SlipUp and Third, shut up you worms.
You shall brawl for my pleasure. To confirm your entry into this glorious combat, each of you must select a weapon (you may interpret this as you see fit). Post a picture of your weapon, and then await further instructions.
Chili fucked around with this message at 17:21 on Jan 16, 2019
|# ¿ Jan 16, 2019 14:43|
|# ¿ Sep 30, 2023 01:34|
Once my hanzo steel is drawn...
Two brave combatants enter the Chili arena. One clutches steel the other, a sling. They make fightin eyes at one another and just before the battle begins A TWIST NOBODY COULD HAVE EVER IMAGINED OCCURS!
The ground quakes as each combatant drops their weapon of choice. They scramble and OH MY GOD WHAT A loving TWIST
Third picks up the sling, and Slip picks up the sword!!!!
Brawl: Wrongful Weaponry
Third, your protag must use:
In a meaningful way in your story
And SlipUp your character must use:
In a meaningful way in your story
You each have up to 2,000 words, if you really feel you need them.
Take a week, write your bullshit, and report back here by 1/25/18 @ 10PM Eastern
|# ¿ Jan 17, 2019 06:02|
Thanks for the crit, Antivehicular!
|# ¿ Jan 21, 2019 07:12|
Someone asked for an extension on the brawl that I'm judging. That's fine, take an extra day.
|# ¿ Jan 24, 2019 13:04|
I owe some people a brawl judgement. My internet gets set up today, so expect that soon!
|# ¿ Jan 28, 2019 12:10|
Much apologies to Third and SlipUp for the delay, my life is a bit chaotic at the moment.
You've waited long enough, so let's have a verdict.
Third wins, and it's not even close.
SlipUp, your story had some ambition and moxie but ultimately did not execute on its premise in any meaningful way. Whereas...
Third, you had the goods from the jump and the telling to back it up.
More indepth crits can be found for each of you here:
|# ¿ Feb 1, 2019 06:08|
Very cool prompt. In.
|# ¿ Feb 5, 2019 12:25|
We All Gonna Die
The only thing I remember ‘bout my bedroom back on the farm is the painting above my bed. My Pa made it hisself, and hung it up hisself too.
“Boy.” He said, as I tugged on his denim, pleading not to hang it like he was doing. “This here painting is goin’ up, ‘cos, young buck, you need to know: you gonna die someday.”
He left me staring up at it. Pa wasn't much with a brush, but it was me. I could tell by the curls in the hair, and the purple teddy in the hand. It was me, and I was dead. X’s on my eyes, and dirt on my body. I tried to take it down. Every time I did, Pa came at me with his belt. “You gonna die; square with it.” He'd say.
I left home ‘bout 20 years ago and tried not to pay him too much mind. Got a family of my own, and a job to keep ‘em propped. I built myself a life y’see. The landscaping business I started don’t have a name of its own, just a fleet of trucks and not much else, but it’s a drat sight more than my old man ever put together. My youngest may even end up in college someday if she keeps up in school the way she does.
But, seein’ as I’m on a bus back to the old home maybe it’s time to, as my wife says ‘unburden myself’. ‘Sides, this may be the grayest ride of my life. Never have seen dust like this. It’s gettin so that I can’t see but a few feet pass the window.
Haven’t spoken much of a word to my old man, since I left. A card on the holidays and birthdays s’all. But this birthday? No card. Two and two together tells me he prolly dead.
But the house? Naw, that house was built by the family. In the family, it stays. The old man was always clear about that. Though we’ll die, our house remains. Never did feel like much of a family code, but it was his anyway. And now? I’m goin there. Hopefully, it’s free of my relations. Empty and quiet is what I’m lookin’ for.
So why go? That drat painting is comin’ down. It ain't so much the message I got a quarrel with. I do find some value in it. It's just, that was my space y'see? I don't feel safe nowhere. When I rested my head after a day of work on the crops, there it was. When I came home cryin’ cos the kids at school called me out my name, there it was. And someday, I’ll die. And there it’ll be. That don’t square with me, y’see?
Ever since it went up, no room has been my own. The place I call home now? It's filled with crap. Kid's crap, old lady's crap, crap from the neighbors, and crap that nobody needs. It's enough already. So I'll go back, take the painting down, and sit in my goddamn room for a minute or so.
House looks the same now as it did back in the day. I thought it would seem smaller, that’s what people say about going home, but naw. Same old house. Shutters green now though. They were black when I was young.
New lock on the front door. I try my key anyway and it seems to fit just like it did. Door clicks open and I’m in the hall. Some would take some time to look around, but I ain’t interested. I got one thing to do, and I’m fixing to do it quicklike and clear out.
The stairs moan under my weight, not sure if that’s the house showing its age or myself. Few steps later and I’m in my room. It ain’t mine until the picture comes down, and there that son of a bitch is. It hasn’t changed. I’ll change it. I grab it by the frame and find that it don’t need yankin’, it slips right off the one nail it rested on all these years. Guess my old man knew that I wouldn’t try nothing smart under his watch after the first couple of beatings.
Garbage can still under the desk, and in the can it goes. It may still sit in the room, but now its where I want it. Bed’s still soft. I sit. There’s a knock on the door and I already know who it is. It opens, there’s my old man.
“Pa.” I greet him.
“Sam,” he responds, tipping his hat down toward me.
“I will say, Pa, I was hoping this’d be easier than having to say much of anything to you.”
“Come on now, boy.” He says to me as he takes my desk chair, and sits in it, facing me. “I told you I’d come back from hell to get you if you took that painting down.”
“Is that where you came from?” I ask him. He doesn’t look quite right. Something bout his skin, can’t quite put it to words, but it ain’t right.
“Don’t matter none. What matters is, we here.”
We sit for a while, neither of us saying much of anything. Looking out the window and all I’m seeing there is grey too. Weird kinda day. But, this is my room now, I say how it’s gonna be.
“Speak your mind then,” I say.
“What, boy, you ain’t got no questions for me?” He asks.
“Hell no, old man. This right here is me, I’m here and I didn’t invite you.”
“Time was, I told you that if that painting ever came down, it would be the end of you.”
“Yeah, and it’s down now, and here I stand.”
“Got it all backward, boy. It shouldn’t come as no big surprise that you’re in the hereafter.”
And it doesn’t. Not because I’m dead, ‘cos I’m pretty sure I ain’t, but it does explain why poo poo’s so odd outside. Come to think, I ain’t see no wildlife out and about this whole ride over and there ain’t nothing on the farm.
So maybe I’m dead, maybe I’m not.
The old man smiles. “You see, that’s why I done what I done, right there. That face, young buck. Stone goddamn cold. Even when you thinkin’ you dead.”
“Or maybe I just think you’re full of poo poo.”
He laughs, “well that works too, if how I raised you taught you to know poo poo from shinola then, well, I’d say I’d done fine by you. That’s the thing about lessons. Parents gotta teach ‘em but the kids will learn what they learn.
“So what then?” I ask. “Is it you or me who’s going to meet Jesus?”
He stands up and straightens his overalls. “I’ll be seeing you boy, and you know why, dontcha?”
“Cos I’m gonna die some day, Pa. Rest easy.”
He leaves the room, but not through the door. He’s just gone. Color comes back to the skies as do some geese flyin’ over the land.
|# ¿ Feb 11, 2019 02:29|
Thanks for the speedy crit mojo!
|# ¿ Feb 13, 2019 02:31|
No need for the disclaimer, Simon. That was some good critting.
|# ¿ Feb 17, 2019 13:11|
In. And Flaming Lips? Hell Yeah! Flash me, please.
|# ¿ Mar 27, 2019 21:54|
Flash Rule: Maximum Dream for Evil Knievel
The aroma and warmth of your morning coffee rouse your senses as you sit down at your kitchen table. Your wife still asleep upstairs, you enjoy your morning breakfast, as you do most days, in solitude. With only the din of political news and harsh blue light from your paper-thin wall mounted TV to set the tone of your meal, you regard your to-do list. Today, it spills over to two tabs on your NoteIt app. It’s going to be a challenging, frenetic, and toilsome Friday. Thank God.
First on the list: Prepare and submit the family’s taxes. By family, you mean the whole family. You've nearly finalized your and your wife’s taxes, but there are a few errant deductions worth pursuing to minimize the damage done by those lousy Democrats who insist on making things worse every year. However, there’s the matter of your two adult children whom, despite having families of their own you know will manage to make a mess of things if left to their own devices. One is easy; he recently became married and has a child now. Family tax returns are easiest for you. You’ve been doing them for years after all. The other is a bit more involved, but it’s not a matter of difficulty.
Next? Confer with the doctor at the retirement home about your mother’s recent MRI results. Not much trouble with that. Her prognosis is simple: a Grade III Malignant Meningioma. Were she younger, you would’ve pushed much more aggressively for surgery and radiation, but it’s unlikely she could handle such an invasive procedure now. No, the best course is palliative care from here on out. Which means that the crooks who are trying to bill her HMO thought they could slip costly superfluous tests past your keen eye. You make that much clear to her doctors during your phone call. They didn’t get the memo: Patient’s son-in-law is a doctor who knows his poo poo.
You input a reminder for 12 weeks later to contact the doctors for the next follow up on the degradation of your mother’s health. You give her a few good months, maybe five if she’s lucky. Cases like this have come and gone throughout your tenure as a doctor. Her proximity to you doesn't change the best course of treatment.
You handle the next items with similar alacrity and aplomb. Your wife descends the staircase in a clear fog. She greets you with a smile, and you quickly raise two fingers in greeting as you nod your head. Back to the phone: dog sitter contacted, Rabbi’s concerns abated, mutual funds monitored and shifted to a more aggressive posture. You check the clock: 8:45.
If you drive swiftly, as you tend to, you’ll arrive promptly for your 9:20 housecall with Mrs. Shanski. You do, of course, and at 9:40 you slide out of her house and back into your Tesla. Four more house calls until lunch with Bill, your coworker. He’s developing a proprietary EMR system that he intends to use for the company and could potentially sell down-the-line to a national chain. Lunch with Bill is always invigorating.
As you careen down 95 South towards the next appointment, your phone vibrates in its holster. You pull back on the knob twice to let the Tesla drive itself while you check on it. It’s a new post on Instagram from your son. It’s a picture of your granddaughter. In a most unflattering bit of photography, he managed to sneak his phone up close enough to her mouth to see a pointy bit of white.
What could that be? Surely she’s not on solid food yet, so why are they taking pictures of her mouth with odd objects in it? Something about the picture irks you. You let the car continue its auto-drive mode while you dial up your son. He picks up after the first ring.
“Hey, Dad.” He says to you.
“Hi, Marty.” You respond. “So I just saw that post you put up. What’s going on with Sona’s mouth?”
“It’s crazy, isn’t it?” He says to you. It certainly seems out of order, but crazy? Now you’re concerned.
“Marty, what happened?”
“It came in last night. I noticed it when I was feeding her. She was having a tough time with the bottle, and when she started crying, I saw it. Then, of course, I started crying, and the whole thing turned into a mess because Michelle heard it and came in, and then she started crying, and long story short, we didn’t get Sona down until an hour later.”
“What are you talking about?” You ask. He’s not making any sense. Why is he telling you this long-winded story? They had a problem last night, and they didn’t call. You’re a doctor; you may as well be their daughter’s doctor for all of the help you’ve given them.
“Yeah, dad, I know. Sleep schedules are important and all. But, hey, how often does your baby have a first tooth?”
You freeze. You instruct the Tesla to pull over to the shoulder. That can’t be a tooth. She’s only… wait, how old is she?
“Are you sure it’s a tooth?” You ask. “Isn’t that a little early?”
“There’s no mistaking it. Of course it’s a tooth. And, besides, seven months is pretty much right on schedule.”
You let slip a question that you meant to hold on to, and figure out yourself: “How old is Sona?”
“She’s turned seven months old last week, dad. How old did you think she was?”
“I don’t know. I guess, not that old?” You aren’t on top of your tone. How did that even come out to your son? Panicked?
“Well Christ dad, we’ve already signed her up for her AARP benefits. Where you been?” He chides you. But, this isn’t funny. You snap yourself back.
“Of course, sorry, just had an odd moment. I love you, and I love Sona. Please give her and Michelle a big hug and a kiss for me.” You’re still not on top of my tone.
“All right. You sure you’re OK, dad?” He can tell something is off.
“Yes, I’m fine. Shabbat Shalom, Marty.”
“Good Shabbos, dad.”
You hang up with your son and sit for a moment, the occasional car rushes past and stirs your seat with a bit of a thrum. Seven months. How many times have you been with her? And not just to check on her or to babysit. How many times have you bounced her on your knee, blown a raspberry on her belly? The question is impossible to count, but you do know the answer: Not Enough.
The cars continue to whiz past, and you realize that you’ve been so lost in thought that you forgot about your next appointment. You call to apologize, and then, as if your fingers were operating out of your control you call the next patient and do something you’ve never done before.
“Hi, Mrs. Russell. Look I’m sorry to do this, but I need to cancel.”
“Hi, Mr. Chote. Terribly sorry, but something has come up, and I have to cancel our appointment today.”
“Hey Bill, something came up that needs my attention. Can’t make lunch today.”
You shoot Marty a text: “Dinner tonight?”
Instantly you receive a text back: “Of Course! What restaurant?”
“How about our place? I could do with some quiet.”
|# ¿ Apr 1, 2019 04:33|
Tuesday 4/2 @ 10:30 (or so) EDT
Jackbox, CAH, whatever y'all want. Got like 4ish people confirmed so far. If you know you'll be around, lemme know via PM 6 or so makes for a good crowd imo.
|# ¿ Apr 1, 2019 15:07|
Looking at least 7 or so now. Should be a real fun time, so swing on by!
|# ¿ Apr 2, 2019 19:22|
Oh and a
|# ¿ Apr 2, 2019 21:00|
Thank you for the crits, antiv, and yoruichi!
|# ¿ Apr 2, 2019 21:21|
Sorry. For future reference, the hangout link will be posted in both the irc and discord.
We had a great turnout, the call filled up and we hit capacity! Most likely will shoot to put another one together next week, maybe even at the same time since it seemed to work well for so many people. Stay tuned for that.
|# ¿ Apr 3, 2019 06:00|
“Here’s your mail, you loving swizzlestick.” Zeke’s mother tossed a pile of letters and catalogs at his feet.
“Thanks, Ma.” He said as he nodded his head. He heard the distinct murmuring of obscenities trail off as she walked down the hall. Zeke turned his attention back to his computer. He had to hunch over to read it. His gigantic frame taxed all of his childhood furniture in his room, and his chair let out a cry for help as he leaned forward and squinted at an e-mail.
Sorry man dont thing youll be a good fit at our place our doors are only like 8 feet hi tho right?
He forwarded the e-mail to his mother and titled the subject line “I’m still trying” and archived the email into a folder labeled “dickheads” which was nearing triple digits.
He picked up the mail from the floor and checked it. One letter stood out, and as he read whom it was addressed to, his stomach twisted into a knot: The Surviving Relatives of Lester Wyatt
Zeke stumbled into the reading of his Uncle Lester’s will in torn jeans, a stained tie-dye t-shirt, and mud covered work boots.
“Don’t mind me.” He grumbled through his bushy beard at the suits and skirts sitting up front.
He sat down in the back and waited until he heard his name.
“To my only surviving relative that I care to think about : Zeke Wyatt. Though the couch you used to sleep on surely can’t fit you anymore, my bed will probably be a much better fit. My house is yours. Please look after Hermes.”
Zeke dragged a large suitcase behind him as he punched in his birthday on the pin pad. As soon he opened the door, the chime went off. Hermes came barreling down the stairs and pounced onto Zeke's chest. He was a large Newfoundland, and couldn’t get physical with people like he could with Zeke, who was able to withstand all of his weight.
“Good boy.” He said as he scratched him firmly under his snout.
Zeke realized that Hermes was probably hungry as there may not have been anyone around to feed him. He went to the kitchen and dutifully filled up the bowl with kibble only to find that Hermes had already wandered off.
“Hermes?” Zeke called out. Suddenly, a gentle-yet-pronounced mruff come from upstairs.
Zeke followed the noise to his uncle's—now his—bedroom. In the corner was a mountain of kibble, behind it the wall stained with grease and particles from how high it must’ve been before Hermes had eaten portions of it.
Zeke sat down on the bed and considered the situation. It was unlikely that somebody had been by after his uncle died. Alternatively, maybe Les sensed his death coming and gave Hermes a stockpile that would last until his nephew showed up.
He laid down to consider his options. As his head hit the pillow, he felt a soft crinkle beneath it. He reached into the pillowcase and withdrew a note:
Zeke. If you’re reading this, I’m gone. But—I might not be dead.
Zeke and Hermes exited the back of the house through the French doors in the kitchen. The backyard was small and heavily sequestered from the neighbors; the fences towered even higher than Zeke himself.
“All right, Hermes, where is it?” He asked.
Hermes let out a mruff and trotted to the center of the yard and sat down. Zeke followed him and began tapping his foot around the grass. Suddenly, his foot stopped before it hit the ground. A translucent berry colored platform hovered a few inches above the ground. He leaned forward until it was holding nearly all of his weight and then took another massive step forward. The platform held him up, Zeke now floated a foot above the yard.
“gently caress me.” He said as he looked down at Hermes who was distracted by a nearby butterfly. Zeke reached into his back pocket and re-read the note.
Ten years ago, something showed up in my backyard. It’s some kind of invisible spiral ramp to the heavens. Go out and check it for yourself. It behaves oddly and is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. I've tinkered around with it but haven't managed to learn much. It definitely does not seem to be of this world. One thing is clear: You can walk forward and upwards for as long as you’d like, but you can't go back. So, only go as high as you’d feel comfortable jumping off.
On September 20th, I started walking up the platform, with no intention of returning. If I don't find anything, I’ll jump off and end it. I’m an old man; and there ain't much left for me here. If, however, you don’t find my dead body somewhere nearby, that means that I may well have found something worthwhile up there. If that’s the case, I invite you to follow. If you do feel so inclined, you’ll find a large rucksack with provisions for the journey in the shed. Please take Hermes with, he’s seemed keen on figuring this thing out, and it will be heartbreaking for me to leave him behind. The possibility of one day seeing you again will make my journey much easier.
Zeke let out a laugh and smiled for the first time since he learned of his uncle’s alleged passing. He bounded over to the shed, threw the pack of provisions over his shoulder, called for Hermes to follow, and the two giants began their ascent together.
|# ¿ Apr 8, 2019 06:21|
|# ¿ Apr 10, 2019 07:34|
A judge you need?
|# ¿ Apr 10, 2019 23:46|
GAME NIGHT AGAIN
4/11 Starting at around 9:30/10 EDT (or pretty much whenever my baby goes to sleep we can get started)
Not entirely sure where the party will be. I'd like to keep it in hangouts if we can, but if we have too many folks we can potentially shift to another venue to accommodate a larger crowd. I'd prefer not to have people get shut out. I'm open to suggestions if people know of better places, I do think discord might be the best option.
|# ¿ Apr 11, 2019 01:45|
Thanks for the crit Salgal!
Also, we had another awesome game night and hit capacity again!
Gonna shoot to have another next week. May throw some Codenames in there, had a blast with that when we played it before. Stay tuned!
|# ¿ Apr 12, 2019 18:44|
Also, in other TD adjacent news...
I was chatting with folks and it seems like there's an interest in another mafia game!
If you're interested, please PM me (don't crap up the thread). Once I get a roster of around 8-9 people I'll see what I can do about putting a game together for CC.
|# ¿ Apr 13, 2019 01:35|
Here’s the crits. Run N’ Gun are my reactions in real-time. Overall are my thoughts after the fact. If you'd like me to take a deeper dive on your entry, just let me know. Also happy to talk shop in discord or IRC for anyone interested.
Ironic Twist’s Thaw
Run N’ Gun
Your opening is strong. Well written, whimsical and I have an idea of who this person is. The characterization in the next graph (of Uncle Hoke) kind of feels like a step backward because I was bought in on learning more about your protag and you end up throwing a list of things down, which, while funny and amusing doesn’t advance your narrative or characterization much after one or two examples.
And, OK, I guess the character of focus is Hoke, which I’m not thrilled about as I was more interested in your protag, but that’s a different strokes thing I suppose.
This is going all over the place with reckless abandon and I’m a fan. Your brevity is saving you here as is your prose. Moving around and not spending a bunch of time on any one thing is keeping the pace of this on point for me.
Your cuts here are kind of remarkable. My take on this, and I’m curious if this was your intention, was to kind of cut on emotion. Chronologically, this makes no sense, but you’re cutting to new scenes that are relevant to the character’s feelings. It’s a cool thing you’re doing and I really appreciate the respect you have for your audience’s intelligence.
Holy hell, I hope the rest of the week continues like this. This was a ballsy piece that nailed its execution. I’ll have to read it again to find something to quibble with but this is an early front runner for the win. I would pick this as a win for most weeks.
Simply Simon’s Your Auras Paint an Ugly Picture
Run N’ Gun
Eh, I don’t find that so blinding? OK, so you’re dancing around a whole bunch of stuff in this intro and using really flowery language as you do.
OK, so I really don’t much care for this opening. The only thing I do want to know is… what’s this referenced gift? You nod to it, get me interested and then just get all super descriptive about things I don’t really care about quite yet. Some of your imagery here isn’t bad, but it’s hard for me to want to see it.
Oh, alright, so like this dude has some kind of emotional synesthesia? It wasn’t clear that was his gift, it read more like the other person has an aura and that was their gift. Anyway, that’s kind of neat but I’m curious if it’s enough to build a story around. Here’s hoping it is, or you find something else worthwhile.
Haha, OK so the guy seems like a prick, which you handle well. And then he has his revelation that he’s a prick, but not for the right reasons. Honestly, this is toxic bullshit that is written believably… if that makes sense. Like yeah, this guy is full of poo poo, but I’ve heard people talk this way and have these feelings.
Huh, this is growing on me. Your guy kinda wants to help, but doesn’t know how and his blessing is his curse yada yada but you’re doing a good job.
Alright, so once your dude gets to the drug store, I finished reading the rest of this quickly. This is kind of uneven, and your guy shifts from scumbag to righteous to delusional… to like other poo poo too. None of that is necessarily bad but where you do lose me is in the guy’s sense of morality. Whether he’s making these judgments and seeing things as he sees them (my read) or this is some judgment from the heavens that he is privy to, I’m not sure where his morality comes from and what it is. Like he’s clearly got a big beef and hangup with sex, but is that inherently amoral? He feels like a religious character of sorts, but you never really go there. I don’t know. Also, your prose bordered on gratuitous at times, especially in your description of things. You were at your best here when you focused on color, anytime you strayed from that, it started feeling unecessary.
Anyhow, this was an interesting one and you did deliver on a high concept, so kudos to you.
Saucy_Rodent’s Equal Opportunity Witchcraft
Run N’ Gun
Alright, we got a mob! Couple of typos early. This is a short piece, so they’re gonna stand out more.
Oh, it’s over!
Uh, well that was a thing! Not so much a story as a list of people saying dumb things, and then doing dumb things. Which like… sure that’s a good list of things you got there. But… I don’t know, what really is this? If you want to do this story right, I think you need to consult your ‘show don’t tell manual’. It sounds like your witch is cunning, crafty, and overall decent. But all we have as proof is her word and the general understanding that you, the narrator are on her side. But, again, that’s not really a story. How about you show us these examples? And OK, the punchline here that she basically just trolled him a little and got burnt to the stake over it... We get it, these people are all morons. What else though? Do more. You had the words to spare.
Run N’ Gun
Hm, of all things to get me interested in a character “unflappably stoic” is not high up on the list. You do a bit of showing, but I could’ve done with more I guess? Things happen, you say he doesn’t care but in kinda short and normalish ways. It’s also all sandwiched with how he thinks of himself and then how you, as the narrator think of them.
I’m not that bought into him as a person I’m interested in reading about.
Also, a bit of a blocking issue, starting off your story with someone speaking behind him and we don’t know where he is. I’d put the Panera Bread thing first. Too much stuff competing for my attention. I don’t care about what Disney is doing, because that’s seemingly not what this story is about. We get it, the world is ending.
A lot of proofing problems, which surprises me coming from you. Go read through this again and you’ll see it for yourself. Some obvious stuff.
Names for your organizations feel somewhat Vonneguty, which is making me smile.
Pretty far into this and, again, finding it difficult to care. Are we supposed to feel for Kamir? You haven’t characterized him beyond “tough” but even that seems potentially due to brainwashing?
Nearing the ending and I have no idea where this is going to go but jesus you better not just blow up the world.
Oh. Well, I guess that’s an ending?
Nah. You’re better than this. What is this story? Unlikable, poorly characterized cultist meets other unlikeable poorly characterized cultists. They treat each other like idiots and are mean to one of their own. Then the guy goes home and cries a bunch? I really hope I’m just dumb and missed something. Either way, this story didn’t connect at all for me.
Flerp’s The Legacy of the Stevens
Run N’ Gun
You decently build some dread/impending doom with your opening. You’re going to need to earn the claim “all of us are bound to”.
Ah, so it’s a corpse disposal. I guess that’s cool, but it does remove some of the dread.
About a third of the way through and I can’t quite tell if you’re going for something clever here? It seems like you’re trying to make death and loss into something new but simply turning it into a black void ain’t much of a reach.
Well, I read the rest of this quickly thanks to your pretty solid prose. But, I’m kinda left feeling like I wanted this to hit me harder.
I don’t know what you were going for here. If it was to elicit a feeling, it didn’t do that so much for me. If you were trying to turn death/grief/general morbidity into something different and unique… mission accomplished kinda? Death, even intergenerational death, being centered around this idea feels kinda easy.
Tyrannosaurus’s somewhere, sometime, a garden
Run N’ Gun
Nothing terribly grabby about your first, somewhat long-winded opening graph. Decent job giving us a sense of place and time though.
These commas are kind of out of control. It seems like a choice, but it’s, not, quite one that, I’m happy with.
The voice of this is on point, more than most of the stories so far this week. It really feels like the narrator is sitting down and telling me this story. I can hear it.
Huh, the turn with the flowers is interesting, wasn’t expecting it or anything like it.
Wow, way to rush the gently caress out of what could have been a very cool ending.
This bums my poo poo. There’s good stuff here but it doesn’t quite come together. I’m not sure why they had to be flowers or why that’s an important choice but it sure seems like it’s supposed to be one. You spend much of your story building up to a showdown that doesn't really happen. So OK, these things all happened, got like a witch kid who does some witchy things, but to what end? Why did you want to tell this story? Not a question I like to hear when I’ve written something, but it’s the question I have for you now.
Run N’ Gun
Ah, Christ. Stories about environmental disaster are kind of kryptonite for me and I hope this doesn’t make sad for weeks.
About halfway in now and you’re doing a good job of painting a dystopian picture while also ensuring that personality and voice of your characters aren’t lost in the shuffle. This is impressively written so far.
The Pavlov’s dog comment is a bit on-the-nose and unnecessary.
Really solid paying attention to the sweat and contrasting the abundance of it to the scarcity of the water. Neat touch.
Read the rest quickly, well done.
This was very good. A hopeless story which somehow manages to still be a pleasant read thanks in larger part to the attitude of the characters. They speak and act believeably and you do a good job at maintaining a brisque, necessary pace, as not much happens. Add on to that some neat juxtapositions and imagery and you’ve got a pretty fine piece of storytelling.
HM/Wouldn’t mind seeing it win.
Uranium Phoenix’s A Flash of Color
Run N’ Gun
Not a bad opening but we don’t learn much about your character apart from that she was at a place and saw a thing. Some kind of reaction on her part would have been welcome.
Aw, she’s like Wall-E!
OK, so this went from shocking image sci-fi to waxing philosophical.
Kinda like Wall-E!
Alright so yeah, not much changes it’s dudes talkin’ bout stuff, but it’s pretty fun to read I guess?
Not much in the way of story or momentum but there is some charm here. It feels like it would be better suited to a short film or something. As it stands, it’s hard to catch a good bead on how this looks, probably because the scale is just too massive and you spend more time on the characters than the world itself. A fine choice, on its own but there isn’t much here to sink my teeth into.
Antivehicular’s Dismantling Father
Run N’ Gun
Nice little snapshot of who your character is and where they are in life in the opening.
Good balance of action and conversation. You also do a good job characterizing everyone, even the folks we don’t see directly.
Woah, chemo out of nowhere? Did I miss something or did you attend the Tommy Wiseau school of writing?
I’m having a hard time with this story and what you set out to do. I didn’t know where it was going at the halfway point and as soon as it makes its turn I got confused as to why it went that way and what the second half of the story has to do with the first.
Curlingiron’s Hunter of Monsters
Run N’ Gun
I am intrigued by the setup. Good on you.
This is effectively gross.
OK, so once she starts confronting him… what is going on? Why is she doing this? I am confused. So she’s like, on a mission from god?
Uh, what was this? If it’s some kind of jewish folk thing you couldn’t have picked a better week cos how often will you have some jewey judge to help deliberate but… what is this? I don’t recognize this or see much of anything in what you’re trying to do. It’s visceral and handily written but what apart from this person being like a witchy jew hunting dexter, I don’t understand what you were setting out to do.
Sitting Here’s Vulture
Run N’ Gun
Your opening hits hard and you go about the attack of your story in a sensuous way. Well done there.
Ugh, the second beat is a tough read, but for the right reasons.
And hey, it only gets moreso! This bird thing is working for you.
Alright, finished that one quickly. That was a hell of a ride.
Goodness that was something. It was powerfully told and frankly, I was really worried that the whole thing was just going to be a downer and have a tough ending. It was nice to see it take a turn toward the optimistic even if the situation itself may not commonly be so triumphant. This was good good good.
Steeltoedsneakers’s Let them in
Run N’ Gun
Lol, yup. That sounds like college. Like the unloved android bit. I feel like I know your character.
Alright, so we’re building up to this thing she got invited to. You took a bit of time getting to the invitation, let’s hope you get to the party itself faster.
Not bad, the hesitation for her getting there felt believable and you didn’t drag it out.
Got some proofing issues strewn about the piece. Do better.
I don’t understand what happened in the end of all of that? It seems like either the ceremony is real or your character drew something real out of it and it meant a lot to her? Whatever it was, the intention is unclear and it didn’t feel like you took it seriously enough. We spend the majority of the time in this story away from creepy blood magic. To just toss it in at the end like that didn’t make a lot of sense to me.
Thranguy’s All Closed With a Word
Run N’ Gun
Not thrilled with the opening. We don’t learn much about Claire, the monolith or the seemingly odd rules of this world.
Couple of graphs in and I’m starting to see more of this in my mind. The automat was handled well.
The truckers having all of this power is interesting and you’re handling it well.
Read the rest quickly. Well written, but I’m not sure what to make of this.
I liked the telling of the story even if it didn’t feel like the mystery of the world was addressed enough. Though, it almost seemed like the point of this story was to have a relatively unremarkable person acting with a backdrop of an intriguing setting. If that’s the case then yeah, you accomplished what you set out to do, and I did enjoy this quite a bit.
Crabrock’s A Prince on Any Other Day: A Hero’s Tale
Run N’ Gun
Huh, second story to used chatting about the weather.
I’m grateful for this story, it’s a happy little fresh thing that, if it didn’t come this late on a week that had a lot of heavy fare I may not enjoy as much.
Hm, I hope this Stancio guy is for real and not just a gaslighting enabler.
Haha, OK this: “It was more of a mentoring relationship, where I showed him the best place to throw things off of and he taught me nothing.” is probably my favorite sentence of the week. Nevermind “ I needed to be extra sexy, for our safety.” new best sentence. This is a loving gas to read I only hope it stays this fun and doesn’t come crashing down like I worry it may.
Alright, that was sweet.
Oh, I just liked this a lot. Fun time, good voice and confidence in your protag. Not much else to say, good job!
HM candidate imo.
Solitair’s A Deep Understanding
Run N’ Gun
Hm, not thrilling with me your opening. Like yeah, the pit will surely end up being more than what your protag is making it out to be but him not caring isn’t a great place to start.
Three graphs in and your protag is still in the business of whinging.
I don’t understand what’s exciting to your protag in graph 4. You’re doing a bit too much telling here.
Ah, alright, now we got a sea monster thing, this story is going places.
Oh, but the protag just leaves?! But they were all bored and poo poo!
So… dude has a boring gig and nobody trusts him. He whines and finds a fishman, he goes and freewillys the fishamn, and he laments that he didn’t get to study the fishman. One of my consistent complaints this week is that I can’t tell what the author was trying to do with their story. That applies here.
Sebmojo’s The Appliance of Dreams
Run N’ Gun
Digging the voice of this right out of the gate. Hard to tell who’s talking in places. It may be intentional, but I’m finding it distracting.
Hard for me to tell what’s up with Mike. Is he supposed to be a stiff, or someone who’s along for the ride? Or is he coming around?
Oh, OK. Once your character gets the to fire engine guy, I see more of what you’re doing.
By the time they get into the fire engine and drive off I have no idea where this story could possibly go.
Huh, well I guess it went there.
This was neat and whimsical in the right kind of ways for me. It’s certainly well crafted and the frenetic pace makes it work all the better. Well done.
|# ¿ Apr 16, 2019 05:02|
|# ¿ Apr 16, 2019 06:20|
Thunderdome Week CCCL
This will not end. I’ve been putting one foot in front of the other for the better part of a decade. No stop for rest and my beard, which was already a triumph to behold back on earth--poo poo, back on earth, am I even still on earth?-- now reaches my kneecaps. Why I ever started this climb in the first place was a mystery to me years ago. But now? I know the answer. I hated myself. I must’ve. I sent myself away from everything I had and now? One foot forward
one foot forward. What magic could this be? A spiral ramp that materializes under my feet. I check the letter from my uncle and review it. He outlined the rules clearly enough. The ramp only builds with forward steps and you can’t go back. But who cares? There’s nothing for me here. I check with Hermes, his dog, who I’m supposed to take with me and he barks at his disapproval of the climb. He watched his owner make this climb and never return. He sees evil and won’t budge. I scratch him on the head and wish him well. I’m going up
going up, and up, and loving up, and up again, and more up, and up so far that at this point, I could be anywhere. An apparition of the man I was setting out to find appears in front of my eyes. He waves, smiles, and encourages me. He is my tormentor. I clench my fists and feel diamonds materialize in my palms. I pelt them at his nose and, watch as they sail clear through him. My actions relieve my anger, but they are in vain. He’ll remain parked like this for a month. How long is a month? A month is how long I must be with him. That is a month. I used to be able to sleep
sleep feels right. A quick glance at my watch confirms that I’ve been walking for six hours. I’ve earned some rest. I figure that, so long as I lean forward, the ramp will continue to build with me. But then, I don’t quite know the rules. I don’t have any other options at this point. I extend my rucksack out above, and to the right, and carefully lower it until a purple section of ramp catches it. I continue to bob it up and down until I locate the edge. A bit taken with my cleverness, I smile, and place the ruck near the edge and hope that it’ll stop me from rolling off in the night
night. Or at least, I think that’s what this is. I haven’t had a night in well over a hundred days. Whatever gods created this abomination paid no mind to the rules of time and space. But, it’s dark and dark means night. I still know that much. I look past the rippling orange section of ramp and see stars. I’m hungry, so I reach out and grab one. I throw it into my mouth and squish it between my teeth. Their gritty insides tickle my mouth as I chew. Stars are like those jelly filled candy back home
home is out of sight now. It has been for some time. I reach into my rucksack and my stomach drops. I’ve been carelessly eating the jerky and candy inside. I hadn’t considered that this journey may go on for more than a day or two. I figured I’d get there, whatever ‘there’ was, by now. I’ll probably reach whatever this thing leads to before I run out of food. There’s probably about two, maybe three days worth of food left if I’m careful and I don’t indulge
indulging, I eat star after star, not realizing how hungry I was. I curse all that is below me and hope that if anyone counted on the light of these stars that they’re bumping around like shitbirds in the dark. At last, I’m full. And now, sleepy. I can’t remember the last time I felt tired. I flop forward onto a piece of green ramp and let my dreams take me. I wake up falling. Falling off the ramp. I roll my eyes and wait for the crash. It comes after a couple of days. I slam into the slope. Pick myself up. And start walking up again
again, I take the note out of my pocket and look for any clues I might have missed. But, there’s nothing. Just the rules and the hopes that my uncle will someday see me atop whatever this thing is. In a rage, I crumple up the paper and throw it off the ramp. It happens so fast that I barely realize what I’ve done in getting rid of it. It was all I had. Of him, and of the world below me. The ruck and its provisions I had to leave behind hours ago. Now it’s just me and the clothes on my back. I start to worry that I may not find anything up here and that maybe this was a mistake
mistakes like falling off the ramp used to matter. Walking is all I do now. I walk for another year, and another after that. And now, as I continue my walk, a shadow covers me and disappears. It happens again, and again, with every lap of the ramp. I look up and see a figure above me, probably three or so miles above me. I walk, and walk, and walk until I finally catch up
up, I’ve been going up for a year now. My watch battery died a couple of days ago, but I can still see the sun if I squint. It’s been a year. The only thing keeping me going is that I may see my uncle again.
I see his face, hidden behind a mane of gnarled hair. At first I think I’m looking at myself. But, it’s him. Not my tormentor. My family. He puts his hand on my shoulders, and we stare.
“Zeke?” He asks.
“Yeah, Uncle Les. It’s me.”
We hug, maybe for a minute or a year, and when we’re done he asks the question that I hoped he had the answer to:
|# ¿ Apr 19, 2019 22:19|
Thanks for the crits seb! Very helpful, and I appreciate them!
|# ¿ May 3, 2019 14:19|
Just brought on as judge. Holler if you want a spookrule!
|# ¿ May 14, 2019 17:24|
in give rule or w/e
|# ¿ May 14, 2019 20:06|
|# ¿ May 14, 2019 21:10|
In! I'll also take a flash rule from whichever judge wants to give one.
Can't fight? Better run!
|# ¿ May 14, 2019 21:12|
I am in, inspire my rear end with flash
I bet you can't spend all night in that spooky old place!
|# ¿ May 15, 2019 01:06|
Putting together another pal-around night tomorrow, (Thursday) at around 10PM EDT, pending how cooperative my baby is with going to sleep. Jackbox, CAH, and a return of a favorite... CODENAMES!
|# ¿ May 16, 2019 02:09|
Games are starting now! Hop into the discord or IRC for the link!
|# ¿ May 17, 2019 03:22|
I'm in Italy with a phone, a powerbank and an itinerary that consists of "find charming cafés, drink Italian coffee and read bad crime novels until dead or flight home", might as well add some writing to that list. Flash, in and , you assholes.
Late to the party and throwing out disses?
Your story must feature a haunted butt.
|# ¿ May 18, 2019 22:01|
Here be crits for this past week. Happy to talk about any of these stories further. Come find me in IRC or Discord. Also, if you want me to take a deeper dive into your entry, just let me know. Happy to provide a couple of those too.
Short Stories, not gonna bother breaking this up as I usually do. Just a react piece at the end.
Simply Simon’s Diamond Eyes
The choice to start your story off as you did didn’t help you. We know these are campfire stories, just start telling the drat story bruh. The excessive exclamations really lose any momentum of giving this any sort of dread or fear. It just feels funny to me, but not like, ‘oh this is making me laugh’ and more ‘why is this being played for laughs?’
Uh… who is talking? There’s like no quotes around anything so I can’t tell if sometimes you’re commenting on what’s happening as the meta-author or the in story teller. This is confusing and messy. And like, sure, this is supposed to be listened to, and I’ll listen to it later, but that’s not what I’m judging you on. Your story has to work like this and it really doesn’t seem to.
Saw the Billy payoff at the end fell flat and was obviously coming. I guess it’s nice that he didn’t like, show up with a chainsaw at the end or something, but when you start your story that way, it’s pretty obvious where things are going.
So yeah, this wasn’t great. The structure telling of the story itself led to it not quite doing much in the way of evoking a reaction. I do appreciate that you went for a literal telling of a campfire story, that’s saving you from a DM vote.
Doctor Zero’s Go There Not
Achieving meaning through italics is just highlighting that you can’t do it on your own. Lose that shiz and write gooder. Also, about halfway in and… where’s the story?
Ordinarily, I’d be supportive of a semi-second person story like this but the telling of it is odd. Who exactly is this person talking and how do they know all of this? I wouldn’t quibble if it weren’t important that the scene you’re painting, the telling of this story, is occuring in real time between two people. It’s odd and I can’t quite piece together the teller’s motivations. You spend a bit too much time regarding the place and not as much about what’s driving the characters. We find out too late what the protag is all about.
Didn’t hate this, didn’t love it. It’s whatever.
Anomalous Amalgam’s Missing
Your act breaks don’t seem to be necessary. In a story this short, that occurs over such a small amount of time, considering losing them. They disrupt your flow.
So, I get that you’re trying to build suspense and tension in the getting to the campsite. But you took far too long with it. The whole beat where Ted drives the protag could do with a major trimming. You could probably just put the little bit about the ranger station back when Ted’s explaining things at the headquarters.
By the end of the story we have a dead hero but not much in the way of any sort of spookiness. He just sorta dies and we don’t learn all that much or even have time to be fearful. Where exactly, in this story, do you want your reader to feel scared? There’s just no point in here where that happened for me.
M. Propagandalf’s The Baker’s Half-Dozen
Good god, are you trying to make this opening as clunky as possible? Come on, just look at this sentence “While I ended up being an only child.” and ask how it fits into the rest of things. That kind of problem is littered throughout the telling of your story. A lot of short sentences that don’t seem to jive too well with one another. The story is also told immensely objectively and offers little to no opportunity for any sort of emotional response, let alone a fearful one.
Not great, maybe a DM, possible loss if the week is weak.
flerp’s The Squishiness
Oh dammit, claustrophobia. A thing I have. I will do my best to remain impartial and try to read this as someone with out it. Oh good and now baby stuff. Agh, I should probably recuse myself from judging this story, too close to home.
Alright this worked big time for me and I needed to ask myself if it was just because it resonated so personally for me, or was it that the story kicked rear end?
I came to the conclusion that the story kicked rear end. I can absolutely see the scene of a people being prompted to tell some scary poo poo around a campfire and the weird creepy kid comes out with this and shuts everyone the gently caress up (maybe just because the kid is weird). The telling of it was perfect that way and it addresses a universal horror that is entirely relatable yet, to my mind, pretty loving novel. I’m sure there are stories with this sort of POV but I’m not aware of many of them.
This was a fine piece of work. It evoked fear, was tough to get through and was a good take on the prompt.
Black Griffon’s White Hill
Oh, right, the butt guy. Let’s see how you handled this. Bit of odd spacing at the top. Not a big deal, just pay better attention next time.
As for the rest of the story? I don’t get it. Hard to follow the action or comprehend all that much. Like yeah, I stuck you with a difficult flash but what is the thrust of your story here? Sorry, I really don’t have much else to say except that this didn’t make much sense to me.
Nikaer Drekin’s Mama Bear
There’s too many unanswered questions here. I think in your mind you have a clear idea as to what your monster represents but that’s certainly lost on me. I hope it’s something more than just ‘how a parent feels about their kid’. Anyhow, the story itself is fine. Things happen and I understood them. I don’t however view this as much of a horror story. This is a Vonnegut style ‘man-in-a-hole’ story and there’s not much to evoke terror in here. Dude gets in trouble, dude gets self out of trouble.
It’s a thing, you wrote it, I didn’t hate it. Fine.
Nethilia’s Gator Bait
I’m having a hard time with this one. On the one hand, you do manage to evoke a lot of feeling with your story. It’s certainly upsetting and difficult, but is it much of a campfire tale? Not really, to my eye. It’s a cautionary piece, told by a seeming elder, and the apparent ‘scariness’ is of despicable human behavior. But, it’s also not much of an original story in its own right. You point out some elements of stories past and call attention to them, but you don’t tell much of your own story. Having said that, it’s a solid piece of writing that did connect with me and for that it does deserve praise.
Thranguy’s Don’t Turn Your Head
This is slick and nice, and I like that the story is occurring in real time. But, that’s about where my appreciation for this ends. I’m struggling with this piece in a similar manner that I’ve struggled with others. Who’s talking here? I think it matters and I’d really like to know. It seems like it’s the devil but then the devil is referring to himself in the third person and that seems silly. Anyhow, apart from the presence of ghosts, there’s not much in the way of ‘spooky story’ here. Didn’t really get what I came for, but it’s otherwise alright. Got some weeping angel stuff going, whatever.
A dead doggo story? I hope this is more than that.
Well, it isn’t. Dude this just read a ridiculous comedy to me. I couldn’t take it seriously and the language you used betrayed the sense of characterization I think you were going for. I saw the ending coming from a mile away despite it being ridiculous and this ultimately landed with a wet fart.
DM, maybe a loss.
Kaishai’s Hollow Hearts
Sensually, this story works on a bunch of levels. I can feel this setting through the prose. That’s pretty much as far my enjoyment goes. This story feels similar in content to some of the others this week where a protag kinda goes somewhere and kinda dies. The death itself here is handled pretty well, again through a deft hand with sensory management, but there’s not much else here.
is a wiki a book’s Stay Ouf of the Woods
The informal nature of your opening is a bit exhausting and I’m hoping it goes away. I get that you’re going for a voice here but things like “if you ask me” are not necessary in a short piece of fiction. We know that’s how they would respond if asked, because they’re telling us now. Keep things swift and clean. You’re also calling upon poor cliches that are uninteresting, “hardly contain myself”, you can probably do better than this.
(Sorry I’m gonna nitpick a little more with the entry than others because you have some stylistic problems that are easy to address and could vastly improve your writing, so stick with me)
“Once we were unloaded and the tents were set up” this is passive and awkwrad. A simple fix here of “After we unloaded and set up our tents” is better. It reads better and also doesnt’ make it seem like things just happened outside of your character’s control. Dig?
“Eventually” is not the right word here.
OK, anyway, you told one of the more straightforward spooky stories this week and I appreciate that you kind of took that direct approach. This is a story one could easily tell or hear around a campfire. Problem is, it doesn’t have much to it. We don’t really get to know very much about whatever it is that Randall had to deal with so readers are likely going to be more curious than scared. The scary moment here is when he’s in the tent and Randall comes back, then… nothing happens. There’s no payoff at that moment and I’m wondering how this would play if I were watching it.
Antivehicular’s The Only Story Your Friend Knows
A bold move tellings us upfront that your story is not going to be good!
This is pretty nifty. I like how we have two stories going on at once. We get the friend telling theirs and the narrator’s own personal experience to contrast it. While the story wasn’t exactly scary to the reader it was scary to the characters within the story itself and I believed and bought that. I liked how this work, and flowed and I’m into it.
Lippincott’s Don’t Tell It On the Mountain
Might be better off starting your story with the first sentence but then cutting to “When I was at college…” makes things more ominous and could make for a more intriguing read. You hit the word count so you likely could have used those words somewhere else and for better results.
Anyhow this is probably the straight-up, scarriest story of the week so far. Good on you for that. You give us enough about the oogeyboogey thing to make it scary and impactful but not so much as to remove the opportunity for us to fill in our own blanks. The telling of the story itself was clear and I could see plenty of images in my head of all of the events.
You’re spending far too much time on the telling of the story, which isn’t really all that interesting. Oh, but then there’s a little eye stabby stabby and I guess this is what the real story is?
Ok, so by the end of this, I’m kind of on board. I still don’t quite know who the people were who were telling the story or what their deal was but they seem to be bad guys or something, so I guess that’s enough.
The ending did pack somewhat of a dreadful punch, so points to you for that.
A fine entry.
Fuschia tude’s Interchange
A bitch of a flashrule, but you handled it in stride. Your story overall was fine, bit too much telling of how scared your protag is, but otherwise this mostly ticks the boxes of what I was looking for this week. Didn’t really find it particular evocative or scary though. Guy follows another guy into woods, some odd thing happened to the other guy, not really sure how or why, but it’s scary!
Worked well enough but nothing memorable.
|# ¿ May 21, 2019 04:30|
Please excuse this minor distraction from the good postin of stories...
Potential Game Night....
It's been awhile, so if you are around for some hijinks, and general tomfoolery send me a PM or something to let me know.
Hopefully, we can scrape together 5 or 6 folks.
|# ¿ Jun 9, 2019 23:47|
I agree with this. Also, I get to fart on derp's pillow if he or she fails to submit
TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN
Greetings. A judge am I. I find this contest to be frivolous and without merit. Why are you two fighting? Why can’t you be friends?
Write me a story about two people who just can’t get along. They should! They probably need to! If they got along, the conflict(s) that they both need to deal with would certainly be easier to handle!
BUT THEY CAN’T! GOD WHY CAN’T THEY?
Take up to 2,000 words if you need them. Get this story posted by July 4th, Noon EDT.
Optional Flash Songs for inspiration upon request. If you ask for that, you get three, and pick one.
Fleta's Flash: The Moon Is Disgusting
derp's Flash: Exogenesis
Chili fucked around with this message at 18:24 on Jun 26, 2019
|# ¿ Jun 26, 2019 16:40|
Groovy. Since you both jumped in all nice and quick, I'm gonna give you a total of 6 in one post. Claim the one you want, first come first served:
Hip Hop Pick: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_JZom_gVfuw
Indie Pick: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6JscAwVu2QI
Symphonic Pick: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6gDv-jaUUGw
Folk Pick: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7M8m4LyFSkE
Jamming Pick: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yS2IBMQIjDo
WTF Is This poo poo Chili? Pick: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3wGMsOhaPJs
Cop your inspiration from your pick in any way you see fit. It can also be based more on the music video than the song itself (if there is one), I don't care. I'm very very lenient with flashes and the like, so just give me some kind of idea that you used your pick.
Chili fucked around with this message at 18:24 on Jun 26, 2019
|# ¿ Jun 26, 2019 17:43|
|# ¿ Sep 30, 2023 01:34|
Well done, the two of you. Now, get out of here and don't come back until you've got them words.
|# ¿ Jun 26, 2019 18:23|