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derp posted:that is a lot of entrants :o is this the most popular prompt in thunderdome? if not what is? just curious With about thirty entries, this isn't even in the top twenty.
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Oct 13, 2017 19:06
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| # ¿ Apr 26, 2024 01:19 |
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AllNewJonasSalk posted:I am in. The Mandelbrot Set is one of the best-known examples of fractals.
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Oct 14, 2017 00:51
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Signups are closed.
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Oct 14, 2017 00:51
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Closed, nerds
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Oct 16, 2017 12:10
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FURTHERMORE, NERDS, I am livecritting here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1A0ZX6EHIUbN_sfiTo9kA8EPStggX1WFauz6iCkzM8jg/edit?usp=sharing Submission order.
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Oct 16, 2017 13:53
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Quick hot take: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OonDPGwAyfQ [19:24] <Obliterati> tdbot what are your hopes for the final stretch of stories [19:24] <%TDbot> So bad. | Brand New Morning by Benny the Snake - https://thunderdome.cc/?story=2834 [19:24] <Obliterati> thanks buddy Obliterati fucked around with this message at 19:30 on Oct 16, 2017 |
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Oct 16, 2017 19:27
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 Judgment Week CCLXXIThis week I asked you to collapse the laws of physics and human behaviour. Some of you merely collapsed the fabric of storytelling. Some of you broke the Universe over your knee and proceeded to rewrite reality in its blood. This was a week of few middles, and for that if nothing else I am grateful. Our loser stared too deeply into the Heart of Creation, and was consumed by its fires. God rest Sham bam bamina!, whose grip on reality faded even as nothing else changed. Then there were the 'Domers whose response to the fundamental change of the world as they knew it was to lose their minds to madness and no proofreading. DMs go to Derp, whose story told us, no matter how bad it was, they had no choice but to write it; Maigus, who went to Mars insisting the air was breathable no matter what we told them; Kaiju15, whose Higgs Boson panic read like the Daily Mail on cheap acid; BabyRyoga, whose story got so tired of waiting to happen that it crashed the delightful cruise everyone was having; and HaveBlue, who ought to know better than to go out with girls who tie their relationship to orbital mechanics. Above them, furiously remodelling physics ahead of the advancing chaos, come our HMs. spectres of autism probably thinks they weren't writing SF, but whenever your reality collapses and individuals try to change the rules, the SF writers are there, making dirty jokes about biohacks; curlingiron gave us that rare thing, a humorous story that wore its humour without shame; completing the triad of mad scientists we have Thranguy, who reminded us all that, even with DIY nuclear missiles on tap, humans are still humans. The winner, however, tore right into the dark heart of all good SF: you can rewrite reality; you can model it perfectly; you can know precisely what force to apply along which vector, and yet humanity defies the laws. Step forward, Sebmojo. Welcome to the Blood Throne: don't mind the black holes, I'm fairly sure they'll collapse by Friday...
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Oct 16, 2017 22:21
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A reminder that my crits for you all are here. Also, PROOOOOOOMPT
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Oct 16, 2017 22:27
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In.
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Oct 16, 2017 23:34
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Fucksake also in
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Oct 24, 2017 11:10
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Kaishai posted:For the love of little green apples, Thunderdome, Wait, do I need to put the prompt in at all? I enjoy making judges do extra work, hth
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Oct 30, 2017 04:37
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e: RIP
Obliterati fucked around with this message at 16:01 on Dec 7, 2017 |
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Oct 30, 2017 07:16
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INTERPROMPT https://twitter.com/JimMFelton/status/921099927958192128
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Oct 30, 2017 14:13
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Please give us a prompt, too many people posting wrong and debating their stories
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Oct 31, 2017 12:17
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In
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Oct 31, 2017 13:29
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Yoruichi posted:Word limit this week? Fukken ruined it mate
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Oct 31, 2017 19:26
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Tyrannosaurus posted:much crit Thanks buddy
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Nov 1, 2017 17:04
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In. Asia, before
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Nov 14, 2017 10:16
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In and because I am an unreliable son of a bitch I 
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Dec 5, 2017 10:19
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Backwards Compatible 390 words First, I clean the payphone. Crystals nestle in the mouthpiece, blown in off the sea. You'd find it quaint: I don't care. With my last wet wipe I polish it, lifting salt and soot from its surface. For a moment, it gleams jet-black in the Launch City moonlight: then I raise it to my mouth and whistle the fourth E above middle C. A system is only as secure as its weakest link, see, and I like my odds. The sound carries, jumping the exchanges and tearing down the wires, from copper through fiber, climbing the tech tree away from this place, branch by branch, until the qubit transformer flips it into a superposition of all possible frequencies. In all the other possibilities, the anti-tampering systems activate and I take a thousand volts to the heart. Here, though, the old phone clunks and I'm in. I figure you wrote me off, see. How's an old man going to stop a rocket? It still waits on the launchpad like nothing happened, still towering above the shanties and pointed straight at the stars, but there are other forces on Earth than gravity. I dial 9 – 6 – 3, pulsing the analog notes. Your fancy cutting-edge stuff doesn't even know what analog is, let alone the fact that it answers to me alone: the signals turn to binary, then qubit, and suddenly I'm past what's left of the security. I ping the ship's status and it comes back to me as a collection of tones, modulated for clarity. You're yet to board, but the rest is here. The nanobots, the terraformers – and, of course, the flags. You've put a lot of thought into those: composite steel flagpoles, fibrous plastic running down the sheet itself. They'd have served you on Ganymede, I guess. I whistle again, as low as I can go. My lips purse tight and hold, and as I hit the tremolo the launch pad sparks into flame. It's pretty hard to aim at twenty-six thousand Hertz, but as she twists and bucks to my tune, I figure I've done good enough. I turn back to the number pad, and prepare to dial out the same way I came. I like my odds. If nothing else, we'll have a chance to talk, you and I. If not here, then somewhere.
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Dec 11, 2017 08:35
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In
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Dec 12, 2017 12:36
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CONSEQUENCES 928 words Super Mario Bros Today's word is CONSEQUENCES. It tears through her eyes and blasts down her optic nerves and, despite her efforts, Andrea thinks about it. CONSEQUENCES: like when you jump without looking and you break your drat ankle; or when you waste your last bullet. If she looks up, pushing her head against the chair's restraints, she can see that moment on the old stone wall, refracted in the beads of water that roll down. She pushes against the straps holding her arms behind her back. There's a little give. Yesterday, it was FRIENDSHIP. The aliens cooed over her memories of FRIENDS. They clicked to one another wordlessly, the thick sounds coming in waves with each new acquaintance, friend, lover; each new edge of the word that was FRIENDSHIP. They jittered and shook so hard they almost lost their grip of each other's hands. But they really like CONSEQUENCES. There she is: dust falling from her fresh-cropped hair, leaning against the wall with the .44 in her hand, still breathing. Two shots left. The last of their soldiers scuttling at her, slow and unafraid, though the dust and the smoke, picking their way over Mark, and Colbane, and Art; two left. She raises the pistol and puts a round right through the lead one's head and it crumples and she draws a breath and there it is, just as she remembers: that halcyon moment where the whole drat world comes shining into focus and the image on the wall sharpens and she takes the second shot, just like on the training ground, aiming for the brain. She misses, of course, but she knows that already. It lunges for her then and she flinches now, feeling the cold stab of the broken glass in her back pocket. Her interrogator turns to her. It is the biggest of them: its six legs are each a tree branch thick. The others don't say a word: instead they cling to one another, communicating as they do by direct physical link. It reaches behind her head, adjusts the harness, and looks to the speaker affixed to its chest. “Inquiry: CONSEQUENCES?” The playback freezes on the first shot and it waves a spindly arm at the wall. “Indicate - CONSEQUENCES.” The thing's head is halfway exploded, its mandibles flailing as the face above caves in. The interrogator leans in. She can smell its breath: it makes a sharp dank tang, like orange peel left out in the sun. It points to the head. “CONSEQUENCES?” With an effort, Andrea pulls her head over and looks it in the eye. “Consequences,” she says. “You don't know a drat thing about consequences.” Maybe that fucker on the wall learned a little something in the instant before her bullet pulped its cortex, but that'd be a clue. Maybe they could have worked it out from the radio, from all those words humans flung into space. Maybe they could have worked it out from all the losses: that maybe, just maybe, there was some kind of connection between invading the Earth and getting shot in the goddamn head. She figured they didn't know much about FRIENDSHIP, but they really ought to know about CONSEQUENCES. It hits her, hard, in the face. She cries out and writhes in her restraints, each jolt of movement loosening the straps and edging her left hand closer to her back pocket, where the glass cuts against her skin. “CONSEQUENCES,” it says, the speaker crackling faintly. “Indicate – CONSEQUENCES.” The playback moves on to the second shot. She can see her mistake now: with her ankle bust she's off-balance. She could have done better. She should have done better. It leans in closer. It's within killing distance: she can put the glass right through its larynx and put one last alien bastard down before the rest put an end to her. Otherwise, one day, they will run out of words to ask about. Her fingers clench around the glass so tightly that she can feel warm slick-wet blood. All she needs to do is- “CONSEQUENCES?” She looks back to the wall. They've zoomed in. Now the wall is nothing but a gigantic .44, lit with muzzle flash. “CONSEQUENCES?” There is a moment, then, of the kind that gets caught in amber. They are all looking at the gunshot. Except for the interrogator, who looks at her. Andrea thinks about CONSEQUENCES. Andrea slides the glass back into her pocket and releases her grip. “Aye,” she says. “CONSEQUENCES.” There is a guttural ululation amongst the aliens. She's heard the sound before. It's the same one they make over the killed and the captured: perhaps a BATTLE CRY, perhaps merely CELEBRATION. As always, it is loud and harsh and quick and they immediately begin to file out. The interrogator stands still and watches them leave. It lays a hand on her cheek, as if to stroke it. “CONSEQUENCES,” it says. “Acquired.” With a gesture, the projection shuts off and she is left with the old castle wall and the darkness. It closes the door behind it. Once their myriad footsteps fade, Andrea laughs, gently. She pulls her arms from the restraints and massages life back into them. Then she carefully replaces them, and redoes the straps just tight enough to pass muster. Tomorrow there will be a new word, and she'll tell them all about that one too. One day, when the tide turns, they will try to talk, to negotiate, to beg: and then, she promises herself in the deep dank dark dungeon, they will learn what CONSEQUENCES means.
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Dec 18, 2017 07:51
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big scary monsters posted:Thank you for the crits, Yoruichi and Antivehicular! Some good early crits indeed
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Dec 19, 2017 11:29
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Prompt
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Dec 27, 2017 11:24
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Things I like about Thunderdome - Words are sometimes okay - I don't have to pretend I like your bad stories and can, instead, give you useful critique - I no longer fear editors Things I dislike about Thunderdome - Sebmojo
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Dec 27, 2017 11:52
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So long as it doesn't end up like my other writing groups where nobody dares say a bad thing and everyone claps at the end of a reading I'll be fine I'm still kayfabe as gently caress tho fite me irl
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Dec 27, 2017 19:58
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| # ¿ Apr 26, 2024 01:19 |
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Yeah you're better pulling too many than too few - if people really want to read your back catalogue they'll be doing it on .cc anyway.
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Dec 28, 2017 16:37
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