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prompt
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| # ¿ Jan 3, 2018 06:56 |
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| # ¿ Sep 20, 2018 08:18 |
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Double or nothing.
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| # ¿ Jan 23, 2018 16:32 |
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prompt
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| # ¿ Feb 19, 2018 08:02 |
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Nice Southern Town
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| # ¿ Feb 20, 2018 05:30 |
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In. Song flash thingy I guess?
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| # ¿ Mar 1, 2018 04:28 |
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Flash rule: Beirut – The Riptide Southward 750 Words In his dream the world still breathed. Calm sapphire ocean stretched perhaps forever and his feet sunk ankle deep into glowing sand warmer than anything he had ever felt. To his side a featureless child tall enough to be his but wreathed in crimson light took his hand with inhuman strength. The child led him off the beach sullen and tentative while gulls circled above their heads. Their path wound on ever south even as beach gave way to mountain trail thin enough they had to walk single file. No words and no sounds although he tried to speak. The child walked each step weighing a thousand tonnes until they reached a summit once a car park. Asphalt bubbled underneath him with the breath of a thousand screaming dead but ahead of them lay a city. Its buildings shone as new and its streets bustled and on the wind it spoke to him. Find us. We wait. Come and all will be well. He woke alone amid piles of stinking furs and blankets to the sounds of the tide outside. It battered rock and ate at sand and howled like the wind that no longer blew. Sweat congealed all over him and matted his beard thick to his face while he looked out the window of what had once been a mansion. A private island expensively kept off all maps yet he had found it. The water was heavy with silt and ash and dead fish coughed up like phlegm from the lungs of ailing Earth and it lashed against the product of his past weeks’ labour. The kayak stood tied to the sturdiest boulder in evidence and already had what food he had been able to find inside. The island stood barren from years of lumber and scavenging and effort and as he watched his boat fire fell from the sky off in the distance. The light it cast was the first and perhaps only of the day and in its glow he swore he saw the crimson child. They stared at each other and the same hand from his dream clenched his heart in its fist. When he blinked it was gone but he remembered the city and the immortal silence of his exile. There was life in the south. He knew the city existed as well as he knew he had nine fingers left. As well as he knew if he stayed here he would starve or walk deliberately into the sea. He waited until the tide calmed then gathered his last things and headed to shore. *** In the first three days he saw nothing. Not sun nor ship nor beast nor storm. Occasionally firefalls off in the distance marked his way and the broken compass on his wrist insisted he still headed south. He drank conservatively in case he held the last clean water in the world. Often he considered heading back but when he did the crimson child appeared in his mind. *** On the fifth day his sleep ended when an almighty force rose under his boat and nearly capsized it. Silent and monolithic it rose from the waves and the kayak rolled off the rampart where it took all his strength not to go into the drink. When fear left him enough to think he regarded the stationary hundred foot mass ahead of him until he met an eye. It stared through him into eternity and he thought about how long he could feast on it if he had a way to bring it ashore. It was already cooked with flesh bubbling and blackened from firefall. His stomach mewled and complained and he wondered if the dead whale had headed south too. Finally he urged weary arms back to rowing. *** On the seventh day he saw the beach and the mountain. There was no child. The towers rose but did not shine and his rowing slowed then stopped when he saw. They stood skeletal and jagged and empty with fatal wounds torn in their sides such that he could see the details of some rooms from out on the water. Old fires had long burnt out and the abandoned husks of automobiles littered the boardwalk. He rowed closer and closer and made out skeletons on a battered dock laid out like they awaited something better. He felt the warmth and the vibration in the air that heralded firefall. He considered waiting for the strike to give him rest. Instead he rowed to the dock.
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| # ¿ Mar 5, 2018 07:49 |
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fjgj
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| # ¿ Mar 6, 2018 06:06 |
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In, give me a saint.
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| # ¿ Mar 13, 2018 23:14 |
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In
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| # ¿ Mar 20, 2018 06:28 |
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In, flash rule I guess
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| # ¿ Mar 20, 2018 18:41 |
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:The writer of the worst story is the winner, and the writer of the best story is the loser. I cry foul! I've suggested this rule several times and each time people shot it down. That said, because this time I won't have any unexpected obstacles preventing me from writing, I'm in. 
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| # ¿ Mar 27, 2018 02:18 |
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Flesnolk fucked around with this message at Apr 3, 2018 around 05:50 |
| # ¿ Apr 2, 2018 06:52 |
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fjgj
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| # ¿ Apr 2, 2018 07:28 |
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Interprompt So this judge gets superpowers like The Flash, and decides to become a hero. I call it "Fast Judge: Good Judge."
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| # ¿ Apr 2, 2018 07:41 |
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prompt
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| # ¿ Apr 2, 2018 07:56 |
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no
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| # ¿ Apr 3, 2018 02:27 |
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Faster judging gooder judging
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| # ¿ Apr 9, 2018 22:42 |
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prompt
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| # ¿ Apr 10, 2018 03:46 |
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In. Flash.
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| # ¿ Apr 10, 2018 17:22 |
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While I'm not totally sure I get what you're asking for, I'll give it a shot.
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| # ¿ Apr 17, 2018 00:23 |
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Djeser posted:"write a story where idris elba could play one of the characters" Idris Elba is a good enough actor that "Idris Elba could play one of the characters" is sort of vague. I know screenwriters sometimes write roles with specific actors in mind, but not being a screenwriter I was a bit "???". Also, gently caress off. Flesnolk fucked around with this message at Apr 17, 2018 around 01:00 |
| # ¿ Apr 17, 2018 00:50 |
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In, door one.
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| # ¿ Apr 30, 2018 21:59 |
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I've already gone for door 1, but let's add a department flashrule to that too.
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| # ¿ May 3, 2018 00:28 |
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In, flash, toxx (USER WAS BANNED FOR THIS POST)
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| # ¿ May 8, 2018 02:53 |
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I'm gonna have to eat my toxx, sorry y'all. I've been working on my final projects for the last thirteen hours or so. See everyone when I get around to rebuying.
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| # ¿ May 14, 2018 10:40 |
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In, flash. Swear to God this time I'm good for it.
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| # ¿ May 15, 2018 15:07 |
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 Every Night in San Rafael 738 words Every night in San Rafael the dream-clouds roll from the east. No window can bar the way and no door can shut them out. Every night in San Rafael they find the sleeping and the aimless and bring to them ghosts of the past. The clergy see their vows and the sinners they could not save. The police see criminals who got away and innocents who slipped through the cracks. Fighters see the blows they took and taste blood in their mouths. Those who fail see their shortcomings and those who succeed are shown the precipice upon which they stood and down which they can still fall. Rich men question all the paths that led to their fortune. Lovers see painful separation and fight old battles while vagrants shivering on park benches are tempted by comforts long gone. Every night in San Rafael its sleepers are caught in the cold embrace of what was and what could have been. Every morning they wake and for those first newborn hours of daylight nobody speaks or troubles anyone else. On glittering orderly streets everyone starts their day with the weight of every step that took them to today. Every citizen greets dawn with the taste of old words in their mouths and an emptiness in their gut no meal can fill. No one dares ask anyone to their left or their right what the dream-clouds brought. The grocer realises what words might have gotten his wife to stay. The city councilwoman sees a world where she still has a son. The prisoner stares at his hands and thinks on where his life would have gone if he had never pulled the trigger. To ask about such old wounds is seen as a crime almost worse than murder. Some say the city should be renamed “Si Sólo,” “If only,” for every morning in San Rafael all souls are one in facing their personal ghosts and all souls say those two words. Every night in San Rafael some stay awake to see the clouds. They say they wish to understand. Some want it to stop. Some simply cannot bear to sleep. The dream-clouds bring them visions too and none has the same story. The voices of the past speak to each and wrap the questioner in the chains that link each moment to the one after it. No one sees from whence the clouds come or where they go when the first spears of sun slay the night. Every night in San Rafael there are fewer people than the night before. Some simply leave, fleeing south to Los Angeles or north to San Francisco or east to who knows where. Some stay in their dreams and chase “if only” for ever and ever. Some confront the weight of history personal and grand and choose to make their own peace. Some drive into the dream-clouds roaring challenges and defiance and are never seen thereafter. The lights dim with each departure, in silent acknowledgement of the burdens all souls bear. “God does not give us burdens we cannot carry,” say the priests, yet every morning San Rafael wakes to find more lost, wandering eternally in days past. Every night in San Rafael is a test not all pass. Millions gird themselves in the new light and use their pasts as armour or hard learned lessons. Millions else fall into “if only.” The bars are full day-round with those the dreams and phantoms have pushed to the final extent of their power, those the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune have given ever-bleeding wounds. None hold any ill feeling towards these injured souls for the unspoken creed of San Rafael is that all bear their own weight and all strength has its end. In every street, every business, every school, every eatery, every alley of San Rafael people look to each other with weary eyes and give each other weary smiles. They share their food and their drink and what strength they have left to lend and congratulate each other on seeing another morning. Every soul in San Rafael knows they are surrounded by those who walk the same trail and the same endless battle. Every night in San Rafael, every weary traveller remembers a simple mantra that has spread from corner to corner across all the city, in every broadcast and on every sign since the dream-clouds first came: Don’t you dare give up.
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| # ¿ May 21, 2018 06:49 |
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I have no time for writing this week, but this is a great prompt. Let me know if you'd be interested in having me on as a judge.
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| # ¿ May 30, 2018 21:27 |
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Jay W. Friks posted:Invisible Bartertown last crits Thanks! I was hoping more people would offer crits.
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| # ¿ Jun 30, 2018 10:59 |
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Finally poking my head up from the mayhem of summer classes. In, flash.
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| # ¿ Jul 12, 2018 18:38 |
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My computer keeps randomly overheating and shutting down so I don’t know if I can really write much. Will see if I can figure something out but I might have to duck out.
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| # ¿ Jul 14, 2018 23:33 |
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In
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| # ¿ Aug 7, 2018 02:06 |
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In, flash, I'm not gonna toxx but I am gonna write on nted.
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| # ¿ Aug 18, 2018 01:13 |
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| # ¿ Sep 20, 2018 08:18 |
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Let’s try this again since I’m not on painkillers In, flash
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| # ¿ Aug 23, 2018 14:04 |
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