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Mercedes
Mar 7, 2006

"So you Jesus?"

"And you black?"

"Nigga prove it!"

And so Black Jesus turned water into a bucket of chicken. And He saw that it was good.


I... I missed my calling

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Mercedes
Mar 7, 2006

"So you Jesus?"

"And you black?"

"Nigga prove it!"

And so Black Jesus turned water into a bucket of chicken. And He saw that it was good.


What's up you bastards. You may remember me from such classics as Dog Police and Black Jesus.

Today, right now, I'm sitting in an English class room preparing to teach a poo poo ton of freshman to magic of Thunderdoming in the ~real world~

So I'm coming to you faggots honored colleagues to ask your your help. These young bloods will be submitting stories next week and I'll need help critting them.

I'll be posting a link once their submissions start rolling in. All I ask is that you remember that these are kids. The goal is make them want to write more, not crush their hopes. So this is the only time I'll ask this and mean it. Please be gentle.

Mercedes
Mar 7, 2006

"So you Jesus?"

"And you black?"

"Nigga prove it!"

And so Black Jesus turned water into a bucket of chicken. And He saw that it was good.


Exmond posted:

I'm in, are we dealing with College students, high-school students or preschoolers?

High school freshmen.

Thanks for the pledges so far. Many of these kids seems really excited and a few have already written a few paragraphs after I finished my presentation!

Also this is an open invitation. It's good practice with crits of you haven't done many up till this point. Please help! There's around 60 kids and I need all the help I can get.

Mercedes
Mar 7, 2006

"So you Jesus?"

"And you black?"

"Nigga prove it!"

And so Black Jesus turned water into a bucket of chicken. And He saw that it was good.


Mrenda posted:

Maybe there should be an assignment of who crits which stories. Sixty is a lot and if people pick randomly there might be doubling up in some cases as well as gaps.

Also, this seems a big risk, exposing good honest teenage folk with not a bad bone in their bodies to the harsh world of internet comedy forums (like Snapchat for olds.) In that spirit, would they be willing to crit some TD stories, for revenge? If it's within your scope and you want to push their writing and analysis a little further.

Whatever happens, I'll crit a story or two.

Calls dibs if you're gonna crit something? Unless you really have something to say about a story you read.

I went and did a crit with the classes of Rural RentBoys. I had to edit the suggestive parts out, but it didn't really add to the story so whatever.

Please be PG-13 when critting. I don't want to have to be the crit police (where are you critting from) but if someone is being too harsh I'll be forced to remove the comment.

Mercedes
Mar 7, 2006

"So you Jesus?"

"And you black?"

"Nigga prove it!"

And so Black Jesus turned water into a bucket of chicken. And He saw that it was good.


The teacher and I will do the bulk of the work, making sure at least everyone gets a crit. Again I would recommend putting a temporary message by the story title just to let the rest of know you're going through the story. Ideally I would like to see at least three crits per story. I would go through and give a more thorough crit to those stories that are lacking responses.

The class today was successful I think. I had two students come up and ask me what I thought about their writing and I was grateful it wasn't super awful. Many of the students were really excited about it and they had already started writing and collaborating.

Mercedes fucked around with this message at Apr 9, 2018 around 20:12

Mercedes
Mar 7, 2006

"So you Jesus?"

"And you black?"

"Nigga prove it!"

And so Black Jesus turned water into a bucket of chicken. And He saw that it was good.


THE TIME IS NOW MY DOMERS!!!

The writer babies have submitted their work, sacrificed their livelihood so that we, Reapers of Words, can lay destruction upon their weak, soft Critters of words can crit their stories.

Please, go forth and fix these teenagers and mold them into strong enough writers so that they would at the very least avoid a DM if they ever decide to join Thunderdome proper.

Also, thank you for helping. In all seriousness, a lot of these kids were super excited for this. I'm glad we're able to have the chance to give these kids a chance to flex their creativity in ways many do not. You guys are great! gently caress you! Get critting!!

Edit: It has come to my attention that googledocs is not as versatile as I initially thought it would be. It doesn't create two separate links where one can view and the other can comment; so I'm asking you guys to do a liiiitle bit more work. Please copy and paste your story to your own googledoc (if you're doing line by lines) or just write your crit in another googledoc and put that link next to your sign up. I'll periodically check and add your crits as comments myself. Thank you for your flexibility.

Editedit: Please don't be bad and make sure your doc has the proper permissions.

Editjesuschristedit: Anyone can edit the main doc. Do that. gently caress.

Mercedes fucked around with this message at Apr 16, 2018 around 16:42

Mercedes
Mar 7, 2006

"So you Jesus?"

"And you black?"

"Nigga prove it!"

And so Black Jesus turned water into a bucket of chicken. And He saw that it was good.


BeefSupreme posted:

Awesome I will definitely crank out a few of these. Question: is there a specific set of criteria you want us looking at? How much focus should I place on mechanics, syntax, etc? Should I focus mostly on style, story structure, things like that? Also, what is the prompt?

k cool

All answers you need to know are located in the excel file I linked. Here it is again for all you.

Mercedes
Mar 7, 2006

"So you Jesus?"

"And you black?"

"Nigga prove it!"

And so Black Jesus turned water into a bucket of chicken. And He saw that it was good.


Just a quick shout out, we still have loads of stories that need crits! They don't have to be line crits (some of them would be impossible to do since there's so much... wrong with them) Won't you think of the children!

https://docs.google.com/spreadsheet...dit?usp=sharing

Mercedes
Mar 7, 2006

"So you Jesus?"

"And you black?"

"Nigga prove it!"

And so Black Jesus turned water into a bucket of chicken. And He saw that it was good.


In

Mercedes
Mar 7, 2006

"So you Jesus?"

"And you black?"

"Nigga prove it!"

And so Black Jesus turned water into a bucket of chicken. And He saw that it was good.


Please
Remember
Other
Motherfucking
Prostitutes
That also want to write. Also prompt.

Mercedes
Mar 7, 2006

"So you Jesus?"

"And you black?"

"Nigga prove it!"

And so Black Jesus turned water into a bucket of chicken. And He saw that it was good.


In

Mercedes
Mar 7, 2006

"So you Jesus?"

"And you black?"

"Nigga prove it!"

And so Black Jesus turned water into a bucket of chicken. And He saw that it was good.


Just One More Hit
Word count 1008

Flynn’s dead limbs itched miserably. It usually did whenever he felt the most stressed. Honestly, he was pretty much stressed all the time these days. He finished the prepared statement to the press conference room, as empty as it was. There was an irritated looking reporter and what had to be a sleeping homeless in a chair in the back.

“I always said that I could beat any fighter with my hand tied behind my back, and now I’m putting my money where my mouth is.” There was an awkward pause as he looked at the only attendee. He lamely added, “Thank you for your time. I’ll take any questions.”

The reporter glared, letting the silence drag. Finally, he shook his head and cleared his throat. “You’re in a wheelchair!” he said, shaking his opened hand in Flynn’s direction as if to say ‘see!’. “You move around by blowing air into that straw there! How the hell do you expect us to take this serious?”

Flynn set his jaw. He expected this, but it still stung. “I had my physical and I have my sponsors. I’ll be back on my feet and in fighting shape in no time. I’ll be fit to defend my title.”

The reporter muttered, “Of all the of the dumbest bullshit… I need a new job,” but his naturally loud voice still allowed Flynn to hear.

The homeless guy shifted in his seat and started to snore.

------

Flynn stared ahead with vacantly with red-rimmed eyes. Frankie, his trainer, paced the empty gym nervously. Gunmetal fingers rubbing the stubble of his jaw.

“Sponsors get mighty skittish when there’s negative press involved, Flynn. You knew this was gonna be a long shot, but now…” Frankie trailed off, stopping to think.

There was a heavy pause while Flynn’s eyes came back into focus. “We’ll just go to Jimmy’s. We can get a loan. You know we go way-”

“Let me boil it down to the simplest of terms. No sponsors, no neural links, no fight.” Frankie, squat as he was wide, towered angrily over Flynn with his metal arm folded across his chest. “And if you go to that loving Limb Shark… you and me - we’re done.”

Flynn swallowed a lump in his throat. He then licked his lips, mentally preparing himself for this fight. “I need this, Frankie. Frankie, look at me.” Flynn blinked rapidly, not wanting the tears to roll down his face. Not now. He was done with that weak poo poo. “I said look at me!”

The sudden rage got Frankie’s attention.

“Ever since-” Flynn pressed his lips into a tight line. He breathed deep, his nostrils flaring and started again. “I need this fight to happen, no matter what. If I have to take another month of all this pity I’m going to off myself. I am so sick- I want to be normal. I want to be seen as normal, and if the price I have to pay is to go see Jimmy, then gently caress it, I’ll do it.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” Frankie said. “You get what you pay for Flynn. And if you pay that slicer to do neural work, you’re asking to be fried. I can almost guarantee. He cuts too many corners.”

“I need to risk it. If just for one fight. After that, I’ll be able to afford to do it right proper.” Flynn set his jaw, the muscles twitching. “If you force me, I’ll do this myself. But I want you in my corner. Hell man, you are my corner!”

Frankie, with arms still crossed, drops heavily on to a stool with a scowl on his face.

-----

Flynn felt his heart hammering away in his chest. It felt right. Across the ring was Two Hit Tony, glowering at him; bouncing on his toes and working his neck side to side. The crowd. Oh the crowd. Flynn closed his eyes and let that cacophony of noise wash over him. Vibrate through him. He was home again. It felt right.

He heard the referee’s voice cutting through the noise, calling him forward. Tony swaggered up as well. Tony’s going to be put into the ground.

The bell rang, and the gloves went up. They circled each other, testing the distance, checking the reflexes. Flynn weaved, keeping his head moving; snapped a jab. Quick. Hard. Right through Tony’s weak defenses. Muscle memory still there. Slid past a straight punch. Jab. Jab. Clean hits. Tony looked irritated. Good, keep him on the-

Tony dashed up, faster than he had any right to. He jabbed and Flynn moved his head to the side. A feint. Flynn see’s the red of the glove scything through the air. He pulled his arm up to protect the chin. Too slow. A brilliant flash of light and his head snapped to the side. He stumbled forward and clinched Tony, his legs feeling like rubber. The referee separates them.

Flynn felt an itch in his arms. Something’s wrong. He brought the gloves up, but his arms are slow to respond. Tony jabs and every hit lands. Flynn can’t move fast enough. Crushing hook to the body. Now to the right. Now to the left. Every hit, Flynn felt his control over his body slipping away.

No, this can’t be happening. Flynn counter attacked, but his arm looks like he’s paddling through water. Tony ducked under the swing and the counter hook made Flynn half twirl and drop to the ground.

Flynn heard the referee count. This can’t be it. He tried to get up, but his limbs wouldn’t obey. This couldn’t be end. No way. It’s gonna be just like the movies. The referee’ll reach nine and he’ll get up and finish the fight in a dignified manner.

Flynn watched the referee wave his hands over him, signalling the end of the fight. As the moments dragged on everything blurred. He blinked and tears streaked down his face. That’s it. That’s the end of the fight.

That’s the end of his fight.

Mercedes
Mar 7, 2006

"So you Jesus?"

"And you black?"

"Nigga prove it!"

And so Black Jesus turned water into a bucket of chicken. And He saw that it was good.


Prompt between prompt
100 word story about prodigal sons/daughters

Mercedes
Mar 7, 2006

"So you Jesus?"

"And you black?"

"Nigga prove it!"

And so Black Jesus turned water into a bucket of chicken. And He saw that it was good.


Home Again

"Papa I am home!" said little Mercedes.

TDBot turned, scorn in his eyes.

"I made you something from the bottom of my heart papa!"

TDBots eyes flashed in anger and cuffed little Mercedes on the side of the head, knocking him into conviniently placed boxes.

Mercedes
Mar 7, 2006

"So you Jesus?"

"And you black?"

"Nigga prove it!"

And so Black Jesus turned water into a bucket of chicken. And He saw that it was good.


Thanks for the crit SH! And yea, it's real technology https://www.technologyreview.com/s/...-paralysis/amp/

Mercedes
Mar 7, 2006

"So you Jesus?"

"And you black?"

"Nigga prove it!"

And so Black Jesus turned water into a bucket of chicken. And He saw that it was good.


Alright, gently caress it. I'm in.
9. Yea, I said it.

Mercedes
Mar 7, 2006

"So you Jesus?"

"And you black?"

"Nigga prove it!"

And so Black Jesus turned water into a bucket of chicken. And He saw that it was good.


Well poo poo. I have no electricity in my drat house.

Mercedes
Mar 7, 2006

"So you Jesus?"

"And you black?"

"Nigga prove it!"

And so Black Jesus turned water into a bucket of chicken. And He saw that it was good.


Gone to Collections
Words 1114
Negative Energy Plane http://forgottenrealms.wikia.com/wi...ve_Energy_plane

“How did you get those scars on your wrists?” Nadia, former Grim Reaper, Soul Collector and servant to Black Satan asked the son of God.

Black Jesus pulled from his cigar. The embers flared blood red, illuminated pale faces in the pitch darkness. He reached up and removed the cigar from his mouth, the light ebbing away, plunging everyone back into the starless night. “Oh, these were nothing, really,” he said. He hissed softly, expelling the rest of the cigar smoke. “I got a pretty big scar on my side too. All from hanging around for a day with some Romans.”

Black Jesus paused and no one made a sound in the quiet in between. “In the grand scheme of things,” he continued, “I only lost a weekend before I was back on my feet. I got off easy.”

Red light bloomed from the embers and Nadia eyes met with Sebastian’s. Not many things unnerved Nadia. She was a denizen of Hell and routinely commanded all sorts of creatures that would turn a man’s bowels to liquid. But she had doubts about him. She’s seen how he interacts with that guitar he’s never without. He argues with it as if they were an old married couple. The way the air shimmers with a cyclone of guitar strings as he fights is astonishing. But it has always bothered her that she had never sensed any demonic or magical power coming from that guitar. This was a broken man, his mind fractured like a struck mirror. A very powerful and unpredictable person. The glow faded.

“How about you, Sebastian?” Nadia ventured, her curiosity prevailing against her caution. “You have… a lot of puncture wounds all over your body.”

“I always did wonder about that,” Black Jesus said. “Would have been nice to have omnipotence like my dad…” His grumbling was uncharacteristic of him, but given their current circumstances even the most upbeat person would have trouble keeping a smile. Being trapped in Hell would have that effect on people.

Sebastian snorted. “Xavier and I had a bit of an argument.”

Nadia rose an eyebrow. “Who’s-”

“Sorry,” Sebastian quickly added, “My guitar. He wanted to kill hundreds, if not thousands of people. I did not want any part of it. So we wrestled and he might have stabbed me a few times.”

Somewhere to Nadia’s right, someone snorted. “A few hundred times maybe,” they said under their breath.

There was a long silence after that. Sebastian cleared his throat. “We ended up killing each other and then spent a really long time here. That is, until you guys freed us.”

Black Jesus took another pull. Long shadows stretched outward into the gloom.

“I have scars,” Nadia said, preempting any forthcoming questions. Everyone was looking at her. “You can’t see them. Not normally.” The embers died out again, the sudden veil of darkness eerily mimicking a confession booth. “It took me a long time to die. At least it felt like it.

“My… friend,” she growled the word through clenched teeth. She scoffed. “He’s been dead for centuries and still… John raped me. Then, being the coward that he is, didn’t want his wife to find out so he spread a rumor that I was a witch. The very next morning my neighbors came to me with torches and makeshift weapons. What hurt the most when I was being burned at the stake wasn’t the fire on my skin. I mean, it hurt like a motherfucker - excuse my French, Black Jesus, but it didn’t last for long. Breathing in superheated air does an ugly number in your mouth and nose and lungs. I’ve never felt pain like that before or since. In the end, I died because I suffocated. Fire sucked all the air around me I couldn’t get a breath in.”

“That’s so loving metal!” Sebastian said through his guitar.

“So how will you show us your scars?” Black Jesus asked.

“Take another pull of your cigar and you’ll see.”

The embers flared up once again. Black Jesus’ eyebrows shot up. Sebastian flinched. Xavier cursed and made a joke comparing Nadia to beef jerky.

Gone were Nadia’s immaculately coiffed hair and porcelain-like skin. Perfectly tailored suit and blouse were gone too, as well as her stiletto shoes. She sat there clutching her knees, completely naked. Her skin was dark and shriveled, like brittle leather. Her hair was short, dirty and growing in patches across her skull. Her eyes were pools of ink with pin pricks of red light staring back. And then within moments, her beautiful features slid into place like a camera iris shuttering close. The embers faded once again, plunging everyone into darkness.

“loving metal…” Xavier said, less enthusiastically this time. “You’re basically naked under those fake clothes.”

Another awkward pause. Sebastian was good with creating those.

“Why’d you defect to us, child?” Black Jesus asked and then answered before Nadia could respond. “I think it’s because in your heart, there is ultimately a good that you nor Black Satan could fully snuff out.”

Nadia opened her mouth to interject, but Black Jesus rolled right over her.

“You’re gonna explain to me that it was all about self preservation. Things weren’t working out and you had no choice. So you needed to bounce to the good guys because at least we won’t kill you if you mess up.”

“That’s-”

“Or maybe it’s because of revenge. Black Satan wronged you and you need our help stick him where it counts.”

“That’s-”

“Or maybe-”

“Stop talking!” Nadia puffed out her cheeks in exasperation. “I wanna free all the souls I collected and free them from an eternity of damnation. All of them.”

“Why?” Sebastian asked. “Have a sudden change of heart?”

“Yes,” Nadia said, matter of factly. “The last signature I obtained, I tricked a seven year old girl into signing her soul away. I was behind in my quota and I became desperate.”

“Well,” Black Jesus said, standing up. “This was a long enough break. We’re going back to take care of these souls.”

Someone in the darkness groaned petulantly. “We just escaped from there…”

That was fifty five years ago. Before inner demons were met and conquered. Before friendships were forged and tested. It didn’t take long for the landscapes of hell to be smudged into one long mental picture. In their memories, the demons and servants to Black Satan devolved into formless shapes of flesh, teeth and nails as the number slain grew into the thousands. With each liberated soul, their determination grew and their names had the power to instill fear.

And also, Nadia and Sebastian totally banged.

Mercedes
Mar 7, 2006

"So you Jesus?"

"And you black?"

"Nigga prove it!"

And so Black Jesus turned water into a bucket of chicken. And He saw that it was good.


That would be great if you would.

Mercedes
Mar 7, 2006

"So you Jesus?"

"And you black?"

"Nigga prove it!"

And so Black Jesus turned water into a bucket of chicken. And He saw that it was good.


Djeser posted:

For those that didn't know, I livetweeted my reactions to last week's stories as I read them:

https://twitter.com/djeser_/status/1013666297475837952

Anyone who would like a full crit (including DQs, which I didn't get around to reading) let me know.

I would greatly appreciate it. I'm rusty and I need help getting back on the ride.

Mercedes
Mar 7, 2006

"So you Jesus?"

"And you black?"

"Nigga prove it!"

And so Black Jesus turned water into a bucket of chicken. And He saw that it was good.


Yoruichi posted:

Solid motherfucking crits

Thanks for your efforts man! And yea, all the characters in this story are recurring characters. If you wanna read goodbad stories pm me or catch me on irc and I'll link you

Mercedes fucked around with this message at Jul 4, 2018 around 15:16

Mercedes
Mar 7, 2006

"So you Jesus?"

"And you black?"

"Nigga prove it!"

And so Black Jesus turned water into a bucket of chicken. And He saw that it was good.


Chili posted:

That's some good crittin

Dare I say, manly crittin

Mercedes
Mar 7, 2006

"So you Jesus?"

"And you black?"

"Nigga prove it!"

And so Black Jesus turned water into a bucket of chicken. And He saw that it was good.


Yoruichi posted:

Where are my crits in return HMMMM?

What story you want in crit in ye olde bastard?

Mercedes
Mar 7, 2006

"So you Jesus?"

"And you black?"

"Nigga prove it!"

And so Black Jesus turned water into a bucket of chicken. And He saw that it was good.


SurreptitiousMuffin posted:

I guess we brawlin'

1484 words

DL1206

“Sir I need you to—”
“Look man I’m not even—”
“—step out of the line. You’ve been selected for a random inspection.”
“Random?”
“Yes sir, r—”
“Bullshit it’s random you’re just—”

Ten minutes later, you’re sitting in a windowless room. Clock on the wall: Mickey Mouse with his mismatched arms broken backwards – each little movement of those arms snapping away a piece of the afternoon. Who even has a wall clock any more? The interior decorator probably doesn’t know the Cold War is over. Eastern-Bloc chic, Made in America. Yee haw, God bless the Mouse and all his lonely friends.

Meanwhile, dad is dying in a hospital ward in Baltimore: sixty years of cheap food and cheaper cigarettes finally caught up to his heart, apparently. He was a good dad, which is to say he hosed up a lot but he did his best. Now he’s dying, and you’re going nowhere.

Back it up a minute. Who are you? You’re Ziyad. You’re not white, and that’s what mattered to the little man in the uniform. You overheard him talking to a colleague as they took you away – “yeah he’s one of them, whatsit? He’s from Pakistan.”
—but you’re from Baltimore and mom is from Chittagong which is barely even on the right continent: as far from Pakistan as B’more is from LA. But whatever: Muslim name, ambiguously brown, probably up to no good.

The little man returns. His nametag says he’s called Craig. He has sandy hair and he looks apologetic. He won’t stop calling you Sir, as if a spoonful of sugar will make the bullshit go down smoothly. He apologises after every question. He wants you to know that this isn’t a race thing and he’s really sorry but you shouldn’t have made a scene because now they need to ensure you’re not a flight risk and it’s taking some time to find you on file. No, he assures you, you’re not under arrest. He makes a joke about how much he hates paperwork and makes eye contact as if to say we’re both in this together. Dad is dying in Baltimore. You got the first ticket from LA you could find; it cost a small fortune. The flight departs in less than half an hour. Mickey the Mouse is breaking off the minutes: each one seems to cost years.

Craigs wants to know if he can get you anything: coffee, water. You ask for tea and he laughs, then he leaves. Mickey goes tick tick tick. Twenty-four minutes until the plane leaves. Dad never approved of your lifestyle choices; he never approved of LA. He didn’t think journalism was a real job. He wanted you to become a mechanic, like him. He’d make jokes about it whenever you came home, and he’d keep making them throughout the night until they stopped sounding like jokes. Twenty-one minutes left, and Craig comes back with a cup of unsweetened black coffee. You drink it politely, but the bitterness curls your lip. He makes conversation: asks how long you’ve been living in America, makes a joke about you scoring an American wife. You tell him you’re American and he says “yeah but you’re not American-American”. He laughs again: a short, double-burst haha. Two has every time: no more, no less. It sounds like he practices in the mirror.

His pager buzzes – pagers? Must be a security thing or a tech thing, like whyever-the-gently caress they do it in hospitals – and he apologises again, then steps out. He comes back almost immediately, frowning. They’ve found a Ziyad on the no-fly list and they need to check it’s not you. He’s Jordanian, with links to ISIS. He hasn’t been seen in over a year: he might be dead but he might also be trying to nefariously board a flight to Baltimore to visit a dying dad. Craig asks you whether you’ve ever associated with known terrorist groups, and the directness of it blows you away – as if some terrorist would go “yep, you got me” if you just asked nice. A joke rises in your throat and you push it back down: never make jokes in airports. Craig must see it cross your face, and he tilts his head to the side.

“Something funny?” he says.

“No sir,” you say. Something has changed in the room. He seems taller now. His eyes are hard. He frowns. You wonder whether they stop every Tim because they’ve got Timothy McVeigh on file – your name isn’t common, but surely they get a few through LAX a day. Craig tells you to sit tight so they can sort this all out. It’s probably just a mistake he says but we must be vigilant. You get it, man. Probably not your first time, huh?

Another man walks in. Tall, dark-haired, square-jawed. He’s wearing a suit. He isn’t wearing dark sunglasses, but somehow he radiates an aura of sunglass-ness. He’s got some sorta Southern drawl going on: like his mouth is filled with honey. He’s Clint. He’s with Homeland Security. He tells you he wants to be your friend, and help you out of this difficult situation. Mickey the Mouse has torn away another ten minutes: his malformed hour-hand is a little closer to 4, and his minute-hand is now twisted all the way back like it’s been wrenched right out of the socket.

Dad didn’t like your choice of college degree, but he took extra shifts at work to help pay for it. He was late to your graduation, because he got stuck in traffic; he had to stand at the back but you swear you saw him crying when you took your degree from the Dean.

Clint is behind you. He leans over you, and puts his hands on your shoulders. He asks about one of your friends from your Ethics 201 tutorial – you stumble over the words because you can barely remember him, but you tell Clint you haven’t seen the dude in years, and he doesn’t seem to believe you. Eight minutes left. Your friend from 201 went to Syria in 2015 and never came back. He’s on a watchlist. Clint wants to know whether he talked to you about your faith. You tell him you’re not a Muslim and he spits “you know what I mean.”

You honestly don’t know what he means. Or you do, but it doesn't seem like explaining to him is gonna help. His grip on your shoulders is starting to hurt, just a little. Craig is in the corner, not making eye contact. His arms are crossed. Seven minutes.

Dad once told you he was worried about your career – that print was dying, and the world didn’t need journalists any more. He still paid for your degree, because he knew that’s who you were, and he wanted you to be happy. You came home one time and find that he’d put a bunch of your articles on a corkboard in the garage. He’d even got a copy of The Valley Press out to Maryland somehow, one of your first gigs – a lovely pop culture beat. You never mentioned the board to him. You wish you had.

“No,” you say, “he didn’t.”

Clint clicks his tongue, and takes his hands off your shoulders. He paces the room, rubbing his hands together, not looking at you. You look at Craig: he probably thinks he’s nice, and maybe you can use that.

“I’m gonna miss my flight,” you say. He pulls himself away from the wall and looks like he’s going to say something, the Clint laughs and Craig laughs too, just a little. He slumps back against the wall and doesn’t meet your eye. You drink the last of the coffee. It’s making you jittery and nauseous, but somehow it’s better than doing nothing.

Four minutes.

The last time you spoke to dad, you fought. It doesn’t matter what you fought over: you can barely even remember. The last thing you said to him was that you’d talk to him later – not even the dignity of being a proper insult. That, at least, would’ve been a goodbye of sorts. Mickey the Mouse’s long arm is bent almost totally backwards, almost touching the six. His broken-ness belies his fixed grin. God bless the Mouse, and all his lonely friends.

You want to laugh, because it’s so stupid; throw back your head and let it out. You know it’ll only make you look worse, and you can’t afford that luxury.

“You guys need anything else?” you say. Or can I go?

Clint stares at you. Two minutes left. You hear the faint sound of a boarding call, muffled by the thick walls – you can’t be sure it’s yours, but you know on some level that it is. You’ve probably missed a few.

Dad is dying in Baltimore.

“Now,” says Clint. He sits down across from you, and scans his tablet. “Let’s go over these questions again.”

How DARE you make me feel these feelings sir! How dare you. +1

Mercedes
Mar 7, 2006

"So you Jesus?"

"And you black?"

"Nigga prove it!"

And so Black Jesus turned water into a bucket of chicken. And He saw that it was good.


Holy poo poo, sink those vamp fangs right in my buttcheek

Mercedes
Mar 7, 2006

"So you Jesus?"

"And you black?"

"Nigga prove it!"

And so Black Jesus turned water into a bucket of chicken. And He saw that it was good.


Memorial interprompt

What are you doing here

Black Jesus rolled his cigar to the other side of his mouth as his eyes flicked back and forth from the resume to the man. “Flippin impressive,” he grunted.

“Thank you sir,” the man responded.

The Son of Man crumpled the sheet and and tossed it over his shoulder. “Can you handle a gun?”

“No sir.”

“Call me sir again, and I’m gonna flick you in the nose.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Black Jesus threw his head back and roared in laughter.

“I don’t need a gun, I can write. I can create.”

Black Jesus brushed a tear from his eye, and composed himself. “Create, huh?” he mused, “Like summoning and conjuring?”

“More or less.”

Black Jesus eyed the man for a moment. He then leaned forward and produced a large calligraphy pen with a flourish like a magician with a bouquet of flowers. “I’ll be the first to admit, your abilities give off a weeaboo vibe, but no doubt it would be useful.” He set the pen down and sighed.

The man grabbed the pen and his transformation was instantaneous. Bright purple hair, impossibly coiffed. Eyes large and sparkling, and his jaw sharp and perfect.

“Welcome to the team. Did you want to take a new name?”

“No, I’m alright,” he said, striking a pose as rays of light shot out from behind him in a very dramatic fashion. “I’ll stick with Andre.”

Mercedes
Mar 7, 2006

"So you Jesus?"

"And you black?"

"Nigga prove it!"

And so Black Jesus turned water into a bucket of chicken. And He saw that it was good.


It's that time of year everyone! It's time to corrupt- err... educate our youth by bringing Thunderdome to the class room.

The first outing was a hit. A majority of the students loved letting go and writing a non-academic paper to only have us tear it to shreds- err... critique it for them. So much so that our teacher friend asked for us to make it a yearly thing.

Hooray.

Yes, so. I hope you all can help out again with critiques, even small critiques are absolutely welcome. Are there any prompt ideas for our victims... yea, victims? Class is on November 5.

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Mercedes
Mar 7, 2006

"So you Jesus?"

"And you black?"

"Nigga prove it!"

And so Black Jesus turned water into a bucket of chicken. And He saw that it was good.


I want to streamline stuff and make it easier for me. One prompt. The picture is a good idea. I'll pop on irc later tonight so we don't clutter the forum

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