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flerp
Feb 25, 2014


fjgj

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Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


Blood Empress of Thunderdome

Tap to emit spores


Clapping Larry

SurreptitiousMuffin posted:

*** THAT'S 20 ENTRIES ***

However Chili did extend the deadline and so it doesn't seem fair to hold him to that toxx. What does seem fair is that the next twelve hours become an absolute circus of FJGJ screaming. If you're new, it's common practice to scream FJGJ at the judges (FAST JUDGING, GOOD JUDGING) while they deliberate. Often this comes in the form of GIFs or photoshops.



CAN I CREATE A FJGJ PIC?
Yes do it nerd. Post it. This will be a FJGJ to remember.

The Patron Saint of FJGJ is LA Judge Craig Mitchell. He is both a fast judge, and a good judge.


For the next twelve hours, this thread is the FJGJ photoshop and flashfic zone.

And in case you can't do pictures because you're cursed by a witch or something

INTERPROMPT: "Fast judging, my friend, is good judging."

sjgj

drag it out chili, savor the power

flerp
Feb 25, 2014


the fastest and goodest judging comes only from u r heart

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010

I got it wrong. Look, I'm well aware I got it wrong and uh, I got it wrong.


near far wherever you are I know that ur heart shouldn't go on long because that's not fast

Chili
Jan 23, 2004

College kids ain't shit


Grimey Drawer

Subs are closed.

crabrock
Aug 2, 2002

aka sticklegs



Grimey Drawer

anime was right
Jun 27, 2008

death is certain
keep yr cool



judging is fast because judging is good

Hawklad
May 3, 2003


Who wants to live
forever?


DIVE!

College Slice

Dammit, disqualified. I'll post it anyways.



The Academy
1274 words

Diagnosis: Dissociative Personality Disorder (multiple personalities)

I stand at the camp gate a few steps from where my parents and Father Walter confer in a low murmur. I'm inside myself. The Missouri winds whip the pines into a soft chorus of wispy vowels and creaking consonants, calling to me, calling my names. I try not to listen but it's better than hearing my parents prattle on to Father Walter. Telling him about my condition, about why they are discharging me into his hands.

He already knows, of course. They've written him, explained to him in their bad grammar their troubled daughter with her lapses and episodes, her disturbing behavior, her demonic possession. Their words, of course, not mine. I'm no demon.

I'm fine. We're fine, all of us. I'm not talking about my family—that 'we' in my life is very hosed up. No, I mean me. All the parts of me. Doing fine enough, considering.

The stiff wind blows my hair against my face, and I shove my hands deep into my jacket pockets. I shift my weight back and forth. My parents and Father Walter are still talking, Mother in her long dress and Father in a somber suit.

And then they are gone, barely a word spoken from Father and a dutiful hug from Mother and they were back into the car, driving away. My little sister turns and looks at me out the back window, eyes wide. I wave. She doesn't wave back. She looks scared.

"Hello, Jeanette," Father Walter says. He looks me over, gaze lingering over the bare skin of my chest and legs.

It's Alex," I say.

"We'll see about that."

He turns and walks up the path towards the school building. My prison for the next six weeks. Sheets of dead brown ivy cascade down from the roof, giving it the look of a long abandoned mausoleum. Lucy would approve. I think. Following him up the path, the humid air reeks of decaying leaves and the forgotten pollen of dried-up flowers. We pass through two large doors and into the atrium. It's clean, cool, and white. White everywhere: the walls, the ceiling, the floor, even the chlorine and starched uniform of the nurse to whom Father Walter hands me.

"Welcome to The Academy, Jeanette." She offers her hand, which I ignore. Nurse Rebecca, according to her lapel. "You're going to like it here."

The first of many lies.

#

My days at the Academy are all the same. Church service at sunrise, Bible study classes all morning, therapy sessions in the afternoons, more Bible study, dinner, then "activity time" each evening before lights out at sundown—mostly dull board and card games with the other dull girls at the school. No phones, no Internet or social media, and definitely no television. Can't let those loose television and Hollywood morals corrupt our young, impressionable minds. Hell, that's what our lessons are for.

I make no friends, speak as little as possible, avoid eye contact. I don't need curing. The devil isn't inside me, needing some good old Christian theology to drive him out, like my parents think. Not even close. But I know that I'm different, that inside me is a well from which my various alters emerge, bubbling to the surface to drive, to entertain, to take control and shape events until they return to the depths. What they do down there in the meantime I don't know. I know they must quarrel—I can feel it.

As usual Alex, with his surliness and defiance, takes over. Maya might have appeared, if I let my guard down, more social, maybe even trading ironic looks with the other girls during therapy circles. She and Alex don't like each other much. Jeanette and Lucy are in me also, but they never came out. Alex and Maya don't let them. It's for the best.

Until that last day.

#

I sneak out though the kitchen door, head low, running across the grounds and into the woods. Branches dig into my arms as I crashed through the thicket. They must have a motion sensors—before long I hear shouting behind me.

I keep moving, determined. I can make it to the interstate. From there catch a ride, gone forever.

But the trees thicken. A flash of black fur over my right shoulder, and I stumble into a small clearing and there she is. A black bear, glaring, and then rearing up on her hind legs. I freeze then stumble backwards, in the direction of her cub behind me. She drops, black fur high, and advances, nose low. I freeze.

I'm on my back, helpless, as the mother bear raises her giant black paw.

Crack! A gunshot from behind.

The sound of gunfire.

It went very fast after that. Alex was gone, receded, and in his place rushes Jeanette, me, the little six year old girl, crying, screaming, trying to understand why Daddy yelled at Mommy and that terrible night with the gun. It sounds just the same, a piercing crack that echoes in my brain as I watch my mommy fall back against the oven, red on her apron, and then there is another crack behind me and Daddy fell as well.

I lie on the humus of the Missouri forest, shaking, snotting, out of control. The bear was gone, run off. My parents were gone. Instead I had a cheap simulacrum of family made from my uncle and his wife—Mother and Father, they insisted I call them, bound to their Bibles and horrid prejudices, hating me for corrupting their precious Mary.

I was Jeanette so I was a broken, babbling thing. Helpless. Father Walter kneels down, places his hand on my brow. He seems so kind, so forgiving. Like Christ himself.

I allow myself, Jeanette, to be picked up and carried. I am crying, of course. I always cry. But it is peaceful, being borne by many hands through the forest back to the Academy. I'm sad. I miss my parents. I feel love for Father Walter, Nurse Rebecca. They love me and want me to be better. Just like my parents did, which is why they sent me here.

I allow myself to be put on a couch in Father Walter's chambers. He dismisses the nurse, and we are alone.

I know I have the devil in me. I know I'm not worthy. I know that punishment is the best thing for me. Only if I'm punished will I have a chance to heal.

Father Walter kneels down beside me, next to the couch. He places a warm hand on my shoulder.

"Relax, child. I know you are suffering. Lucifer has taken you. But I can make you whole."

And that's all I want, to have all the parts of me stitched together into one complete whole, a complete person. For the first time, a normal person.

I relax. Father Walter will take care of me.

I've never been so sure of something in my life.

"This is between you and I and God, Jeanette," he says. "It's a special healing bond. A sacred bond of trust."

His hand moves to my inner thigh.

And then I'm not Jeanette anymore. From deep within the well rises Lucy. Lucy the protector, the fiery, fallen angel, all twisted spikes and bitter rage, rising. My skin hotter, igniting, searing pain and strength and rage giving life to my body, my muscles, my mind. My hands reach up, each red, bony finger aflame, wrap around his neck, and squeeze.

His eyes bulge and turn red. I smile.

My sisters and brothers will take care of me. We're in this together.

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk

Hawklad posted:

Dammit, disqualified. I'll post it anyways.



The Academy
1274 words

Diagnosis: Dissociative Personality Disorder (multiple personalities)

I stand at the camp gate a few steps from where my parents and Father Walter confer in a low murmur. I'm inside myself. The Missouri winds whip the pines into a soft chorus of wispy vowels and creaking consonants, calling to me, calling my names. I try not to listen but it's better than hearing my parents prattle on to Father Walter. Telling him about my condition, about why they are discharging me into his hands.

He already knows, of course. They've written him, explained to him in their bad grammar their troubled daughter with her lapses and episodes, her disturbing behavior, her demonic possession. Their words, of course, not mine. I'm no demon.

I'm fine. We're fine, all of us. I'm not talking about my family—that 'we' in my life is very hosed up. No, I mean me. All the parts of me. Doing fine enough, considering.

The stiff wind blows my hair against my face, and I shove my hands deep into my jacket pockets. I shift my weight back and forth. My parents and Father Walter are still talking, Mother in her long dress and Father in a somber suit.

And then they are gone, barely a word spoken from Father and a dutiful hug from Mother and they were back into the car, driving away. My little sister turns and looks at me out the back window, eyes wide. I wave. She doesn't wave back. She looks scared.

"Hello, Jeanette," Father Walter says. He looks me over, gaze lingering over the bare skin of my chest and legs.

It's Alex," I say.

"We'll see about that."

He turns and walks up the path towards the school building. My prison for the next six weeks. Sheets of dead brown ivy cascade down from the roof, giving it the look of a long abandoned mausoleum. Lucy would approve. I think. Following him up the path, the humid air reeks of decaying leaves and the forgotten pollen of dried-up flowers. We pass through two large doors and into the atrium. It's clean, cool, and white. White everywhere: the walls, the ceiling, the floor, even the chlorine and starched uniform of the nurse to whom Father Walter hands me.

"Welcome to The Academy, Jeanette." She offers her hand, which I ignore. Nurse Rebecca, according to her lapel. "You're going to like it here."

The first of many lies.

#

My days at the Academy are all the same. Church service at sunrise, Bible study classes all morning, therapy sessions in the afternoons, more Bible study, dinner, then "activity time" each evening before lights out at sundown—mostly dull board and card games with the other dull girls at the school. No phones, no Internet or social media, and definitely no television. Can't let those loose television and Hollywood morals corrupt our young, impressionable minds. Hell, that's what our lessons are for.

I make no friends, speak as little as possible, avoid eye contact. I don't need curing. The devil isn't inside me, needing some good old Christian theology to drive him out, like my parents think. Not even close. But I know that I'm different, that inside me is a well from which my various alters emerge, bubbling to the surface to drive, to entertain, to take control and shape events until they return to the depths. What they do down there in the meantime I don't know. I know they must quarrel—I can feel it.

As usual Alex, with his surliness and defiance, takes over. Maya might have appeared, if I let my guard down, more social, maybe even trading ironic looks with the other girls during therapy circles. She and Alex don't like each other much. Jeanette and Lucy are in me also, but they never came out. Alex and Maya don't let them. It's for the best.

Until that last day.

#

I sneak out though the kitchen door, head low, running across the grounds and into the woods. Branches dig into my arms as I crashed through the thicket. They must have a motion sensors—before long I hear shouting behind me.

I keep moving, determined. I can make it to the interstate. From there catch a ride, gone forever.

But the trees thicken. A flash of black fur over my right shoulder, and I stumble into a small clearing and there she is. A black bear, glaring, and then rearing up on her hind legs. I freeze then stumble backwards, in the direction of her cub behind me. She drops, black fur high, and advances, nose low. I freeze.

I'm on my back, helpless, as the mother bear raises her giant black paw.

Crack! A gunshot from behind.

The sound of gunfire.

It went very fast after that. Alex was gone, receded, and in his place rushes Jeanette, me, the little six year old girl, crying, screaming, trying to understand why Daddy yelled at Mommy and that terrible night with the gun. It sounds just the same, a piercing crack that echoes in my brain as I watch my mommy fall back against the oven, red on her apron, and then there is another crack behind me and Daddy fell as well.

I lie on the humus of the Missouri forest, shaking, snotting, out of control. The bear was gone, run off. My parents were gone. Instead I had a cheap simulacrum of family made from my uncle and his wife—Mother and Father, they insisted I call them, bound to their Bibles and horrid prejudices, hating me for corrupting their precious Mary.

I was Jeanette so I was a broken, babbling thing. Helpless. Father Walter kneels down, places his hand on my brow. He seems so kind, so forgiving. Like Christ himself.

I allow myself, Jeanette, to be picked up and carried. I am crying, of course. I always cry. But it is peaceful, being borne by many hands through the forest back to the Academy. I'm sad. I miss my parents. I feel love for Father Walter, Nurse Rebecca. They love me and want me to be better. Just like my parents did, which is why they sent me here.

I allow myself to be put on a couch in Father Walter's chambers. He dismisses the nurse, and we are alone.

I know I have the devil in me. I know I'm not worthy. I know that punishment is the best thing for me. Only if I'm punished will I have a chance to heal.

Father Walter kneels down beside me, next to the couch. He places a warm hand on my shoulder.

"Relax, child. I know you are suffering. Lucifer has taken you. But I can make you whole."

And that's all I want, to have all the parts of me stitched together into one complete whole, a complete person. For the first time, a normal person.

I relax. Father Walter will take care of me.

I've never been so sure of something in my life.

"This is between you and I and God, Jeanette," he says. "It's a special healing bond. A sacred bond of trust."

His hand moves to my inner thigh.

And then I'm not Jeanette anymore. From deep within the well rises Lucy. Lucy the protector, the fiery, fallen angel, all twisted spikes and bitter rage, rising. My skin hotter, igniting, searing pain and strength and rage giving life to my body, my muscles, my mind. My hands reach up, each red, bony finger aflame, wrap around his neck, and squeeze.

His eyes bulge and turn red. I smile.

My sisters and brothers will take care of me. We're in this together.

you misspelt fjgj

flerp
Feb 25, 2014


how do u spell fjgj?

Mrenda
Mar 14, 2012



INTERPROMPT: "Fast judging, my friend, is good judging."

Why I Run, I Must Run


Muscles ping and muscles twinge. Pinging muscles build up, and up and you feel it the next morning when you're lying in bed waiting on grapefruit and coffee. You only had one beer after the race. It was a mistake. It was a mistake to go to the bar, but that's where the photographer was. You wanted another photograph with another marathon medal.

She brings in your laptop with the breakfast. Not your work laptop, both of you know well not to mix personal life with the work. There's too much at stake. If the media could crawl through your browsing to show you up as debased, or pandering they'd have a field day. You don't trust the techies not to release it. If they found something juicy, any little insight into your personal life they'd hang you. Your life is from the bench. That's what the public should see.

It was only a couple of beers. That's all you had, a few post-run recovery Imperial IPAs. The dry hops opened your sinuses. The pungent body brought back the taste of high school and sneaking joints with women, really girls fending off your limp teenage body who were fully right to laugh at your advances. They were coy and coquettish when they turned you down. The shelter wasn't.

You argued. You had all achieved in the marathon. They're the people you advocate for. They're proof that funding, positivity and judicial kindness can help anyone escape their trauma, ill health, or plain bad luck. They still turned you away. "You've had a beer, Judge." When you brought out your grad school mock trial arguments they changed their tone. "Look, man, not tonight." They tried to close the door. "Not with beer on your breath. You know that."

You do know that. You know it's different for you and them. You took a taxi to a bar so you could have your photo taken with a medal not worth melting down. They went back to a joyful and respectful party at the shelter that helped them find some peace, despite all it's rules and restrictions on people who just want a cook out and a few beers. Maybe you can organise a photographer for them, with their marathon award, or a food truck with burritos and falafel. Some reward for their run.

Walking into the kitchen she's drinking coffee. Her flowers are blooming outside the window. You think of all the tours you've taken to the shelters. Dorm room beds for adults, and a few enclosed rooms with no doors for anyone really put out. You look through the files of the cases before you. Possession, theft and some referrals for psychiatric commitment. When you ran you felt free. Now you have to judge. You want everyone to have your freedom.

BeefSupreme
Sep 14, 2007

DOUBLE BEEF ACTION

Yeah come on judges fjgj

Chili
Jan 23, 2004

College kids ain't shit


Grimey Drawer

RESULTS


Gather round everyone. Please, take your seats. I know you’ve all had a long day and I’m the last person you want to be hearing from but group is group. Now, before we check in, I’d like to recap a little.

Many of your stories did what I was hoping they wouldn’t do: put the diagnosis first.

I was hoping for a lighter hand and though some stories did this, most made the story very much ABOUT the diagnosis instead of a character who happened to have had the diagnosis. That’s probably the biggest complaint I have. On the flipside, this was a pretty strong week. I’ve judged a fair bit now and I was more entertained and captivated this week than most. So good on you, Thunderdome.


First, I’d like to issue some pull-ups to some of the more positive peers on the unit today:


Kaishai, wrote a clean story, that addressed the diagnosis a little more directly than I would have liked, but her protag was slick, as was her prose.

Fleta Mcgurn also wrote a story that pretty much focused entirely on the diagnosis. But, the dialogue in the story was sharp, pointed, and made a lot of sense. I could see it all playing out in my head and the environmental description was well balanced.

Thranguy wrote a story that may not have addressed the diagnosis enough, oddly. But, it nailed a culture and rang true for one of the judges who found it worthy of his support.

And our runner up: Jitzu would have won the week had it not been for a pointless set piece involving a car crash. Otherwise, this was a wonderful little story that dealt with a challenging diagnosis. Good characterization and well done for getting us on the side of your protag.



But, of course, we can’t have positive peers without some negative ones. This brings us to our negative, level-drops:



crabrock would have lost if one other judge didn't find your dribble worthy of a chuckle. This was a rushed story that was riddled with errors and didn’t make me laugh when it certainly seemed like it wanted to. It was heavy handed on the diagnosis and it didn’t accomplish much in the way of anything.

Uranium Phoenix submitted a pretty on-the-nose story for one of his diagnoses and didn’t quite address the other. But more importantly, the story didn’t quite land and while we should have been getting to know one of the protags better, a lot of time got wasted in the end on a new character.

RandomPauI submitted a weird pile of words. That pile of words dealt with treatment and the diagnosis head on and it ultimately did not connect or turn into much.

Third Emperor wrote a story that had an interesting concept but was ultimately messy, and hard to follow.


Which ultimately brings us to our loser:


Jay W. Friks somehow managed to bork up the formatting yet again, but forgetting that, the story here is just loving crazy and not in a good way. I don’t know how or why this person is ingesting things apart from trying to attain some sort of blacksmith singularity. And the doctor at the end just makes no drat sense to me.

But we all know who the real losers are here: Beige, Djeser, Kenfucius, and The Saddest Rhino have all failed to submit an entry this week. They deserve your shame, ire, and bullying.



Now that all that unfortunate business has come to pass, however, it’s time to award our Peer of the Week!



Congratulations are in order to Sitting Here who managed to write a compelling story that had characters that had a diagnosis. The introduction and the way we meet these characters was a lot of fun. I liked them both and found myself rooting for your people. This is what I wanted out of this week. You handled the prompt well and wrote a lovely story.

With that, Sitting Here rises to the level 3 high loop, and her discharge date is likely just around the corner.

Djeser
Mar 22, 2013



tsps (tardy submission penitent submission)

Djeser fucked around with this message at Apr 20, 2017 around 06:05

Chili
Jan 23, 2004

College kids ain't shit


Grimey Drawer

First batch of crits.

Run-N-Gun’s are stuff I’m saying as I’m reading your story for the first time. Overall is my reaction afterward. Please come and chat with me on IRC about your story if you’d like me to expand. I’m always happy to talk shop or to, at least, try and unpack my dribblycrits. I tend to address the big picture stuff as my grammar skillz and syntax whatevers aren’t quite as good as either of my esteemed cojudges. Figure you can definitely get better info from them on that.



The Noise When I Stop

Run-N-Gun

Good title.

“My interloping mind” little on the nose and telly for just getting started.

TIL what Perspex is. Thank you.


“ I should set out now, but the press of bodies around me forces panicked images into my mind: me falling and scrambling through them.” Could’ve used more images here.

“The city doesn’t care. If it did the buses would be on time.” This is probably your best sentence so far, this kind of dissonant thinking is key to a disorganized mind.

“An accusation. Buses not showing up isn’t my fault yet I can’t help but feel guilty.” – I want to like this more, but you end up just telling us about the guilt and not really showing it. Have her lower her head or something.

“Now it says the next bus won’t be along for twenty-five minutes. It doesn’t mean anything. It could mean something.” Good.

“The LED arrivals sign blinks off. “My fish is going to defrost in this heat,” a woman says. She looks at me and I stave off the feeling I caused the weather, the crowd of people, and the delayed bus. “ I want so badly to like what’s going on but you’re kinda “teaching” the emotion and feelings here a bit too much.

“My body shakes but examing my hands they’re perfectly still.” I see what you’re going for here, but this could be stronger. “My body shakes, my body is still.” Might work better, just dive right into the confusion. Also typo.

Overall: You did a good job with a lot in this. But, I do have my issues with your piece. Let’s talk good first.

You masterfully handled person’s psyche in such a way that I got what was going. I also kind of liked how the story itself was so stripped down and minimally focused because you’re ultimately conveying that even a series of small, mundane tasks, seem monumentally difficult for the protag.

Where I took some issue was with just how on the nose and outspoken your protag is. She ends up telling us a lot of what she is experiencing and I think some ambiguity would have helped you out a lot here. The chunk of “it doesn’t mean anything. It could mean something.” Is good because we’re seeing the thought process instead of being told about it.

All in all, this was a pretty good effort. I’ve read several of your stories, this is probably my favorite of yours thus far. Pretty nice.



Only Horse

Run-N-Gun

The hook isn’t as good as you think it is. Add some color there to make it punch more. If you’re gonna start off with a quick sentence like that throw in a nod to how it smells or something. Right now, it’s just a sad thing that’s happening.

“In my bathrobe, frozen on my way to the mailbox, I see the its chest expand and contract, contrasting with the heavy stillness of its head and limbs.” – Clunky sentence and a typo combo.

“Her voice is so shrill, as if this is the greatest suffering she's ever known.” Ditch ‘so’.

“He mother shakes her head. That’s the scene: Horse, girl, mother.” Unsure why need this outline thing.

The eating is introduced well. I get that he’s stressed and triggererd and is eating ‘cos of it.

“When I turn around, the horseman Famine has taken a seat at my kitchen table.” This is a confusing sentence for many reasons.

“He has horse-eyes, dark infinities above gaunt cheeks.” Excellent.

OK. I guess the scene setting in the end is kinda paying off and is turning into an economical way of getting across to the reader what characters are in play in the scene. But, it’s clunky and I don’t particularly care for it.

Eh, that’s an ending I guess.

Overall: This is a story about one event of binge eating. The motivation for the episode is clear but I’m not entirely sure I buy it. He sees something traumatic and I get the sense that you want the fix to be easy. Do you want us to be shouting as we read “just feed the drat horse!?” I’m not sure. It certainly seems like food would’ve helped the poor thing. Binge eating as a response to just seeing something horrific seems a little wonky. Especially when the situation can be easily remedied. Anyway, this wasn’t bad, but it didn’t do much for me.



Aurumvora

Run-N-Gun

Coulda read this in judgemode and known it was you just from the formatting. Look at your spacing. Moreover, look at where things break. Just… stop! I am done commenting on it at this point.

Not sure what “this whole process” is. Feel like you could just tell the reader outright. I’m a few graphs in now and I’m not entirely sure what this palmspitting (gross) dude is up to.

OK, guess that accounts for the palmspitting.

“Two of the little gold statuettes were formed like a pair of bishops like on a chessboard.” Like clunky.

“One was an archer with a cruel looking arrow in his right hand ready to nock it in his bow. It looked barbed. It would feel very painful going down.” – This is kind of out of nowhere if the prompt weren’t PICA.

OK. I don’t know why he’s doing this. PICA is a weird diagnosis but the motivation has to make a little more sense than “he feels incomplete so eats things.”

“I’ve heard much about you from the woman upstairs. You pay for the other half with the contents correct?”” Lolwut.

What even is this?

Overall:

OK so there’s just… magically some doctor who digs expensive things out of people? Who even is that? What is this story? I don’t understand why it happened in the first place and I don’t understand how this deus ex machina doctor could ever be a thing.



Julian

Run-N-Gun

Not crazy about the hook. Doesn’t really tell all that much but does kinda paint a decent picture I guess.

“When he arrived in town,” Kinda wanted more from this walk.

“A strong wind picked up as Julian walked beside the park. There weren’t any people, but there was a too-thin stray dog slinking through. Julian made a mental note: he may need to take in another rescue.” Oh, nevermind, we still get some walk. Good little sidenote, provides some characterization and depth.

“The one who’d said, after she calmed down, “The mother in me finds that problem too upsetting to treat. You’ll have to look elsewhere.” Never mind that he didn’t act on his feelings, didn’t break any laws, didn’t choose the disease. On the other hand, thought Julian, the therapist had a point. Just because some monsters never decided to be monsters, it doesn’t change what they are.” This is good.

“Some school children walked past. These weren’t much to look at. He didn’t have to try not to at any rate.” Less is more. I’m glad you didn’t linger on this. It still stung.

Hm. I’m not sure you needed the car accident.

Overall

Definitely a tough ending and does address a truth of stigma in society. Certainly, as you intend to put out, Julian is no villain. If anything, the guy is a hero. But, of course, who could ever see him that way? Not even his mother. You soften the blow with the dogs, and I think that’s a smart move because we don’t want to see Julian hurt. It’s more important that you address how we as a society view this issue.

I don’t see the need for the car accident. We’re already on his side and we already know that everyone hates him. You didn’t need a random on-the-nose sidebar that seemed a bit too heavy handed.

Apart from that, this was good.



Look, Sometimes It Just Happens, OK?

Run-N-Gun

Considering the diagnosis, what a great title.

Reading through this quickly. This is nice and light.

“Still, I didn’t stopped, and there was a little bit of a smile on her face.” Typo etc.

Aw, that’s kinda sweet.

Overall

OK, so you know exactly what this is. It’s fun, it’s good. I mean, you had encopresis and you didn’t poo poo the bed. So in that regard, you failed. Otherwise, this is a functional, cute story about making GBS threads oneself, so bravo.



After the End

Run-N-Gun

You’re throwing us right into it and already I can hear this conversation play out in my head. You’re off to a good start.

““I just told you, it was really important to Mom! She’s dead, but it’s not like she never existed.

Laura just shook her head and crumpled the yellowing certificate, throwing it in the bag with more force than necessary. It hurt to watch.

It hurt to repeat this conversation, over and over, and after about six iterations we had nearly given up. I cleared a hole on the sofa and collapsed onto the sagging, dusty springs, while she gingerly leaned against the kitchen island and stared at me.”” Good.

“My sister looked at me. “Who told you to keep this stuff?”

“Mom wanted it.”

“Who told you to keep it?”

“Nobody told me, she just wanted it.”” – Good dialogue.

“We sat in silence. Denise looked at her hands. I looked at the piles of shadow that surrounded us. In my imagination, each dusty stack was a grey-haired specter, scolding me: Bad daughter. No sympathy. I heard her voice, thick with tears: Don’t throw that away, that’s your brother’s book. We can’t forget him. Don’t throw that out, I might need it someday. Smaller. Don’t throw me away. Don’t erase me. I wasn’t important, but I was alive. Someone needs to know I was alive. In my mind, she was eclipsed by the garbage, whining and sniffling as trash built around her in concentric circles, burying her. Hiding her face.” Excellent.

Overall

A story told mostly in dialogue. Good dialogue, mind, and you didn’t get overindulgent with describing the clutter. This was a solid entry.



Chorea (the Dance)

Run-N-Gun

Solid Opening.

“They say that Huntington’s makes you irritable. She says it’s dying that makes her irritable.” They say? Eh, this is weak.

You’re achieving a remarkable amount of tension over chopping garlic.

OK read the rest quickly and without incident one way or the other.

Overall:

So the story’s protag didn’t really have the diagnosis but you could make the argument that her partner was kinda the protag I guess? Either way, it was nice having a story that showed a reaction to the diagnosis in a caretaker so I can appreciate that. The story worked, made its point, but didn’t wow me.

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


Blood Empress of Thunderdome

Tap to emit spores


Clapping Larry

Thank you judges. I am too drunk and sleepy to make a prompt right now but I'll come up with one sometime in the AM PST

Chili
Jan 23, 2004

College kids ain't shit


Grimey Drawer

Sitting Here posted:

Thank you judges. I am too drunk and sleepy to make a prompt right now but I'll come up with one sometime in the AM PST

But prompt though

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk

Chili posted:

But prompt though

nods, whispers really quietly 'proooooooooompt'

Radical and BADical!
Jun 27, 2010

by Lowtax


Fun Shoe

Sitting Here posted:

Thank you judges. I am too drunk and sleepy to make a prompt right now but I'll come up with one sometime in the AM PST

You posted this at 5:10 am. It is now 8:20 am. Eastern time zone, in case you do math as well as you post prompts. That's three whole hours. Where is it?

flerp
Feb 25, 2014


Sitting Here posted:

Thank you judges. I am too drunk and sleepy to make a prompt right now but I'll come up with one sometime in the AM PST

im glad even the blood queen is following the new insanely bad trend of NOT POSTING PROMPT

Chili
Jan 23, 2004

College kids ain't shit


Grimey Drawer

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


Blood Empress of Thunderdome

Tap to emit spores


Clapping Larry

Week CCXLV: it's all about me, fuckers

I stayed up way too late trying to come up with yet another way to squeeze blood out of the TD stone. The truth is, I just want to read stories that deal with topics that appeal to me. Normally this involves a lot of Googling and a lot of reading lovely previews on Amazon, but Thunderdome presents a unique opportunity. I can make the stuff I like come to me. So I am going to do my best to help you do that. I am going to present some topics, along with an explanation of stuff I don't want to see. You can choose to write about all of them or one of them or maybe just a couple.


STUFF I LIKE

the near future

I like stories that make a projection about what the world might be like over the next couple of decades. For this category, I don't want apocalyptic stories. I don't want to read about memes that exist IRL (though you can try to make up your own, if you're feeling brave). I don't want blatant political satire. I don't want a ripoff of an episode of Black Mirror. I don't want unrealistically advanced technology.

fungus!

Stories that deal with fungi in some way. I don't particularly want stories where the fungus is considered malevolent or harmful. I don't want stories about the time you took shrooms when you were 20 (although stories can still deal with the psychoactive properties of some fungi--just don't write a trip report). I don't want over-the-top body horror.

long-term relationships

I dunno, I think there tends to be too much focus on meeting/falling in love in a lot of stories. I enjoy reading about the challenges of long term commitment to a romantic partner. There aren't a whole lot of 'don'ts' for this category, except that I don't want to read about first meetings/falling in love.

Dreams, obvs

I've written a lot of dreamy bullshit for Thunderdome. I like stories that deal with the internal reality of our slumbering minds. I don't want stories that build up something cool only to say ~it was all a dream~. I don't want stories that use dream logic as an excuse to be pointless. I don't want stories where the protagonist(s) is passive and idle while interesting things happen around them.

mythologizing the ordinary

i'm fascinated by the personal myths and superstitions people hold, often without even realizing it. I'm actually having trouble thinking of the exact ways in which you could gently caress this up, but I'm sure goons will make it obvious in hindsight.

non-human perspectives

i like stories that take me into the mind of something very unlike myself. I don't want to read about a dog who loves his master so much and is a Good Boy (you can write about dogs, I guess, but holy gently caress don't do that trope). Don't do that thing where you spend the whole story having your non-human describe human things in awkward animal/alien terms, even when it's perfectly obvious to the reader what the character is seeing/experiencing. No talking animals. No stories where ~the humans were the real monsters all along~.

the broad concept of outsider art

so there's the 'real' definition of outsider art and the broad, slightly inaccurate one. I'm using the broad, slightly inaccurate one. Basically, i like art that expresses a cool concept in spite of lack of training, practice, or education. This isn't so much a topic I want people to write about (though you can, if you want) as it is a general flavor for the entire week. If I like your ideas, I won't necessarily hold poor writing against you.


BUT WAIT WHERE'S THE GIMMICK!?

well. Normally I would forgo having a word count, but I decided this would be a good opportunity to try out something I've been wanting to do for a while. Any time between now and when signups close, you may post a one sentence 'pitch' for your story. A good pitch will give me some idea of the characters and conflict in very few words. Step one of this article on the snowflake method has some good advice on writing one sentence summaries.

If you decide to pitch me your story summary, you get 300 extra words. I will also tell you whether your premise seems interesting to me or not, though I won't be giving any feedback beyond that. You can still write about a premise I don't find interesting, and anyone who pitches a summary will get the extra words. Because someone asked, yes you have to sign up to do a pitch.

Sitting Here posted:

A little more clarity: you aren't obligated to stick to your pitch, though it's more fun if you do. If I don't like your pitch, it might still be worth turning into a story! But if you decide to take my opinion to heart, you can certainly discard your lovely idea.

If you want to be really hardcore, you can to complete whatever you pitch to me, regardless of my opinion about it.


Deadline for signups and summary pitches: Friday, April 14th at 11:59PM PST
Deadline for story submissions: Sunday, April 16th at 11:59PM PST

Word count: 1200 words, plus a possible 300 extra words if you pitch a summary.

Judges:
me
a gorgeous judgeoh it's just sebmojo
a handsome judge

Entrants:

flerp
Tyrannosaurus
Radical and BADical!
ThirdEmperor
djeser
chili
newtestleper
SurreptitiousMuffin
Uranium Phoenix
Fleta Mcgurn
Thranguy
Hawklad
crabrock
Jay W. Friks
RandomPauI
Entenzahn
Mrenda
Ceighk
Killer-of-Lawyers
The Cut of Your Jib
BeefSupreme

Sitting Here fucked around with this message at Apr 15, 2017 around 04:07

flerp
Feb 25, 2014


in

Tyrannosaurus
Apr 12, 2006

I failed to submit because I was so excited about New Zealander Tim Price winning the Burghley Horse Trials on the quirky but freakishly talented Ringwood Sky Boy

I'm in.

Radical and BADical!
Jun 27, 2010

by Lowtax


Fun Shoe

IN

Pitch: A man becomes host to a benevolent fungus who appears in his dreams and guides him into uncharted subconscious territory and a deeper understanding of his true nature.

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


Blood Empress of Thunderdome

Tap to emit spores


Clapping Larry

note: I will respond to these with "yes", "no", and "kinda".

Radical and BADical! posted:

IN

Pitch: A man becomes host to a benevolent fungus who appears in his dreams and guides him into uncharted subconscious territory and a deeper understanding of his true nature.

kinda

ThirdEmperor
Aug 7, 2013


SCREAMING YES
MOTHERFUCKER
I AM GUILTY, I AM DEATH


IN

Pitch Nvm, too similiar to the above.

ThirdEmperor fucked around with this message at Apr 10, 2017 around 19:05

Djeser
Mar 22, 2013



In

Pitch: Inform-All-Human-Races-Of-SODIUM-Chloride-Conspiracy-To-Keep-All-Human-Races-Blinded-To-Reptilian-TRUTHS-And-Continued-Enslavement-By-Arachnid-Politicians-For-My-Entire-Sixteen-YEARS-OF-LIFE

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


Blood Empress of Thunderdome

Tap to emit spores


Clapping Larry

A little more clarity: you aren't obligated to stick to your pitch, though it's more fun if you do. If I don't like your pitch, it might still be worth turning into a story! But if you decide to take my opinion to heart, you can certainly discard your lovely idea.

If you want to be really hardcore, you can to complete whatever you pitch to me, regardless of my opinion about it.

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


Blood Empress of Thunderdome

Tap to emit spores


Clapping Larry

Djeser posted:

In

Pitch: Inform-All-Human-Races-Of-SODIUM-Chloride-Conspiracy-To-Keep-All-Human-Races-Blinded-To-Reptilian-TRUTHS-And-Continued-Enslavement-By-Arachnid-Politicians-For-My-Entire-Sixteen-YEARS-OF-LIFE

yes

Chili
Jan 23, 2004

College kids ain't shit


Grimey Drawer

In the not so distant future, a large medical device conglomerate believes that it has found the solution to suicide prevention.

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk

ill judge dis

Chili
Jan 23, 2004

College kids ain't shit


Grimey Drawer

Chili posted:

In the not so distant future, a large medical device conglomerate believes that it has found the solution to suicide prevention.

That is, how to prevent suicide. Not, you know, solve it from not happening.

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


Blood Empress of Thunderdome

Tap to emit spores


Clapping Larry

Chili posted:

In the not so distant future, a large medical device conglomerate believes that it has found the solution to suicide prevention.

kinda

newtestleper
Oct 30, 2003


in

(USER WAS BANNED FOR THIS POST)

flerp
Feb 25, 2014


pitch: a twenty something year old drops out of grad school to find his unknown father, discovering that his father spent the last years of his life painting the walls of his farm house before dying

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


Blood Empress of Thunderdome

Tap to emit spores


Clapping Larry

flerp posted:

pitch: a twenty something year old drops out of grad school to find his unknown father, discovering that his father spent the last years of his life painting the walls of his farm house before dying

no

SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010

I got it wrong. Look, I'm well aware I got it wrong and uh, I got it wrong.


pitch: human misery manifests as rot and mould. Perspective of a man being consumed by his surroundings, becoming detached from the human experience.

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007


Blood Empress of Thunderdome

Tap to emit spores


Clapping Larry

SurreptitiousMuffin posted:

pitch: human misery manifests as rot and mould. Perspective of a man being consumed by his surroundings, becoming detached from the human experience.

kinda

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SurreptitiousMuffin
Mar 21, 2010

I got it wrong. Look, I'm well aware I got it wrong and uh, I got it wrong.


repitch:

twice-sit, sit-inside, inside-head, head-twice. A riddle: there is less as it grows.
Ivy through broken windows, a man sits at a piano; it constructs him.

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