just one more reason why we should never trust a school teacher. Not ever.
All I can say is this: you have a degree in mathematics and you decided to become a school teacher. Not an engineer, a scientist, a statistician, or something equally cool, but a lame-rear end school teacher, where you will waste your life trying to reach disinterested youth who will constantly fail you.
no ur all gay 2 but im gay still
kind of important post?
SH, I am not trying to burn you, and I know this post wasn't your entry into the megabrawl, but I've been holding back for a long time and I've just got to get this out there once and for all.
Your whole goody two-shoe routine is absolute bullshit.
You goddamn well know that you are just as broke brain as the rest of us, wishing for the bittersweet release of death, if not for yourself, then for that rear end in a top hat in front of you in line at Target. I mean, doesn't that jackass know how much of a douchebag he looks like? You know the one I am talking about, the type of guy who twenty years ago would have worn a mullet and quoted racist versions of Jeff Foxworthy jokes, but nowadays a has a pencil beard, tribal tattoos on one arm, and swears he isn't racist because he listens to rap, though his pickup has a Trump sicker on it.
It is perfectly normal, and even the morally right thing, to want that guy to die a horrible death before he can spew anymore of his DNA into some equally trashy woman.
But look, I get it. While in your own mind you are down here in the muck with the rest of us, deep down you know you can't hack it. You tell yourself that you are not creative enough, not fast enough, not funny enough to be able to burn people. So instead you opt out by acting nice. Not a genuine niceness, a pretend niceness, the kind that slowly eats away at your insides and turns you into some Countess from a Jane Austin novel. Oh yes, it is so wonderful that Emily finally managed to get married, after all it can be so difficult to find a man who does not mind a woman with experience.
Just... Let it out. What is the worst thing that could happen? You might sound dumb? Well. you already do!
But seriously, next time, don't ask for permission, just loving take it. This is the Thunderdome, if somebody wants to cry, let 'em.
And everybody else... I don't know who you are and I don't care.
|# ¿ May 25, 2016 01:46|
HEY YOU DICK-JUGGLING CHUCKLEFUCKS THERE'S STILL A PROMPT TO SIGN UP FOR SO MAYBE YOU COULD LIKE TAKE A BREAK FROM TRYING TO PISS YOUR ~PERSONAL BRAND~ OF KAYFABE ALL OVER THE THREAD AND SIGN UP????
Yeah, now spit in my mouth and call me a whore!
Oh, wow, sorry about that. Got a tad triggered there for a moment. Something about angry lil lady cocks.
I think I, I think I got to go take a cold shower.
|# ¿ May 25, 2016 19:40|
Autism vs Maugrim
This is such obvious bullshit, you are clearly picking the people you like and putting them up against the chumps first.
Look at that list! Spectres is going to crush Maugrim. CKM has no chance. Saddest Rhino is gonna be given yet another reason to be sad. Twist? Holy gently caress, it isn't even funny that Boogie is pitted against him. Mojo owns Newt. Entenzahn and Oxxi are, well, okay they are well matched (cause they both such so much), DocK has got this one in the bag, and Curlingiron is gonna own whoev- oh. Um...
Well gently caress me and call me a dandy.
Clearly I was going to say that CI is about to get owned by moi.
So, yeah... What was I saying? poo poo, I forgot.
|# ¿ May 27, 2016 21:59|
Ok, I'll go home now.
|# ¿ May 28, 2016 00:53|
TITUSFLERP BRAWL ENTRY (otherwise known as the winner.)
The Death Of Punk Rock.
Word Count: 599
The needle skips on the record player, the cyclic sounds of static and pop fill the otherwise still air of the dank, moldy smelling, radio station, WUML Lowell. Its egg carton sound proofing peeling off of the walls from years of mistreatment and lack of use. In the booth sit, cloistered together, a motley crew of young and aging rockers. They have just heard the worst news of their lives: Punk Rock is dead.
Punk had died an ignoble death, with Black Flagg waving a white flag, members of Riot Grrrl announcing they were helping Christina Aguilera with her comeback, and though it was often said that Daune and Fletcher did not put up the barricades - a lament at the softening of punk’s core - they were right now singing “Rebel with Christ!” at a local Mega-church’s skatepark.
A dull clink sounds in the room, as the youngest of the group tosses his lip stud at the far wall and proclaims, “gently caress it.”
“Hefe, don’t-” Chris begins to say.
“There ain’t no Hefe! Not anymore. My name is Lance. It’s what my parents named me, Lance.”
A woman with stars and spider web tattoos, Stephanie, shakes her head. “It can’t end like this.”
“It can end anyway it loving wants,” Lance says. “They loving killed the clubs, they usurped our style, and they took over our shows. How the hell was it supposed to continue?”
“It’s not dead, there will be other bands that come along and pick up where we’ve left off,” says a gaunt man, Fred, with a mop of black hair and Buddy Holly glasses.
“There ain’t gonna be poo poo, man, it’s over,” Lance says. “Punk is over.”
“Don’t say that,” Stephanie says. “We could start a band, we could put on our own shows, Mike knows how to play the guitar, and I’ve met Chris Barker-”
“Chris Barker sold himself to RCA years ago, Steph.”
“There has to be something we can do,” Stephanie says, pleading with the group.
“You guys can do whatever you want, I’m out of here.” Lance gets up off the floor, throws his safety-pin studded leather jacket to the ground, and walks out of their lives forever. They listen as the steady beat of his combat boots grows fainter.
“He’s right,” the eldest woman in the booth says in a heavy smoker’s voice. “We’ve always been on the fringes of society, a random collection of misfits and troubled youths, and that was the glue which held us together. We’re nothing alike. When I first met Fred he was a skinhead at a Bad Brains concert. He and his buddies were getting ready to fight with the locals when the club killed the lights.
Fred shrugs. “It was easier to hate other people than it was to hate myself.”
“But I could go into any club, go to any show, and I’d fit in. I wouldn’t know a single soul there, but I belonged,” Stephanie says. “That’s not an illusion. I’m telling you, Vivienne, it happened.”
“Of course it did,” Vivienne says, “it happened to all of us. That’s why we came here, to preserve that. But we lost. Punk is now mainstream.”
The room fell silent. It was time for everyone to leave, but nobody knew where to go.
“What happened after the lights went out?” Asks Chris.
Vivienne laughs, lays a hand on Fred’s knee. “He pulled out his lighter, then I pulled out mine, then someone else pulled out theirs… Soon we had the whole place light up and the show went on.”
|# ¿ May 28, 2016 04:55|
Titus82: You are dumb.
I wish I could claim that the grammar errors and poo poo punctuation were intentional, but they weren't. They were the result of me being bad at my own native tongue, last minute writing, and a complete inability to see my own mistakes until after I've posted my poo poo.
Doc gave me some good advice on that last one.
But thank you for the crits, and I really do appreciate that you liked the overall idea of the story.
|# ¿ May 28, 2016 15:01|
can somebody please let me in?
|# ¿ May 31, 2016 04:03|
will a judge please flash me, please?
|# ¿ May 31, 2016 22:38|
Equilibrioception and Sight!
|# ¿ Jun 2, 2016 07:47|
BONUS DEAL: Anyone who es this week can pick one(1) word from this list and FORCE one(1) other entrant to use it. Again, that's ANYONE who es, and they can inflict the word on anyone else who's in this week.
Marshmallow Blue, I choose you!... to use the word Grawlix.
|# ¿ Jun 3, 2016 01:47|
THURSDAY GOONS HERE IS YOUR THURSDAY FLASHRULE
WEDNESDAY GOONS HERE IS YOUR FLASHRULE
Hey, waitaminute! This contest is rigged, its rigged I tell ya!
Seriously though, I feel bad about the flash rule now as I was only doing it 'cause of the brawl. Can I do a take-backsies?
|# ¿ Jun 3, 2016 03:04|
Prompt: A narcoleptic man agonizes over potatoes. Sight and
Word count: 969.
To Understand the Moon
The Boy lay in bed for weeks watching the moon wane and then wax. It was, he felt, his only companion. Visible every night from his bedroom window, singing him to sleep with the same joyful lullaby; the full moon is coming, the full moon is coming.
He had been plotting and planning his escape ever since the Woman had come into his room. She was at first a figure that hovered in the margins, lingering in the shadows, whenever the Doctor came. Then, slowly, the Boy began to catch glimpses of her inside his own room. He hid under his covers whenever she drew near, her face, scattered and torn with a distended eyeball and a swirling shape for a mouth, had frightened him.
The Boy prayed for her to go away, and after spending some time futzing with his potato plants, which sat in glasses and jars, and covered nearly every surface in the room, she would return to her shadows. This, most of all, is what made the Boy dislike the Woman. The plants were his and Josephine’s, she had no right to touch them.
The Boy was sick, though he knew not with what. He recalled an accident with roaring sounds, the gnashing of metal against metal, sparkling rainbows in fragments of glass, and a pain that had upended the world. He was told not to concern himself with the accident, or the absent Josephine. Yet he could not forget Josephine. He would lay in bed and try as best as he could to recall her face. He could recall the days when he played in the garden, hopping around pretending to be Peter Rabbit escaping from the miserly Mr. McGregor. Josephine, Peter Rabbit’s mother, was always there with him. She would sit on the stone wall surrounding the garden singing a song which the Boy hopped to, a wreath of violet potato flowers in her auburn hair.
There was no more Josephine, and the illness that kept the Boy in bed made his world fold and bend, twist and turn, and spin him around and around until he could neither stand up straight, nor even sit up. He lay in bed for weeks, dizzy and unsure of when and where.
When the night of the full moon came he was ready, slipping from his bed to the floor with delicate grace. He shuffled around the room, gripping the posts of his bed, then clinging with his fingernails to the chair rail along the walls, and gathered up as many of the budding potatoes as he dared. He stuffed them into a pillowcase and when he was done he had over a dozen soaking the end of the pillowcase.
The Boy carefully crept on all fours through the hallway toward the stairs, careful both due to his balance and the presence of the Woman down the hall. He knew that if she were to find him out of his bed it would spell the end of his endeavour. She would return him to his room, and like Mr. McGregor would, take away his potatoes.
At the edge of the stairs, the Boy stood gazing down the many flights. They wrapped around themselves like the chambers of a Nautilus’ seashell (he had one on his shelf, a gift from Josephine) spiralling inward toward some infinitesimally small point never to be reached. But the Boy had puzzled out a solution. He lay down flat on the floor, scooted his butt to the edge of the first step, closed his eyes, and slid down. He repeated the action again and again, losing all sense of direction, only knowing he was progressing due to the repeated bumping of his butt against the carpeted step. But the Boy had not taken into account the noise his pillowcase full of potatoes would make as he slinked down the stairs.
He heard a noise from somewhere far away - he could not tell if it came from above or below - and stopped his progression down the stairs. A tightness gripped his chest, it was the Woman. No, the Boy assured himself, it’s only my imagination.
The floor creaked.
His heart beat faster, it was the Woman. He froze, hoping, praying, that if he were perfectly still and quiet the Woman would turn back around and return to her room. Instead the creaking of the floor grew ever closer. Soon the Woman’s face loomed somewhere near that infinitesimally small point.
The Boy lifted himself up into a sitting position, the house swam in a flurry of motion nearly sending him falling back. His free hand grabbed the railing and with his feet kicking he pulled himself down the steps as quickly, though noisily, as he could.
He hit the bottom, his hand was still on the railing, and he struggled to stand up. The world grew dim - No, no, no! Thought the Boy, I cannot go now! There was no choice, his vision blurred and he slumped to the floor.
The Boy awoke in the garden amidst a field of flowers, which in-spite of the darkness he knew the pedals were violet with yellow stamens. Potato plants. Just as hope began to dawn in him, he saw that the night sky was as bereft of the moon as he was of Josephine.
He was too late.
He lay wrapped in a blanket, his head resting on a soft surface that smelled of lilac, a thigh, though he cared not to whom it belonged. The Boy began to cry. A hand brushed his hair and the Boy looked up. At first he saw the Woman, but then he noticed the wreath of potato flowers on her head, and knew at once that it was his Josephine.
“I missed the moon,” said the Boy.
“It’s okay, the moon will always be there.”
|# ¿ Jun 6, 2016 01:56|
I forgot this: Sight and Equilibrioception.
TLDR: I love my mommy :3
|# ¿ Jun 6, 2016 01:57|
Here are a few crits, I would like to give everyone this week a crit, but it is killing me. I don't have a ton of time right now, so if I do end up completing these they might take awhile...
STEAK AND BAKED POTATOES
The first paragraph sets a tone that may only be my expectation, but I don’t think the story will actually carry. The line “A revolver laid on the table, and in the cabin’s dim light it gleamed like a cursed jewel” makes me think of something pulpy. Replace revolver with a sword and it’d be a good opening for a Conan tale.
So the story doesn’t have that tone. I wish it had? lovely crit, I know.
There isn’t much to make me care about the characters, I care much more about Claire and Bonnie than I do Tom or Mel. I like how you setup the actual game - structure wise - I think that could have worked if I had cared enough about either of the men. There is a lot of ambiguity to this story, such as why these men are even there, and that may have been one way to help it out, clear some of that stuff up and we may have been given some insight into these two men other than that they are married and like potatoes.
Can’t say much else as it is well constructed.
FULL METAL APPLEBEE’S
The first paragraph has me feeling bad for this dude and hoping this story shows us some path to a better life for this guy. But the title suggests ZANY.
Welp the third paragraph kind of ruins it.
So is this absurdist? I mean, I think this is supposed to be funny yet nothing makes me laugh. Perhaps I do not understand your intention, it seems like you were going for something funny, went kind of serious, and failed to land either of them.
I wish I had more to offer you, dude, but that’s about all that comes to my mind. I just don’t get it/care. But you are a competent writer, so I believe that there was something you put in there. I just don’t see it.
Try again! I mean it, just because I don’t see it this time doesn’t mean it won’t click the next time.
My take on flash fiction or micro fiction or whatever the gently caress this is called, is that we’ve got to aim at eliciting a few specific emotions. We don’t have much space to build character, give detailed descriptions, and tell a compelling story. We’ve got to pick a few marks and try to hit them… You can judge how good I am at pulling it off
I say all of that because I think this is what you are doing as well. So I am trying to judge your story on its effectiveness there… The first thing that came to my mind was that this would be some kind of horror story, I think it’s because the story revolves around obsession, and the use of shadow. I walked in to this story, then, with some expectations and that’s my own downfall… But I kind of want to see that story? I dunno, ignore that.
You spend most of this story detailing the struggle this guy is having going home, his fight with this awful jpg and lovely coworkers who aren’t present in the story, and all of that is a bore to me. It does nothing to elicit an emotional response.
You know what? Don’t ignore what I wrote up there. Here is why making this into some sort of horror story would improve it: it would have added suspense, some tension, something to keep me glued in on your character. With the story as is I feel like I am listening to somebody complain about work.
Also, it would piss me off if my kids (I don’t have any kids) were throwing pizza at the window or ANYWHERE. Do you know how hard it is to get sauce out of a carpet? The grease alone would stain. Likewise the ending is… Forced? I’m not sure how to put it. It kind of just happens.
A friendly penguin
Man, a younger brother/older brother story… This might get me, I am primed for these.
I’ve read this story multiple times and I cannot think of anything to say about it. Not in a good way, either. It is bland, the characters are one note, and the dilemma is Older Brother Is poo poo At Everything and it all concludes when Mommy Comes To The Rescue.
I think you are implying that Eddie’s relationship with the potato is supposed to mirror his relationship with his brother, but I am not certain how. Is it that he cannot see the life inside of the potato, and likewise he cannot see the inner life of his brother? This is a good idea, but the execution is bland, the dialog too on the noise and cartoony (Andre just states his feelings outright) and toward the end when Andre thanks Eddie I want to shout.
Eddie is such a dick, gently caress that kid.
There is a lot of stuff that could be chopped and in its place we could be given some insight into the lives, thoughts, motivations, ect, of these people. Instead we’re told this:
“You know my schedule, hon. Four on, three off. We’ll have a nice long weekend.”
You don’t need to do that, you’ve told us enough already, and this isn’t important to begin with. What I would like to have known is what is going on with Andre, how old is he, what has he been trying to do, in what way is he a gently caress up and why? Also why is his little brother such a poo poo about it? Is it because he is upset that Mom isn’t around? Or is he perhaps angry at his own inability to help out?
This story belongs somewhere in the middle of a fantasy novel. There is so much that is obstructed from our view that I was scratching my head throughout this story. I get that part of that is for the tension, is there a monster in the house, what is it, who is it… But it’s obvious from the get go that there will be a monster (why bring soldiers or carry a sword?) So the story is undercut by not just telling me poo poo like I’m a dumb dumb.
Cause I am.
You have some lines, descriptions, that I enjoy. But often when I go back over them I feel like something is missing, some commentary about a greater theme or idea that you are not directly expressing. Take this bit: “Something else watches too, something that moves not through the euclidean spaces we call home, but upon the surfaces that vibrates within and above all things.” I think that is lovely, however as I just said I also see that there is something missing here. You call our four dimensions “home” which really stands out to me, so then what is it that vibrates within and above our home?
Dude, I suck at this one. I guess that is why I am pointing it out because I struggle with trying to connect my writing with some sort of grander or deeper theme/meaning. Like when you read Cormac McCarthy and all of a sudden your are contemplating a bible verse. Its a neat trick I wish I could do.
So the ending is ambiguous, to me, but not in a way that is still satisfying. I still don’t get what this blight is all about, how did Damien become a ghost, and what his plan is for killing or taking over his sister.
A VERY POTATO MIRACLE
I am not sure what the point of this story is. I know that it involves a potato cook off, I know the conflict, but I don’t care about any of it and it lands flat.
I think you looked at the ingredients given to you (the flash rules) and tried to put together a story. This limits you, in my opinion, and you ended up with something dull. This is my belief, but I always feel that it’s best to go less literal with the prompt and flash rules (when you can, obviously when you get a flash rule that tells you to crush some dudes with consumer goods, you are kind of stuck doing just that.)
But let me focus on the last line: “Perhaps Asher had not won, but he had defeated Boris and enjoyed the journey”
It’s like a nice moral at the end of a story, but I’m left wondering what was it that he enjoyed? Watching people get killed? His wife ignoring something very important to him? Boris being a dick? You’ve setup this story to be about a guy going through a bunch of trials to finally get one over on his arch-nemesis, but those trials aren’t engaging. Why not have Asher be the one to argue with the guy in the grocery store and be inadvertently responsible for the other dude’s death? Something where he is not passive but active.
|# ¿ Jun 10, 2016 06:39|
Also, thanks for the words, Sitting Here and Titus.
Don't lie to me, you harlot.
|# ¿ Jun 10, 2016 15:31|
My apologies to Muffin and CurlingIron.
|# ¿ Jun 11, 2016 21:48|
Count me in, Muffin--man.
|# ¿ Jul 5, 2016 15:01|
Are you calling me fat?
|# ¿ Jul 6, 2016 14:21|
No, I am.
I have a thyroid condition.
I'm going to go eat some puddin'
|# ¿ Jul 7, 2016 15:04|
A review for:
Thoughts in the Forest
“You’ve always been lost.”
You’re first line has so much promise, then the switch to a memory of our father, something that seems sweet yet is vague. The moment before we were given something solid to consider, a blade of grass, and now we’re given vague memories. Of course this give us information, we don’t need to be told as you do following this that we cannot recall his face, but it feels unsatisfactory (to me.)
This is very dreamlike. I like that. I’m in the mood for it. When you tell us that the forest throbs when we throb, like we throb, I buy it as a literal statement. I want it to be literal. That this is not a real forest, this is something else, a dreamscape.
There is nothing in the running sequence that makes it visceral, if that was the intent. Lacking in specifics, something kinetic.
Repetition plans a large part in the style of this story. Some of it is quite on target. “You ask the forest/you tell the forest.” Some of it is not so effective, restating that we do not know something when we already know that we don’t because WTF is happening in this story? How the Christ would I know? Cut, cut, cut.
It was a literal statement <3
This is a good framework for a story… But it lacks something, a heart, and maybe that heart is the Dad? Something tangible to hold onto, to elicit some emotion beyond bewilderment… Like instead of telling us about Dad towering over us like a tree in the woods, why not tell us of a time when he stood over us?
People lose their way in life all the time, if not everyone at some point in their existence, and those towering figures be they parents, teachers, policemen, or idols, can be sirens singing us to shipwreck or the pillars we pass by.
Not bad, flerp.
|# ¿ Aug 12, 2016 01:41|
|# ¿ Dec 3, 2021 23:24|
Thunderdome 2017teen: Write Makes Might!
|# ¿ Dec 31, 2016 22:04|