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in, story and genre please 
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Jan 3, 2023 23:41
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Albatrossy_Rodent posted:Tower of Babel as Whimsical Christmas High Fantasy Adventure
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Jan 4, 2023 22:45
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Flash: Maccabees 1 as Whimsical Christmas High Fantasy Adventure A Christmas Adventure 1750 words Most years, Timmy’s shutter would fly up as the first flakes fell, his eyes bright as Rudolph’s red nose; now, the snow was blanketing garden and reindeer alike, lit by the moon at its apex, and still Timmy had not appeared. Rudolph pawed at the snow below Timmy’s window, waiting; wondering. Had they moved, and Rudolph’s magic hadn’t sensed it? Or worse? Rudolph was lowering himself for a rest when he heard the tell-tale scrape of wood and rusty hinges, saw his dark-haired charge lean surreptitiously out, straddling the sill. He held a vape pen in one hand, shoulder cradling a phone against his cheek. ‘Just leaving now,’ the boy said. ‘Nah, “grounded” for a week. There in ten, okay? Right—yeah—uh, me too.’ The boy slid the phone into his pocket and then edged down the tiles to drop soundlessly into the packed snow, gangly limbs slightly less graceful than in years past. Rudolph snorted, breath misting, and stepped forward. Timmy whirled around, free hand clenching into a fist; and then relaxed when he saw the reindeer. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘It’s you.’ ‘Hello, Timmy,’ Rudolph intoned. ‘You look ready for an adventure.’ Timmy rolled his eyes. ‘It’s Tim,’ he said. ‘And—nah. Not tonight, okay? Try another house.’ Rudolph lowered his head, eye-to-eye with Timmy. ‘You’re my charge, child. Why else would you be out this late, if not for an adventure?’ ‘I’m not a child,’ Timmy hissed. ‘I’m too old for your—“adventures”.’ ‘So I see,’ Rudolph mused. ‘Nice shiner. How’d you get that?’ Timmy blushed, turning away. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’ Rudolph’s red nose flashed once; twice. ‘Try me.’ ‘It’s stupid,’ Timmy murmured. ‘David was teasing me because I still believed in Santa last year, so I said at least my family can afford presents, and then—’ ‘David?’ Rudolph asked. ‘David Glasman?’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘Well, there’s a reason his parents don’t give him any—’ ‘I know that now,’ Timmy spat, glaring at the reindeer. ‘He’s just jelly because I’m getting a new iPhone, while he gets to look at candles and eat potato cakes. So of course he hit me.’ Rudolph thought for a moment, and then sniffed the air, gauging the wind speed and direction. His eyes narrowed, before he lowered his forelegs and offered the saddle to Timmy. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I know an adventure you won’t have grown out of yet.’ Timmy glanced up at Rudolph’s eyes, glittering in the moonlight. ‘Yeah, I kinda promised someone I’d—’ ‘She’ll keep,’ Rudolph muttered. ‘Come on. Unless you’re scared?’ Thousands of years of charges, each predictable as the last. Rudolph smirked as Timmy’s expression hardened from insult to defiance. ‘Fine,’ Timmy said. ‘But this had better not be childish, okay?’ Rudolph smirked as he began to work his magic. # Timmy’s eyes shuddered open as their flight came to an abrupt end; Rudolph landing in thick mud and staggering forward a few steps, Timmy jerked from the saddle to collapse beside his steed. The air was thick with smoke, and an acrid stench stung his nostrils; his hands, scrambling for purchase as he hoisted himself up, came away slick with blood. Ahead, he could see once-tall walls of stone, crumbling under some onslaught; in the haze of smoke and dust, blurred figures struck at each other with a din he could barely discern over his hammering heart. ‘You there!’ a voice called, as a man loomed above; his voice strangely accented by the reindeer’s magic. ‘Where be your blade, boy?’ Timmy stared, openly agape. The man wore a tunic and light armour, dented and dull; his bare arms were muscled like rope coiled tight around marbled stone, veins rippling down his bronze flesh. ‘My—my blade?’ he managed. The man retrieved a scrap of iron protruding from a nearby corpse, passing it to Timmy. The pommel was wrapped leather, the shaft heavier than it was sharp, mottled by rust and blood alike. ‘Take care not to fall from your mount, boy,’ he said. ‘We need able hands to do the Lord’s work; He will lift even those as—slight—as you.’ Before Timmy could respond, the man whirled as if to some premonition, and then launched himself into the fray, crying out as his blade tore through throat and chest alike. ‘He,’ Rudolph announced, lowering his head to whisper into the boy’s ear, ‘is Judas—’ ‘The traitor?’ Timmy gasped. Ahead, Judas’ oiled muscles glistened in the light of nearby flame, his violence arrested mid-swing by Rudolph’s aura. ‘He’s—more ripped than I imagined.’ ‘—“the Hammer” Maccabeus,’ Rudolph finished; the aura released, the blade striking with an eruption of arterial blood. ‘We’re still a few years off Iscariot.’ ‘Where have you taken me,’ Timmy asked, whirling. ‘What kind of Christmas story has this much—this much blood?’ ‘Not Christmas,’ Rudolph said. ‘We’re also a few years off your baby, shepherds, and fragrances, child. Come. They’ll have almost reached the sanctuary, by now.’ Timmy didn’t correct the reindeer as he followed through the battlefield; only half listening as Rudolph explained what had happened, what was to come. As they walked, his eyes kept wandering, unable to land on anything but bloated flesh, flickering with clouds of tumescent flies; exposed bone, reaching skyward like barbed wire; and collapsed horses thronged by crows, deciphering their fates in the spilt entrails. Ahead, Judas and his men ascended a hill, and Timmy hastened his footsteps. At the top, Timmy saw the remains of a once-great building, ancient even in its own time: its heavy gates bent and twisted, its walls splintered and bristling with dark ivy, tendrils crushing the stone in their grasp. Approaching, they heard the inconsolable wailing of the same men who wore the blood of so many fallen soldiers. ‘They have defiled it,’ Judas roared. ‘The pagans have profaned our most Holy Sanctuary. You!’ he cried, pointing toward Timmy. ‘Take our finest soldiers and rout the infidels. I will remain and do what I can for its sanctitude.’ ‘Why me?’ Timmy said, unthinking. ‘Surely you have—’ ‘Because you’re the hero of this adventure,’ Rudolph muttered, in the silence of his aura. ‘Do keep up. You weren’t complaining when Dickens asked you for help.’ ‘Yeah!’ Timmy exclaimed. ‘Because I know how to write—’ (‘Debatable,’ Rudolph murmured)—‘but I don’t know anything about fighting—’ ‘Didn’t stop you before,’ Rudolph said. Timmy glared at the reindeer, who released the aura. ‘I have faith in you,’ Judas intoned. ‘You’re of an age to lead slaughter.’ Timmy stared down at his rust-red blade, and nodded, resolute. In the sanctuary, light mottled through the vine-fractured ceiling. Timmy’s chosen soldiers pressed forward, silent on their sandalled feet, as Timmy stumbled over broken bone and pottery. They emerged in a clearing, and Timmy recognised its holy significance from the way silence itself knelt respectfully on the tiles. Ahead, his soldiers mouthed some prayer, hands moving silently; Timmy was hurriedly echoing their movements when the first infidels arrived. Simon was struck first; he fell heavily onto the mosaic, heavy shoulders cobwebbing the impact. Before he could recover, an infidel, thin sword gleaming, ran him through and pulled the blade back, impossibly clean, impossibly quick. Timmy’s hands ran wet with sweat as he stumbled backwards, into Rudolph’s hard and ungiving flank. ‘Take me home,’ he stammered, looking back up at Rudolph. ‘I can’t—I’m not—’ ‘You can,’ Rudolph said, nudging the boy forward. ‘You are. Do this, and learn the cost of belief. Learn the importance of tradition. Learn the beauty of eight candles, child, burning for eight days of remembrace.’ ‘That’s what this is about?’ Timmy cried, as the chapel rang with steel striking steel. ‘You’re a bright one, kiddo,’ Rudolph said. ‘Incoming.’ Timmy barely had time to whirl around, sword raised, to meet the infidel rushing toward him; his own blade raised in attack, reflecting the red iridescence of Rudolph’s nose. Timmy squeezed his eyes shut, his arms pulled forward by some magic—or frenzied instinct, who could tell—and felt the impact course up his wiry teenage arms. ‘Well done,’ Rudolph said, into the quivering darkness of his tightened eyes. ‘You’ve cleansed the Temple of Jerusalem. Open your eyes.’ ‘I just want to go home,’ Timmy repeated, voice cracking. ‘I don’t—’ ‘You want to go home?’ Rudolph snorted. ‘It’s barely been an hour, you absolute baby. But, fine. I’ll take you home—to your vape sticks, and your iPhones, and that girl who’s way too good for you. But—first—you need to open your eyes.’ Slowly, carefully, Timmy opened his eyes; and saw thin clouds and stars ahead, felt the dampness of fresh snow on his back as he lay on the lawn outside his window. In one hand, he felt the sharp edges of a mosaic tile, gripped tight; in the other, his phone lit up with notifications—seventeen messages, three missed calls. ‘poo poo,’ he said, closing his eyes. # The next day, Timmy found David under the jacaranda, surrounded by his friends—who cast Timmy dark looks, but eventually withdrew at David’s nod, letting the two boys talk privately. ‘Hey,’ Timmy started. ‘I just wanted to—apologise for yesterday. I was a total dick. And, uh—I know you don’t do Christmas, but I found this and thought—it’s silly, but—maybe you might like it? It’s … do you do any kind of gifts?’ Timmy reached into his pocket, and passed the mosaic tile to David. ‘A … tile?’ David asked, eyebrow cocked. ‘Yeah, I know, it’s stupid,’ Timmy started. ‘Look, forget I—‘ David went quiet, turning the tile over and reading the inscription. His eyebrows furrowed as he looked up at Timmy, face white. ‘Oh my god,’ David said. ‘Do you have any idea what this says?’ ‘Um…’ ‘It’s ancient Aramaic,’ David said. ‘It’s … quite worn, but I can just make it out—look, here it says—’ his fingers tracing glyphs as David leaned in, ‘—I get half-price at your mum’s on weeknights.’ Timmy burst into a smile despite himself. ‘Yeah,’ he acknowledged. ‘I deserved that.’ David smiled. ‘Sorry I didn’t get you anything,’ he offered. ‘Are you kidding?’ Timmy scoffed, pointing at his black eye. ‘I’ve been getting some good attention with this.’ As the two boys laughed, Timmy sitting down beside David, Rudolph watched from the rooftops with a satisfied smirk. Feeling the day’s first snow on his nose, he turned to fly away; certain he’d be back the following year; certain his charge would be there, waiting, as he always had been.
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Jan 9, 2023 01:43
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here for a new beginning
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Jan 10, 2023 09:46
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I will judge
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Jan 18, 2023 03:55
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Crits for Week #546 Staggy - GORP: This is decently written, and the dialogue and characterisation are effective and genuine. The tax does feel a bit tacked-on, and I think for it to really work as igniting this slow-boiling conflict, it would be better to have Larry and Kyle’s differing opinions on the birds established a bit earlier; right now, the opening limited-third narrator refers to the “judgmental glare of the ever-present crows”, so it doesn’t ring true when we later hear Larry’s never given them much thought. As a device, it has a lot of potential: Kyle being conscious of being watched and judged helps establish his character and drives the later conflict that’s of course not about the birds at all. I just don’t think it’s used as effectively as it could be. The ending feels a bit abrupt, and it very much feels as if nothing was actually resolved, but I think that would be a big ask in a story this short. Solid overall. PhantomMuzzles - Ramrod the Rhinelander: I think you took a bit of a risk with the choice of narrator here, since you’re hampering your ability to be clear about what’s happening in a story where — as it turns out — many of your readers aren’t familiar enough with what’s going on. I think for this to work you’d need to either commit to the dog perspective entirely and offer us the storytelling techniques such a POV would offer — I’m thinking here of more sensory detail, building atmosphere with smells, possibly foreshadowing the cryptid with a smell on the breeze the dog can’t quite identify but Meanie doesn’t seem to notice — or else switch to limited-third person and give us some dialogue and description straight. I think this story meets it halfway; for the most part the voice is the sort of simple run-on structure I’d expect from a dog’s perspective, but when you let the dog recognise words like “proof” and “finally”, it feels like you’re dismantling the device and taking us out of the story. (Or even “picture things” — it stretches belief a bit that the dog would recognise a camera as a “picture thing”, and this is one example of where being vague actually hurts the immersion.) Finally, I’m not convinced this story needed the cryptid or the cameras or the sacrificial bulldog at all; I think it probably would have worked better, and ended up less confusing, if it had just been about some arsehole adopting a dog and then taking it on a hike only to get mauled by a bear. You could hand-wave some reason why Meanie wanted a dog — maybe he’s trying to impress a girl who likes dogs, maybe he got the dog after a bitter break-up but doesn’t really want it — and I probably wouldn’t question it. There’s the core of a good story here, it’s just a bit impenetrable if your knowledge of wilderness cryptids doesn’t go far beyond bigfoot. WindwardAway - The Mountain Hare: There’s some decent characterisation here, and the father-son dynamics are well-handled for what’s fairly familiar territory. I’m not a huge fan of the line “the deputy’s son was the last person they would have suspected”, as it delivers the twist basically out of nowhere and immediately turns it into a very different story. I think for this story to work more effectively you’d need to either lead with this reveal, and have the story be more explicitly about the tension of the father not knowing his son is the actual monster, or else hide the reveal until the end, when we’ve had a chance to connect the dots ourselves. Right now it feels unearned and I feel a bit cheated. For that matter: is the son behind all the kidnappings? Without the above reveal, I’d easily believe the son just happened across the cave of skulls and doesn’t know who or what is actually behind it. I was wondering if the “thump, thump” was going to be the Sasquatch, or similar. When it turns out to be his father, and his father somehow immediately realises what’s going on, and doesn’t seem to show any shock or surprise or confusion, it ends on a fairly unsatisfying note. a friendly penguin - Sensory Overload: I really appreciate this story for doing something a bit different this week. There’s a fair bit of frontloaded technobabble, but it’s not overwhelming, and overall there’s confidence in how the world’s portrayed. The characters are solid and the stakes, while not quite life-or-death, are well established. Overall, it’s just a fun read; the characters are fleshed out and there’s a consistent tone that works well throughout the story. My one quibble would be the ending, where you introduce a romantic element out of nowhere and mash Jonah and the owl together without much preamble. I’m probably picking on this specifically as I’m very, very aware of this in my own stories; when I can’t find a good way to finish a story, my go-to move is basically putting two characters together and making them kiss. Here, it feels a bit forced, not least because the owl didn’t really appear in the story until the end. Perhaps it would have worked better if Jonah recognised the owl from earlier? Or if the owl had said something that triggered this response from Jonah? Solid work overall though, congrats on the win! Albatrossy_Rodent - A Sea of Nothing: I’ve already commented on this elsewhere, but the characterisation in this story fell flat for me. Opening with dialogue is always a bit of a risky move as we have no context for who the characters are, and it took me far too long to realise this week that the protagonist is (presumably) a sixty-year-old woman. I think, if you’d opened on “Raymond is the only man I know”, we’d have gotten there a lot sooner. And I don’t think your opening would struggle for that change — right now, there’s too much we don’t know, and whatever stakes you’re introducing with these still and silent waters aren’t landing. Beyond that: I feel like this is a decent first draft, and the core idea here is solid, it’s just not doing anything for me one way or another. It ends up being two “old” people (quotations because, really, they’re sixty, not eighty-five) talking about death, not feeling anything, and silently accepting whatever this is. Maybe if there was more subtext and less blatant “these sure are the end times, how d’you feel about death”, it would work more effectively. Idle Amalgam - Corpse Reader: Any other week, I think this would be an okay story, with a few problems that wouldn’t be hard to address. This week, I think all the frontloaded worldbuilding and technobabble is particularly unjustified, and while I’m hardly a stickler for prompt or flash adherence, you really needed to have at least a cursory mention of nature earlier than four paragraphs in. It’s a Thunderdome truism that you should always cut the first paragraph, and it’s especially true here. There’s nothing in the first para that we won’t pick up later on — for a 1400 word story, most of the opening is completely forgettable, and is largely exposition with a fair amount of worldbuilding to get through. I think the general concept of someone plugging in to someone else’s consciousness via “neural link” is familiar enough ground in a cyberpunk story that you could just open with that directly. You even go so far as to explain the title in the first paragraph, when the title could have pulled double-duty itself and provided an early clue as to where we’re going. I sound like I hate this story, but honestly, it just takes a long time to get going; when you get to the meat of it, I am all for it — this kind of spooky forest in a dead girl’s mind, the idea of consciousness being trapped in this timeless alternate reality, evoke a similar creeping dread to some Black Mirror episodes, or Murakami’s Hard-Boiled Wonderland. That’s my jam, I just wish you’d gotten to it earlier and addressed it a bit more. Thranguy - Dead Weight: I see why you did it, but I wonder if this would work better without the repeated line at the end? I think, as far as providing a throughline, it works, but the rose corsage provides a much better motif. Maybe, if you’d set that up earlier, it would have had more impact at the end when we finally see Connor wearing the corsage; right now, relying on the disembodied line feels a bit flat. Otherwise, I mean, there’s some good dialogue, but not a whole lot else to the story; I feel like it needed more than the twist telegraphed by the title to be really memorable. cptn_dr - The Last Trumpet: I think I probably liked this one the most out of the judges, and as I said on Discord, a lot of that was due to the mood and vibe of the piece. It wasn’t until a re-read that I twigged on the whole Last Trumpet / Revelations connection, which definitely added to my enjoyment of the piece — until then, I was content to just let the story wash over me. Compared to the previous story, I think this was a far more effective way of showing madness in nature; between the moving tattoo, hosed-up birds, friends who may or may not exist, and strange sense of time, I don’t trust anything the narrator’s telling me and I’m here for it. Negatives: it’s underdeveloped, quite obviously a first draft, and it ends very abruptly and without much impact if you missed the whole revelations bit. There’s definite potential here, though, and I’d love to see it developed further. BeefSupreme - An Infinite Storm of Beauty: Not to harp on the point too much, but I think this is one of the more accomplished and complete stories of the week, and would have been an easy shoe-in for the win if it had been posted a few hours earlier. Alas! My credentials for judging this week are probably suspect, since I’ve never gone on any serious hikes and I’ve never camped a night in my life, but your story was the most effective at getting me into nature and immersing me in the environment — the beauty, the wonder, the isolation and sudden mortal danger of it all. It’s obvious you, or at least your protagonist, live in this world, and it felt really lush and well-portrayed. The stakes were escalated consistently throughout the story and there’s real tension in the narrative; I also really appreciated the internal conflict about whether he should alert his now-ex emergency contact or not. For a story that’s largely man v nature, the additional conflict worked well. Probably my only criticism is that the last line doesn’t work particularly well for me — it feels like it should be a callback to an earlier throughline, but either it’s missing or I missed it. Right now it just feels a bit pat, though it’s not enough to diminish my enjoyment of the piece as a whole. Good work. (Okay, I also rolled my eyes a bit at the italicised opening, but you redeemed yourself for that.)
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Jan 26, 2023 05:26
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in with “Hurry, tell me the secrets of evergreens before it’s too late!”
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Jan 26, 2023 07:04
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“Hurry, tell me the secrets of evergreens before it’s too late!” The Promise of Bare Branches 1000 words Michelia lay in bed after a fitful night’s sleep, grasping at a dream where she lived on the open ocean. She always woke as the stormclouds gathered, never knowing what followed; could only imagine, lying awake, eyes on the ceiling, ears filled with the sound of— Rain! She swore, rolled out of bed, scrambled into her cloak and thrust her feet into gumboots, half-stumbling to the door while fetching her hat from the rack. In the living room, Cammie lay by the fire, lifting an eyelid to watch Michelia’s frantic dash. ‘You were supposed to wake me,’ Michelia hissed, brandishing her wand. ‘How long’s it been raining, cat?’ Cammie stretched, yawned, and followed the swearing witch outside, stopping short of getting wet herself. ‘Merciful Petrichor,’ Michelia called out, hands lifted high, ‘this one seeks your favour and your blessing!’ Rivers coursed through the stones of Michelia’s path, clogged and cavitied gutters springing fountains over her garden. In her hand, the wand slowly luminesced, drawing the rain toward itself until the tin roof turned silent and the skies converged; all the rain, Petrichor’s offered magic, suffusing into its radiant tip. Cammie yawned and lay back down, watching the witch draw another season of magic. The clouds, spent, parted to mottle the garden with morning light, and Michelia lowered her wand. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured, to the new puddles, the boggy plant-beds. ‘Thank you.’ Inside, she flicked her wand at the stovetop, and the kettle began its slow boil; as Cammie leapt onto the bench, a swish sent thick-cut bread into the toaster, its coils turning red with a flourish. This was indulgence, something to regret when the days lengthened and the clouds grew sparse; now, she thought, she could spare a little for the joy of it. ‘Ahoy,’ a voice called from her doorway, which she hadn’t shut in all the excitement. ‘I trust that was your doing, then?’ ‘Magnus,’ she started, drawing cloak around her pyjamas. ‘You’re about early.’ ‘Thought you’d’ve been up longer—rain was going near an hour.’ ‘Really,’ Michelia said, side-eyeing Cammie. ‘Well. Petrichor smiled on me nonetheless. Tea?’ she offered, as the kettle came to its whistling boil. ‘If you can spare it.’ Magnus slipped off his wet boots and placed his hat on the rack, its leaf brooch glinting in the light. At the sight of his hair, Michelia suppressed a gasp; his famed black locks frizzed into the grey of driftwood. ‘Of—of course,’ she stammered, conscious now of her showiness. She’d never known Magnus to neglect his hair. ‘One sugar, or—?’ ‘I’m sweet enough,’ Magnus smiled, lowering himself into a chair. ‘Go on, then.’ ‘Go on?’ Magnus smirked. ‘Mick, you noticed my unmatched socks last week. You noticed when I left a nail unpainted. There’s no way—’ Michelia blushed, turning to fetch the teabags and the mugs, stalling. ‘Of course I noticed. But, it’s winter, Magnus. My fortune and your fortune may as well be the sun and the moon.’ ‘Still.’ He shrugged, accepted the offered tea. ‘Your fortune comes from the heavens. My fortune … you know the town’s getting larger.’ ‘It is,’ Michelia nodded, sitting opposite and stirring milk in. ‘You said last week you have six new students.’ ‘Six new students in six new houses,’ Magnus went on. ‘All well and good if they don’t have to clear the woodlands … to lop the trees to build the frames … to plant new trees in new gardens that won’t clog gutters with leaves.’ ‘I don’t mind the leaves,’ Michelia said. ‘You’ll always have my garden, Magnus.’ ‘Always? You can’t promise me that, Mick.’ ‘Magnus. Where do you think I’m going?’ The wizard shrugged, raised his tea, took a scalding sip. ‘I appreciate it,’ he said. ‘But there aren’t many like you. Each year there’s less to draw on, and these blasted—these blasted evergreens! Keeping it all to themselves!’ Michelia frowned, took a sip of her own tea. She’d noticed, of course. Even before the signs showed on Magnus, she’d seen the bare autumn lawns, the branches above greedy with potential. It changed the way the wind sounded; it changed the way the rain smelt. She’d noticed, the way you notice ageing, only once it became uncomfortable. ‘You can’t draw from the evergreens?’ she asked. ‘Not at all?’ Magnus shook his head. ‘Not for lack of trying! Shake the branches, trim the leaves, climb and hold your palms to them—they give nothing away, not even a glimmer. I have books full of them, flattened between heavy pages; stockpots stained from boiling them, kettles full of their ash. What magic they have stays with the tree, always and forever! But oh, they look—’ His words were cut short as Cammie leapt up to the table, gently purring and nuzzling the wizard’s arms. Magnus smiled, and gave Cammie a scratch underneath her chin. ‘Is this your way of calling me a crotchety old fool?’ he asked, chuckling. ‘Who can tell what she’s thinking,’ Michelia mused. ‘She has her secrets, like the rest of us. You know, I tried growing one, once—a blueberry ash.’ Magnus peered up. ‘You did? When?’ ‘Years ago. When—when I thought I might still have children. I wanted something to grow alongside them; that they could climb, mark with their growing heights, have a first kiss beneath—’ she shook her head. ‘It didn’t take, of course. Nothing took.’ ‘I’m sorry,’ Magnus said. ‘Don’t be. It was a dream.’ She smiled, reached out a hand to Magnus’s, his skin lined like fallen leaves, squeezing softly. ‘Dreams aren’t promises. Bare branches, threatening stormclouds—crotchety wizards gone grey—they’re promises. And promises are meant to be kept.’ Magnus smiled, squeezing back. ‘I dream, sometimes,’ he told her, ‘of a cottage, surrounded by maples. I’m by the door, waiting—you’re in the distance, coming toward me, sinking into the leaves, until it’s just your hand and I reach out for you—’ He fell silent, mouth quirked. ‘And then what happens?’ Magnus shrugged. ‘I’m woken up,’ he said. ‘By the rain.’
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Jan 30, 2023 03:24
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awwww yiss back on the bloodthrone without my pants TD 548 - have you ever? ever felt like this? Welcome to a special all-Aussie Thunderdome, brought to you by Chairchucker, Sailor Viy, and me without my pants! This week, I’m paying tribute to the classic Aussie TV show Round the Twist, which I used to watch every night after school without my pants. Based on the short stories by Paul Jennings, Round the Twist followed the Twist family as they moved to a lighthouse in a small country town and found themselves in all sorts of exciting supernatural predicaments — from ghosts haunting dunnies to cabbages bearing babies to skeletons that cursed you to finish each sentence with “without my pants”, without my pants. (okay that’s enough of that) This week, I’d like you to write a story where your characters have an unusual living situation and help a supernatural being somehow. Interpret this however you want! In the spirit of the show, I’d like the stories this week to be fairly child-friendly, but this is a show where a boy turns his penis into a propeller to win a swimming competition, so there’s a bit of leeway. — When you sign up, you can now nominate (or be assigned) an episode title from the show to be the title of your story. Titles are first-come, first-served, and will add an extra 500 words to your story. If you’ve already signed up, feel free to take a title as well, or if you’ve already started a story and don’t want to call it “Skeleton on the Dunny” for some strange reason, I’ll also accept a  for the bounty.— Wordcount: 1500 words (+500 word title bounty) Signup deadline: Friday 11:59PM PST Submission deadline: Sunday 11:59PM PST judges rohan Chairchucker Sailor Viy ghosts haunting the dunny 1. Staggy 2. CaligulaKangaroo 3. Benagain 4. Thranguy 5. Yoruichi 6. Pham Nuwen I’m looking forward to reading all your stories! … … without my pants. rohan fucked around with this message at 22:26 on Feb 1, 2023 |
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Jan 31, 2023 12:37
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Yoruichi posted:uNreal.  quote:Judges, can I have an unusual living situation and a supernatural being as flashrules?
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Feb 1, 2023 01:37
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What’s round the twist week without a little twist? When you sign up, you can now nominate (or be assigned) an episode title from the show to be the title of your story. Titles are first-come, first-served, and will add an extra 500 words to your story. If you’ve already signed up, feel free to take a title as well, or if you’ve already started a story and don’t want to call it “Skeleton on the Dunny” for some strange reason, I’ll also accept a for the bounty.
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Feb 1, 2023 22:24
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Bad Seafood posted:In.
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Feb 3, 2023 05:29
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sign ups are technically closed but if you still want to sign up go for it, I just won’t be distributing any flashes
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Feb 5, 2023 00:48
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submissions are closed! one story still missing by my count, if it lands before judgment I’ll still crit it
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Feb 6, 2023 11:26
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Before I present judgment: I’d like to acknowledge that this judgepost is being written on the lands of the Wurundjeri peoples of the Kulin nation, and I pay my respects to their elders past, present, and emerging. Small showing this week! Generally, every story had at least something to recommend it — but every story also had some fairly significant flaws we had to overlook, or some potential that remained tragically unmined. I think if the stories had gone through another draft or two, we’d be seeing some very different results this week. As it is: the judges conferred, and we decided no stories were measurably worse than the others. As a result, there is no loss and no DMs this week. Some stories did stand above the others: first, for some beautiful prose and a really strong voice, Pham Nuwen takes a HM for Ula. The Winner came in at the eleventh hour with a story that has its technical issues and some definite first-draft problems, but is still a lean and evocative story that the judges loved unanimously. Congrats Bad Seafood!
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Feb 7, 2023 11:31
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Crits for Week #548 Given it’s Aussie week, I’m going to compare each of your stories to a classic Aussie food. Enjoy! Staggy - Rent Free: I enjoyed the start of this. The premise was fun and inventive, and I appreciate how the two prompt rules are neatly interweaved. There are some really fun lines, like “I may have worn the bones of my enemies but I certainly didn’t turn them into a breakfast nook”. Beyond that: most of the story is dialogue, which is fine, but I think your characters run out of conflict halfway through and it feels like they’re spinning tires through most of the story. It’s hard to sustain the fun back-and-forth you open with through the story when nothing is meaningfully changing outside their conversation, and when we get to the ending it feels strangely abrupt. There’s a fake-out toward the end where the god considers if the landlords need a god, but when that gets dismissed it kills a lot of the momentum the story had until that point. It also feels a bit internally inconsistent that the god knows about witches with realtor’s licenses, but doesn’t know what a “landlord” is. Your story is a slice of fairy bread: colourful, fun to eat, ultimately a bit unsatisfying. Yoruichi - I love my axe as much as I love you: lol accints This was a fun story that’s hurting from just having too much stuff. There were parts where I had to double-back to get the names straight, which is death in a piece that’s supposed to be a quick and exciting read. Most frustratingly, most of that confusion could be avoided — removing the triceratop’s and the velociraptor’s names would help a lot with this, or maybe calling them something more obviously dinosaur-ish. Is Todd a reference to something? Steve, Cassie, and Kylie can all be read as Aussie references, but Todd’s drawing a blank for me. Your story is a pavlova, piled high with stuff and a bit messy, but lots of fun. Admiralty Flag - Radio Da Da (episode title #50): Thanks to the flash rule, this is the longest story this week by a long way, but I can’t help but think it’d be better at half the length. In what’s becoming a pretty consistent refrain this week, there’s just too much going on in this piece, and there’s a fair amount of exposition we could do without. I don’t really need to know, so early in the piece, why he’s listening to the radio, for instance … all the talk about syncing and no streaming etc is distracting so early in the story. Jake and Noreen are introduced fairly on but have no real bearing on the plot. etc. Once you introduce the idea that the radio’s talking to Sammy the story picked up a lot — this is the exact sort of weird happening I can see in a Round the Twist episode. The problem is that it feels like you didn’t know going in that the van would end up being the voice of his dad (despite it being heavily implied by your chosen title), so the voice feels inconsistent: we go from the radio being snarky (“like you could buy a talking van for a dollar”) to supportive (“you have an amazing musical talent”) in just over a paragraph. And then when the radio says it’s a poltergeist, it feels like all of the mystery and intrigue is drained from the story in favour of telling a (fairly familiar) story of someone encouraged to follow their dreams (only to be told the magic was inside them the entire time) … but oh, wait, eleventh hour twist, the radio is his father! … by which time I’m exhausted by the story’s tonal shifts and the ending falls completely flat, because by now I’ve completely forgotten the earlier setup about his father. This story’s a bit frustrating because it seems to have potential, and the idea of a radio being possessed by the ghost of his father is a nice one … perhaps you could play up the angle that his strait-laced father is now trying to connect with his son through the music he knows his son likes? Your story is a vanilla slice, thick and dense and sickly sweet, and best enjoyed on a roadtrip through some small country town. Pham Nuwen - Ula: I’m always a fan of a strong character voice, and I think the narration and framing in this story works well. A nitpick: I’m not a fan of “crazy” in the prose. “Mad” probably works better for the voice. This is a small detail that took me out of the prose a bit. The stakes don’t feel as strong or as defined as they maybe should. The selkie’s spell is introduced far too late in the piece for us to get a sense of how the search affects the narrator. I feel like his journey from wanting to marry the selkie to wanting to kill her happens far too abruptly, and I’m sure there’s more you could mine from this story — maybe the villagers tell tales of this man and his strange quest, maybe he comes to miss his former womanising lifestyle and comes to resent the selkie. Maybe he considers giving up and ending it all, but holds on for the chance to kill her himself. Right now there’s a lot of character development glossed over toward the end, which I think could be a story in itself. Your story is a pack of tim tams, rich and moreish, and over too soon. Thranguy - Monkeyshines: Like some other stories this week, this has a fun premise but gets bogged down in some early detail that doesn’t amount to much, and the conclusion feels rushed and unsatisfying. “Goblin from van mural coming alive and wanting to join the band” is a neat premise. Everything leading up to this feels a bit pointless, I don’t really care about who’s having threesomes with who, or why I should be remembering all these names. (It’s also, I think, pushing the prompt after-school TV friendly rating a bit far, but I can’t say I paid too much attention to that while reading the stories.) I think the goblin’s introduction could be a bit more active than him just arriving and being all “hi”, maybe someone tries to steal their amps but he scares them off and then asks to be in the band as payment, something like that. Your story is vegemite on toast; I want to like it more than I do, but mostly I’m just thinking of ways it could be improved. CaligulaKangaroo - The Kenning House: The start of this is needlessly confusing. We probably don’t need the changeling exposition so early, and the story jumps around too much before we get to the present-tense story. Exposition about changelings, quick reference to hopping rails, mention of a kid, and now they’re running from a hobo camp and there’s something about hitting a bum with a rock … ? Be careful with your language around bums and hobos, as they’re not interchangeable. Hobos travel and work; bums stay put and don’t work. Some of the language could do another editing pass. “that garden color demon maw droop all heartbroken like” took me a few goes to parse properly, and there are a few missing words here and there. When we actually get to his parent’s house, I’m still a bit confused by where the story’s going, and here I could use some more exposition to know what’s going on. Did the parents … sell Albert to the feywild somehow? You’ve introduced the devil, and changelings, and the feywild, and the fact that Albert can’t touch iron, but none of it’s quite hanging together cohesively for me. When Teddy fetches the poker at the end, I wasn’t sure if he was going to attack Albert or the changeling, based on the earlier exposition about iron. Your story is a south melbourne dim sim; some of the ingredients are a bit suspect, but I’d happily include it in my order alongside flake and minimum chips. Bad Seafood - The Kennel: As I said in the judgepost, this is lean and evocative, and the prose is, for the most part, tight and spare. The story is well-defined and, while the conflict is mostly internal, the stakes are nicely established which help drive the motivations. This isn’t a slight on your story, but I am curious how it would read to someone unfamiliar with the flashrule. Does the werewolf angle come across clearly enough? I’d argue the silver bullets are enough, but I can’t help wonder if it would be a stronger or weaker story if I needed to work out the conflict myself. If I had a nitpick (beyond the need for a proofreading edit), I’m not sold on the last line. Through the story, there’s been a sense of fatalism through the proceedings, that the characters are doing what they can for now, that things will necessarily go wrong, and they’ll have to go through this all over again somewhere else. It’s been about surviving and not being able to plan too far ahead. But “something would go right” makes it sound as if they’ll take some action to solve their problem that the rest of the story doesn’t support. Essentially, I don’t think “something will go right” is the opposite of “something will go wrong”, as the story seems to suggest. (But “maybe, this time … nothing will go wrong” doesn’t have any power at all as an ending.) Your story is a sausage sizzle: simple and satisfying, but hold the dead horse on mine.
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Feb 8, 2023 02:57
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checking in
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Feb 8, 2023 12:37
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How Far You’ll Go 1000 words Chris hit the vending machine hard enough for the receptionist to yell out from inside, but the Snickers remained diagonal behind the perspex. Rubbing his knuckles, he fished around in his pockets for anything helpful—a coin, crumpled note, flattened bottlecap. God, he was hungry. Nine hours driving and he’d arrived in the only town where the pub was closed for an outbreak of gastro and the servo was closed due to illness. ‘Think your machine’s busted,’ Chris muttered, walking back inside. ‘Do you have any change? It won’t break a fifty.’ ‘Sorry,’ the receptionist shrugged. ‘We don’t accept cash. Covid, you know.’ ‘Right. Right.’ Chris looked back out to the motel carpark, the sign mirroring ‘WELCOME … VACANCY … WELCOME’ into the puddles on the darkened pavement. ‘Is my room ready yet?’. The receptionist regarded him flatly. ‘As I explained,’ she started, ‘the cleaners are stuck in traffic. We’re short-staffed due to—’ ‘Yeah, yeah, illness. Look, is there anywhere to eat in this town?’ She passed a brochure across. ‘Tallarico’s do nice pizzas. Just down the road, right across from the station. My favourite’s the capricciosa, but they’re all good. Would you like me to make a booking?’ ‘Fantastic,’ Chris beamed. ‘Yes, please, thanks.’ ‘Tomorrow? 7pm?’ ‘I was hoping for, uh—tonight?’ ‘They’re closed Mondays,’ the receptionist shrugged. ‘And they close at nine anyway. Excuse me. There’s a guest.’ Chris heard footsteps, sharp on the lino, rolling luggage following like thunder. He whirled, cursing, stepping away just as a lady in an Audrey Hepburn shawl placed a purse on the counter and passed over a license. ‘Sorry,’ she said, to either Chris or the receptionist. ‘I’m actually a bit early. Had a better run than I was expecting.’ ‘Not a problem,’ the receptionist smiled, and passed over a key. ‘Your room is one-oh-four, on the left.’ ‘Her room is ready?’ ‘Of course. She booked ahead.’ ‘She planned to come here?’ “She” regarded Chris over oversized tortoiseshell glasses. ‘Liked the pizza last time.’ ‘You know what?’ Chris growled, rounding on the receptionist. ‘I don’t care! Cleaner or no cleaner. How bad could it be?’ # Chris took one look at the bed before rolling up his jacket and propping it against the cupboard as a pillow, laying onto a futon of pilfered newspaper. ‘NO VACANCY’ blinked through thin drapes, but if he turned and closed his eyes, he could almost— The air-brakes of a truck blasted outside, before the station bells tolled for an incoming train. He heard footsteps and doors slamming, a toilet flush, NO VACANCY, trucks passing, traincars clattering, each loaded with pizza, NO VACANCY, he was running to catch up, NO VACANCY, chased by Audrey Hepburn on a vespa, scarf billowing in NO VACANCY, NOT WELCOME, NO VACANCY, truck and train colliding at the crossing, pizzas tumbling, momentum arrested by perspex carriages, NO VACANCY, NO VACANCY, NO— He sat up, gasping, covered in sweat. In the bathroom, he blinked into the mirror, fluorescent light humming, as he raised his arm and saw an imprint of the sports section on his shirt. # Outside, on the balcony, he cracked open a mini-fridge Fosters. ‘That bad?’ a voice asked, from the balcony opposite. ‘Oh,’ he said, seeing the lady in the Hepburn shawl. ‘Sorry. About before.’ ‘I get it,’ she said, and lit her own cigarette. ‘Driving alone sucks. Only your thoughts and callback radio for company. How long have you been on the road?’ ‘Three days. From Melbourne.’ She whistled appreciatively. ‘Don’t tell me. “Destination Wedding”. You’re a groomsman, but you haven’t seen the groom in years. Taking the long way to prolong that reunion, work out how you’ll reconnect. Close?’ He took a swig. ‘Taking my dad to the Daintrees,’ he said. ‘Oh, that’s lovely! Is he—’ ‘Guess you could call it a “Destination Funeral”.’ ‘poo poo,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’ ‘Used to go every year,’ Chris continued, nursing the Fosters. ‘Growing up. Don’t know how we afforded it. Three kids and he never made that much. Guess that’s why we drove?’ ‘That must have been nice—making memories.’ Chris barked a laugh. ‘This is the only trip he hasn’t spent berating everyone. Always making huge deals from trivial poo poo. Half expecting it, still.’ ‘Hm,’ she mused. ‘It’s not like we wanted to go,’ Chris shrugged. ‘I’d’ve been as happy playing cricket in the backyard. Helping him in the garage. Playing Scrabble. Y’know … talking. Not just listening to … what you listened to earlier.’ She ground her cigarette out. ‘My dad and I,’ Hannah started, ‘used to play a game, on long car trips. Guessing how many servos, how many crossings, how many bridges till the next town. He always won, I never knew how. Like he was psychic. ‘Years later mum told me. He didn’t work in “the next town over”. He worked all across the state. Each week a different town. But he always came home for the weekend. Always. And he took note of everything, remembered everything he saw, just to wow me when he took me places. After days on the road, when he probably wanted to do anything but.’ ‘He must have really loved you,’ Chris managed. She shrugged. ‘I mean, he also had a woman in each town. But. Yeah. Sometimes a love language is just how far you’ll go.’ # It rained overnight. Chris checked out, and swore when he saw his window left down. Grumbling, he lay newspaper over the damp seat, vowing to always travel with a blanket and towel from now on. Settling back into the blurred sports section, he noticed a wrapped bundle atop his dashboard, tied together with a strip of floral fabric. Loosening the knot, a Snickers bar fell onto his lap and the paper unfolded to a note: Lucked out and got two for one this morning. Figured this might keep you two going the next eighteen servos. Take care — 104 Smiling, he unwrapped the Snickers, picked up his phone, and called the radio station to place a request.
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Feb 24, 2023 07:47
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Knowing Your Place 2020 words removed rohan fucked around with this message at 12:10 on Jan 6, 2024 |
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Feb 27, 2023 10:22
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Thunderdome Week 552: Secret Relationships alright let’s keep it real simple this week I’d like you to write me a story about two characters who are in a secret relationship. That’s it. Their relationship can, but does not have to, be romantic. If it is romantic, feel free to write about a secret throuple. Otherwise, the relationship should be known to only these two characters. (Whether that changes by the end of the story is up to you.) If you want a flash, I’ll give you something I’ve watched / read / listened to lately for inspiration. You’ve got 1500 words. No erotica, poetry, google docs &c. Signup deadline: Friday 11:59PM PST Submission deadline: Sunday 11:59PM PST judges rohan Beezus you? writers Strange Cares Idle Amalgam Chernobyl Princess Slightly Lions derp Thranguy Bad Seafood Violet_Sky rohan fucked around with this message at 11:58 on Mar 4, 2023 |
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Feb 28, 2023 22:16
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Thranguy posted:In, flash me
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Mar 3, 2023 02:17
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sign-ups are closed one judge spot still open
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Mar 4, 2023 10:41
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submissions are closed
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Mar 6, 2023 10:10
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Week 552 Judgment I’ll keep the results short this week, like a lot of the stories turned out. And, just like many of the stories, I can’t promise a satisfying conclusion. Let’s start on a high note by crowning the incoming blood Disappointingly, none of the other stories clambered above the rest to nab a HM. For the second time in recent memory, I’m declaring this another no loss week. … which is largely a matter of semantics, as one story only narrowly avoided that dubious honour. Idle Amalgam takes the DM for a story that was unfortunately wordy and honestly a bit more dull than you’d expect from its premise, but it was a complete story, and in a week where many entries missed that mark, it deserves some slight reprieve.
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Mar 7, 2023 08:57
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Mar 7, 2023 22:03
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Crits for Week #552 Strange Cares - Deadlift: Working out every day isn’t conducive to muscle growth. You need rest days for your muscles to recover! (Yes, that is my objection to the logic in this story.) I think the title, and the ominous “at any price”, indicated this story would go darker places than it ultimately did. What we have is a fairly silly story, albeit one that’s decently written with a consistent voice. There are some great lines in here (I do like “a workout plan where every day just says ‘PAIN’”), but the whole story being basically a recollection without any sort of framing device just meant there’s a lot of the narrator expounding on events without too much in the way of stakes or tension for the reader to latch onto. “any price” promises some brutal twist that the story doesn’t really deliver, unfortunately. Was there a secret relationship? I’m going for not really — it doesn’t really seem like Tony Garbanzo is here for anything but lifting weights, so it’s not really a two-way relationship. Violet_Sky - A conversation with my sleep paralysis demon: This is cute but ultimately a bit insubstantial. I think there’s more you could do with this idea than you’ve done here, and you had the words to do more this week. The protagonist can see ghosts, and that’s destroying any chance of romance? There’s a demon that’s disenchanted with working in literal hell because of the paperwork? These are great ideas that deserve more airtime than this fairly safe little scene offers. Was there a secret relationship? Halfway there for me, I think … perhaps there needed to be some acknowledgement from Zeke that he’s putting his neck out by treating Taylor so nicely. Surely this goes against some underworld protocol? derp - crows,: I want to like this more than I do. I get what you’re after with the voice and it suits the character perfectly, but ultimately this story is asking a lot of the reader and I’m not convinced the payoff is worth it. I was expecting the details of Mr Darling’s “horrifying” death to come into relief at some point, and the eventual realisation that Mrs Darling was asleep in front of a bonfire feels loaded with a symbolism or meaning that isn’t really captured. Was the bonfire the taxidermied birds? I’m basing this purely on an oblique reference to feathers near the fire, but you’ve established there are plenty of birds around anyway, and why did she leave the one unburned? Was there a secret relationship? I’m going with a no on this one; I can maybe get the intention of a one-sided relationship, but that’s not really what I’m here for. Chernobyl Princess - Haunted: This is solid, and gave me basically everything I was after this week. Secrets! Stakes! Cops investigating thaumaturgic surges! There’s a lovely story here about difficult choices being made and the importance of different relationships; perhaps you’re piling it on a bit thick with Kit having a wife and a newborn child to lose if he continues trying to investigate his brother’s death, but I’m here for the baby playing peek-a-boo with a literal ghost. There’s also a very silly story here about cops threatening families with exorcists if they don’t stop reaching beyond the veil. I like both. Only one of those stories ends on a satisfying note, though; I’m keen to read the continuing adventures of Kit and Matty solving crimes. Was there a secret relationship? Absolutely, at the end. Slightly Lions - Rooks and Blackbirds: This is a technically competent story about a sympathetic protagonist who has a clear motivation, with some nice tension and escalation of stakes, and an actual ending. But I’m relegating it to the soggy middle because the story is needlessly mean-spirited and the sudden turn at the end left me very annoyed. When you spend half the story making us feel for Odette and her desire to stay in her grandmother’s village, we want to see her succeed. Yes, we’ll be disappointed when she tries to cheat the man out of the ring’s apparent worth, but there’s a chance there for the event to act as character growth for her, and we’ll see how she responds to being scammed at the end, as a sort of retribution. … but when you end by focusing suddenly on the scam artist, and immediately pivot to making him the sympathetic hero, the whiplash doesn’t work at all for me and I feel, oddly enough, cheated. Worse, the ending after this reveal just follows some fairly predictable beats and ends with the clanger of “Crowmez” which is up there with ol’ Tony Garbanzo as terrible names from this week. I’m not saying you can’t write a story where the sympathetic protagonist turns out to be a bit of a poo poo, who ends up getting their comeuppance. But, as above, this would have worked better if we’d spent more time in her POV, and saw how she reacted and changed after this. Right now the shift is too abrupt, and the character I’ve spent the story getting to know is abandoned at the pivotal moment. You can write. I think it says a lot that I was invested enough in Odette’s motivations to feel cheated at the end. This was almost there, but fell apart at the end. Was there a secret relationship? Yep, I’ll give you that. Idle Amalgam - The Pursuit of Power: The idea here is decent. Two henchmen realising their villainous boss is actually going too far and planning to usurp him? I’m into it. There’s plenty of scope for tension and intrigue, and the initial animosity between the two henchmen is handled well; I can see why Vilesh wouldn’t anticipate their ganging up on him. The problem is that everything is just a bit too wordy, and I can’t get invested in the action scenes because a) they’re fairly passive, with a lot of description and not a whole lot of agency from the characters, and b) I don’t really know the rules or the limits of this fantasy world. You go from introducing ethereal arrows to magical serpents to beams of dark energy to giant hands to … what next? There’s no real sense of tension because at any point either of the characters could pull something else out of some dark void to get out of whatever danger they’re in. Is the ending, with “Vilesh” looking wide-eyed and about to speak, meant to imply Vilesh traded places with Melchior and that Kelezet ended up killing his ally? That’s a delightfully horrifying twist that doesn’t really come across on first read. Was there a secret relationship? Yep, this story handled this quite well. Thranguy - Alliance: The start of this is very strong. You’re already setting up the themes of secrecy and tension I was looking for this week. But everything following feels too abbreviated, and I’m never entirely sure on the stakes at play here. Is it literally a life-or-death competition? How dystopic is this future with reality shows filmed in international waters? When you say “the CEO”, is it just one of many, or the sole CEO of some future monopolising conglomerate who controls everything? I can draw connections from some of these references, but they mostly feel like vague hints that don’t get explored. And then it’s over, pretty much as soon as it’s started. There’s a whole story waiting to be told here—a story, admittedly, told a dozen times over, but I’m convinced there’s meat left on this “surprise alliance” bone. What we have isn’t bad, I just wish there’d been more of the same secrecy and tension carried through from that first conversation. Was there a secret relationship? Technically, sure, but it was only really introduced in the second-to-last paragraph. Bad Seafood - Small Talk: I liked this going in, I liked the confidence of taking this voice and running with it. I can absolutely see how it would grate and I’m not sure the story could have gone on for much longer without becoming irritating; honestly, even now it’s probably overstaying its welcome by a few paragraphs. Probably the one change I’d suggest is the ending. I feel it turns too earnest, which maybe might have worked better if there was something glib at the end, to reinforce the hollowness of the interactions, the refusal to truly connect. I’m sitting here wondering if moving the “how about that ending? I didn’t see it coming” line to the end would be the best or worst idea… Was there a secret relationship? Soooort of? I guess it’s more about the concept than anything else.
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Mar 8, 2023 12:00
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Sharing Economy 1500 words removed rohan fucked around with this message at 12:16 on Jan 6, 2024 |
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Mar 13, 2023 06:34
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Mar 13, 2023 23:53
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requesting a re-roll
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Mar 18, 2023 07:37
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Flash: Magic of Bronze and Stone they in the burnt ship removed rohan fucked around with this message at 12:17 on Jan 6, 2024 |
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Mar 20, 2023 04:59
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Thunderdome Week 555: new blood for the blood god There’s been a lot of new Domers around recently! I don’t know anything about any y’all, and you probably don’t know much about the rest of us. Let’s change that! This week, I’d like you to write a story that is inspired by your life somehow. Maybe it’s about your vocation, or your neighbourhood, or a hobby that isn’t writing. This doesn’t have to be autobiographical and you don’t have to be the protagonist, but I want to get a sense of who you are and what you’re about. … and because this is still a creative writing competition, I’d also like you to add something fantastic to the story. Maybe your latest client is a goblin. Maybe your favourite cafe is actually on a spacecraft being chased by space pirates. It’s up to you — but if you want it to be up to me, I’ll offer flash rules on request. In short: give me something real, but also give me something entirely strange. Easy! You’ve got 1500 words. No erotica, poetry, google docs &c. If you want more words I will accept crits in exchange for word bounties! 100 words per crit, feel free to crit any stories from previous weeks, crits should be posted before judgement is rendered, max total wordcount is 2500. Remember, in Thunderdome, the only thing better than writing is critting other people’s writing. Signup deadline: Friday 11:59PM PST Submission deadline: Sunday 11:59PM PST Judges rohan Strange Cares Slightly Lions Hi, my name is… 1. Chili 2. Admiralty Flag 3. Albatrossy_Rodent 4. Chernobyl Princess 5. ItohRespectArmy 6. DigitalRaven 7. Thranguy 8. BeefSupreme rohan fucked around with this message at 09:01 on Mar 27, 2023 |
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Mar 21, 2023 22:20
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Thranguy posted:In, flash me.
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Mar 24, 2023 23:38
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A reminder that sign-ups close in ten hours (or so)! Two judge spots still open also if you don’t want to write anything personal.
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Mar 24, 2023 23:53
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BeefSupreme posted:sure screw it i'm in and also
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Mar 25, 2023 08:29
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Sign-ups are closed, but if you want to be sneaky and write a story anyway, your mandated flash is space goblins. Looking forward to reading all your stories!
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Mar 25, 2023 11:24
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Mar 27, 2023 10:17
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TD 555 Judgment Thanks all who wrote a story this week! It was fun getting to know a little bit about each of you, and the standard was overall fairly high this week. One thing I learned is that you all seem to love stories about past selves and time loops and circular narratives etc etc. There were a few pieces that tackled this well this week! Unfortunately, with so much competition, one story didn’t stand up in comparison; and so Thranguy takes the loss for Ellipsis, a story which focused too much on time travel and not enough on showing us something real. On the upper end, BeefSupreme nabs the sole HM this week for Movies Are For Everyone, a charming little piece about a man sharing his hobby. Well done! Finally, the win goes to DigitalRaven, whose The Eternal World Ceilidh had a strong sense of character and place. Ascend the blood throne, DigitalRaven!
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Mar 28, 2023 00:19
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I will judge
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Apr 1, 2023 11:14
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in, flash please
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Apr 3, 2023 22:03
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