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crabrock posted:yay mag7 is back. 
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Nov 28, 2013 22:08
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to sheriff sebmojo when he tells me to stop chatting.
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:
dope
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Dec 1, 2013 10:20
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I'm out too:  for my next entry, as is only proper.
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Dec 2, 2013 05:56
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crabrock posted:you better toxx yourself for this one. no excuses.
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Dec 3, 2013 19:31
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Echo Cian posted:What's this, I get an idea and check the thread and the guy who chickened out last time is taking the line I wanted, without even the guts to toxx himself over it? I will judge this.
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Dec 3, 2013 22:23
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magnificent7 posted:Oh christ sakes. Write your story, it gets judged as usual, I will also do a crit of yours and Echo's and rank/flense them as required. First three words are the important ones.
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Dec 3, 2013 23:30
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The Leper Colon V posted:Actually, I think I'm gonna withdraw my entry. HOLY poo poo JUST loving DO IT YOU UNBELIEVABLE PUSSY but make it really good
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Dec 11, 2013 13:05
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who wants a brawl seriously i will loving end you
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Dec 13, 2013 10:23
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Erogenous Beef posted:Bring it. hahahah you attempt you will fail who will judge
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Dec 13, 2013 12:40
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Mag7/EchoCian InfraBrawl So M7 got some history here, and when it looked like he was gonna wimp out I had a viciousest of murderposts lined up and ready to go, but in the event he did not. Let's see who won the grudge match. quote:Magnificent7 - The Love Of My Life Is A Rotten Goody Two Shoes Who Should Die From Cancer There's quite a bit of merit in this one, even though it doesn't quite know what target it's swinging at and therefore has trouble hitting it. You have lots of good details about the physicality of sitting outside being a drunken bum, which is great, but the dialogue is too banal; and sure, that's possibly the point, but you need to be able to make banal chitchat interesting otherwise you should not be writing it. The form 'X?' 'X. Y?' 'Y. Z?' is actually close to how people talk, but it is super dull to read. Have your characters go on digressions, contradict each other, mishear each other, challenge each other. Make each of these things reveal character. If you find your characters are spouting banal crap, then cut it or compress it. Also I'm left a little confused by 'Cris' talking about her fall from grace at the end - hasn't she left her life of booze behind? This bit should be cut or clarified. However the wounded dignity of the spurned hobo lover is pretty great, and forms the heart of the piece - I'd be interested in seeing you take another run at it and focusing on that from the start, without all the fluff dialogue. As a minor point, if you got someone talking then put all their lines into the same paragraph. quote:Cantata Mortis SONG OF DEATH, LATIN FANS OKAY, back out of caps. You manage to pull this one back together with a pretty tight and effective ending, but up to where my snarky comments stopped is how long it took to get interesting, and that's too long. You're telling a rote Lovecraftian tale, and although that does revolve around the weird emerging from the mundane, that does not give you license to bore. I also think there's a problem with how predictable this sort of thing is these days - weird sanity destroying writings are ten a penny. You executed it well enough at the end, but I think you could have made it better by having (e.g.) some actual human resonance with the three fairly characterless people you have in the story. But decently well written for what it was.  JudgmentMag7 wrote a lot of bad stuff here and then wrote a story that was really quite impressive before quittin' us for NaNo, and I'm glad to see there's still the good juice in his stuff. I liked the actual story he was telling, and the economy and grittiness of the words he used to describe elements of it, but he was let down by some deeply flaccid dialogue and a life-destroying addiction to the Enter key. Paragraphs should be longer than a sentence dude. Echo Cian has a more consistent output in this place, and has done some pearlers, but this isn't one of them. While it's competently written and ends with a fine sizzle and and well-stuck landing, it's generic by-the-numbers Lovecraft-lite. However placed side by side it's hard to deny that one is a better working prose machine than the other. Victory to Echo Cian.
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Dec 15, 2013 23:54
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Radioactive Bears posted:I don't seem to be capable of writing anything that doesn't seem at least slightly, mildly offensive. Gonna drop. This is the worst reason not to write something.
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Dec 15, 2013 23:54
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Purple Prince posted:I wanted to highlight an issue lying in the background of this story. Not exactly a critique more a 'these background assumptions seem problematic'. highlighting background issues is not what thunderdome is for and nor is identifying background assumptions as problematic crit, write, or shittalk. that is all. (take it up in fiction farm if you want to continue this)
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Dec 16, 2013 04:18
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Radioactive Bears posted:I am down to brawl, Bitchtits McGee. I will judge. 650 words on this quote: "There is no human quality more attractive than the courage of the weak". Do not make it either maudlin or cheesy. Due next Tues, 11.59 PST.
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Dec 16, 2013 23:29
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yeah, in Edit: delete the self effacing stuff foutre. you are a tdome judge. noone can say poo poo to you. sebmojo fucked around with this message at 10:40 on Dec 17, 2013 |
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Dec 17, 2013 10:34
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Mercedes posted:
Extra points if you make it a drawing room comedy set in the Regency period.
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Dec 18, 2013 00:27
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Mercedes posted:Leper, how about this. After I finish my current brawl, I'm gonna have about a week of free time where I, hypothetically, would be open for a grudge match. If you, hypothetically speaking of course, wanna step in the ring, hypothetically, I would not say no. I will judge this.
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Dec 19, 2013 03:11
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sebmojo posted:Extra points if you make it a drawing room comedy set in the Regency period. Lawn Care 492 words Pemberly Chelmsford-Crouton was drowning upright, as a brave man should. To his left was arrayed toast, marmalade and his least favourite aunt; to his right the alarmingly elucidated Miss Petunia, heir to the Westchester Stockinghamforths. Both were a-glitter with terrible purpose. “Pemberly,” she said. “Your antics have caused me dismay in recent times. That nonsense with the chicken in the teapot, the exploding bottle debacle at the village fete, I could go on.” Her lips were pursed, as though at sight of an importunate parishioner or a leper. “I will be frank; you are past the age when a man ought to take a wife. Petunia, here, is in need of a suitable man and, while I can only admit to your suitability with the gravest of caveats, you are inarguably a man. Accordingly—“ The conversational pin upon which Pemberly’s future was about to be transfixed went unplanted because, at that moment, the earth rumbled, table shook and his least favourite aunt received a lapful of Lapsang Souchong. The aunt shrieked, Miss Petunia squealed and Pemberly leapt to his feet with an alacrity driven at least partly by an eagerness to avoid any residual ire from the deity that had so precisely answered his prayers. “Willocks!” he cried, but the doorhandle was jerked away from him before he could grasp it. Standing in the doorway was Willocks. “Sir, there has been an untoward occurrence on the croquet lawn.” Pemberly called back over his shoulder to the table, where Miss Petunia was mopping at the spillage with a doily in an ineffectual yet heartfelt way. “Dreadfully sorry – croquet lawn - must attend” The door closed behind them and he clapped Willocks on the shoulder. “Thanks old chap, most imaginative. If you could send a maid to assist, I can get Jonks the groundskeeper to bring the coach up and they should be on their--.” Willocks swept open the curtains that opened on the croquet lawn. Towering over the well-cut turf and wire hoops of the lawn was a monstrous snake-like shape, fully forty feet high, chitinous outgrowths and crenellations outlining it against the bright morning sky. In its toothed maw it held a struggling prey which, with a gnash of its mandibles, it bisected and swallowed. Pemberly cleared his throat. “Was… was that Jonks?” Willocks nodded. “Cancel that plan then. We shall wait five, no ten minutes and then you may advise my aunt I suggested a nice game of croquet.” sebmojo fucked around with this message at 12:19 on Dec 29, 2013 |
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Dec 19, 2013 04:42
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Nikaer Drekin posted:WormFest 2013 dope
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Dec 20, 2013 06:47
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Mercedes posted:sebmojo, give me a few more days before you drop the next brawl on me. I'll be on the road a ton for Christmas and I won't be able to write anything. No worries.
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Dec 21, 2013 19:44
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DOGBRAWL Dog Dreams 750 words Spring in Wellington is a howling season; hot eager winds roar down from Indonesia and plough the hills, upend the city's green recycling bins, make each abandoned plastic bag into a weightless ballerina. And, behind those winds, the dog dreams come lolloping in. Colin McFarland woke up one Spring morning to see his wife, Felicity, looking at him with the cool pale eyes of a Weimaraner. She muttered something about long limbs let loose and the smell of the sea, and then the wind lifted her up and out of his life. "Why, why, why," he had said. "You will never not be you," she had replied, zipping up her suitcase. "It's not bad but it's not good. Goodbye, Colin." Colin woke in a tangle of bedclothes two months after she left, curled up like a question mark around the side his wife used to sleep on. The wind was still trying to shake the little wooden house off the hill. He stared at the ceiling and did not howl or punch the wall. He had dreamed of a dog, his uncle's fat black and white border collie, spreadeagled, exhausted, on the grass. Colin and his brother had made it run and run, chasing a frisbee back and forth between them. It would not stop running because collies do not stop. Colin struggled into a black and white jersey with a fake All Blacks logo, sucked in his belly and pulled on some shorts. Outside it was bright and blustering. He plodded up the road to the cafe. Sally the tattooed barista had eyes as dark and heavy as a cloudy afternoon with the rain coming in. Colin smiled at her, watched her play the coffee machine like a pianist for a while. "Going for a run," he said. "How's Felicity," said Sally. "Haven't seen her round." "Can I have a long black," said Colin. His chagrin took two thirds of a long black to fade. "Sorry, Sally. Felicity left. Don't know why. Finding herself or something. If she'd asked I could have told her where she was." Sally grimaced in sympathy, squeezed herself out a flat white with a few masterful flicks and twists, then brought it over to sit with him. The little cafe only had the two of them in it. Outside the wind was batting the 'Keen Bean Cafe' sign around, peevish at the closed door. "I swear this place goes doolally when the spring winds come through," she said, blowing a dimple in her foam. "Had a customer, business dude, stops in every morning for a takeaway latte. Two days ago he didn't come in. They found him in his pyjamas in Anderson Park, covered in leaves". Colin's eyes widened. "Were there suspicious circumstances? Or do they think he'd just... had enough?" Sally looked puzzled for a moment then laughed throatily. "Oh, nah, he was fine. Just embarassed. Never sleepwalked before." The bell on the door dinged as a customer came in, a tattooed Maori man in a fluoro vest. Sally drained her coffee and winked at Colin. "Hang in there. I'll tell Felicity off if I see her." Colin was still smiling when he got home from his run, had a shower, called in sick, turned on the Xbox. Apart from maybe a small area behind the counter of the Keen Bean, he decided, the world had nothing to offer him so it could take care of itfuckingself. He went to bed late, drunk, dressed in his clothes, and dreamed a dog dream, running in a pack. All around him were boisterous doggy yelpings, flashing doggy eyes, rich doggy smells. They were running to a place and it was a good place because it was the place they were running to. When he woke up there was a light in the sky. He was outside, shiveringly cold, the wind playing with his hair. "Hello again," carolled a voice he knew. He blinked, focussed. It was Sally, walking down the hill. She cocked her head. "Another sleepwalker?" "Least I'm not in my 'jammies." She shook her head. "Just weird. Come on, I'll walk you down the hill." They walked, and talked, and Colin began to think Sally would not object if he took her hand. He did; she did not. And so it went. Now they are not always so calm or kind, these dreams of dogs that blow in on the rough north wind. But we all still miss them when they are gone, in the long tongue-lolling days of summer. sebmojo fucked around with this message at 12:31 on Dec 29, 2013 |
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Dec 22, 2013 03:05
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Trifecta 900 words Did I mention the time I met myself? Bugger of a thing. I'd been out the pub, bit of pool, few beers, and truth be told when I got home the key had got bigger or the lock had got smaller; as the actress said to the bishop, heh. So there I was, fumbling round on my porch, just about ready to give up and break in through my own toilet window, when a light goes on inside the house. I probably should have been more worried about getting home invaded or what have you, but being three sheets to the wind I just stood there swaying; and blow me down if the door didn't swing open and there I was standing in front of me, just as real as you can imagine, wearing some sort of silvery tinfoil arrangement. Real as I am right now, odd clobber and a few more grey hairs notwithstanding. Well at that point everything went black, as they say in the stories, but I came to on the couch with me dooplegonger fanning me with a a copy of the Turf Gazette. We have a terrible problem, says he. And what is that, I reply? He flips open the Gazette and points to the date, which is fifty years from now. He calls it a "manual for the apocalypse" because it turns out, he says, that what we call 'bookies' are no such thing. As I sit there on my old Chesterfield, blinking from time to time, he tells me that bookmakers are all agents of a "intergalactic conspiracy to use probability to manipulate the fabric of reality itself". When they work out the odds of, say, Butterfly Kiss coming in second at the Spring Trots in Trentham they're also putting a few numbers to their big balance sheet. And when they finally make the numbers add up: bam, it's scratch time for the world. Now this joker, future me I suppose you'd call him, discovered the plot and decided to stop it. And he needed my help. We needed to go to the past and the future and all manner of carry-on. I take this well as could be expected, with the aid of a few snifters of Jamesons. And after he's shown me the time machine he parked in the spare room and strapped me into the passenger seat, off we went. Now, the future is an interesting place to visit but I'm not sure I'd want to live there. Everyone flies all the time for a start, just whizzing round like drunk fantails. And you can't get a decent beer and the ciggies are mostly filter. But I conquer these problems manfully, spirit of the blitz etcetera, and we parlay our ability to travel through time and recruit multiple versions of ourselves to place a whacking great set of bets on horses, and cars, and arena fights; did I mention the robot hummingbirds? They have those in the future. Marvellous things. So one thing leads to another, and the bookies are being bankupted all over the place when, what do you know, we get kidnapped! These fellas all dressed up in black PJs come swooping in the windows, shoot us all with dartguns — which hurt like billy-oh, I don't mind telling you — and next thing you know we're locked up on a great big zeppelin arrangement, high up in the clouds. Quite the pickle! Luckily for us we all did some boxing back in school, so with a bit of pluck we get out of our cells, fight our way to the bridge where we find the head Bookmaker and his conspiratorial mates. Now this head of the conspiracy fella is a sight to behold, all covered up in tattos like a Maori; but, instead of it being a moko or whatever, it's numbers, just thousands and thousands of numbers all over his body. Don't know how he read the ones on his jacksie, maybe he got someone to read them to him. Anyway there is a very rousing set-to at this point, with bookies flying through windows and past and future me's giving as good as we get when one of us calls out that we are heading for a volcano! Crikey dick that was a tense moment. The head bookmaker has run off somewhere in the zeppelin, the goons are getting their second wind, it all looked pretty grim. Now original future me, the one I met in my house, claps me on the shoulder and tells me I need to get out, and that he'll make sure the conspiracy doesn't survive, vis a vis crashing the zeppelin into the volcano. He points me at the time machine which had fortunately been stolen by the bookies when we got kidnapped; I set the time for just after I left and the last thing I see is the volcano erupting underneath the zeppelin. It was a messy landing, and that time machine will probably never fly again, but at least we stopped the conspiracy. Anyway, long story short, that is how I came to have this piece of paper with the top three horses at the Melbourne Cup next week; and for the very reasonable price of a double whiskey, I suspect I could be convinced to let you peek at it.
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Dec 23, 2013 02:20
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No Longer Flaky posted:Hey man, I might be a lovely writer, but the only way I am gonna get better is challenging people who are better than me and then following through with those challenges. I want to thank all y'all for being gracious enough to allow me to post my lovely work on here and giving criticisms. The brawlfrenzy has been fun as hell, and happy fuckin' Christmas to all.
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Dec 24, 2013 06:57
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foutre posted:Oh thank god I thought that was a lot. Yeah, while you want to get the results out fast (24-36 hours), the crits can wait for a day or two more.
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Dec 24, 2013 09:15
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With the end of the 2013 thread hoving into view and Fumblemouse's epic slamdown still ringing in our ears, let's call it there for kayfabe until the next thread. Thanks to kaishai and crabrock for their amazing efforts on the tdome writerly site, all the fighting fools who brawled and lost, the mods for all the losertars, the original three, wherever the hell they got to, and all the glorious assholes who make up the thread. This isn't really a thunderdome for people, it's a dome for words; but you don't get one without the other. Roll on 2014, fuckers.
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Dec 25, 2013 01:08
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Chairchucker posted:Fast judgin's good judgin', also Merry Christmas from THE FUTURE. Drinkin a beer at 11 in th mornin down here it is pretty ok
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Dec 25, 2013 01:40
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Noah posted:I hope more next years challenges coincide with lit mag calls for submissions. Yep. Those are always good weeks. If anyone else has things they do or don't want to see in Thunderdome now is the time.
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Dec 25, 2013 03:49
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crabrock posted:SH is posting the new thread and Kaoshai is posting second part with results/archive days correct? The current blood empress of tdome posting the new thread makes sense. I agree about the for multiple failed subs; it seems an elegant way around the problem, since if you're really worried about the ban you can always write your story before submitting.
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Dec 25, 2013 04:30
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Foutre, we gonna get a judgment? You don't have to have all the crits yet, just tell us w/l/hm/dm (if any).
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Dec 25, 2013 21:16
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In. Brawls are traditionally a little looser in timing, but in this as all the judge is paramount.
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Dec 26, 2013 08:30
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Bitchtits McGee posted:Nobody's said "submissions closed" yet, so I'm in. sebmojo posted:I will judge. 650 words on this quote: "There is no human quality more attractive than the courage of the weak". Do not make it either maudlin or cheesy. Due next Tues, 23 Dec, 11.59 PST. Radioactive Bears. Bitchtits McGee. You owe me a brawl.
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Dec 28, 2013 22:14
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LeperMerc Brawl And so do Mercedes and Lepeper Colon. 500 words, on this Gene Wolfe quote: "our greatest sin is that we are only capable of being what we are". Due next Sunday 4 Jan or w/e, midnight PST. LCV NOTE: This should be a good story and not bullshit
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Dec 28, 2013 23:15
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Hunter-Gatherer’s Delight 472 words Boz Ham-Knot settled back onto his favourite rock above the Useless Plants. The flaming Sky Boulder was rolling down the sky and the Hills of the Stone People were a stained a beautiful deep... hm. He frowned. "Grarr Dan-Knug. What we call dat stuff." He gestured hillward with his hollow Ceremonial Pointing Stick. "Hills, Boz. Dat hills," said Grarr happily. Boz rolled his eyes and flicked the Ceremonial Pointing Stick up in a deft arc, clipping his nephew's prognathous jaw with the tip. "No, stupid Grar. What... uh... thing that makes things like other things but stay same. Like, uh, leaf like leaf." Grarr rubbed his jaw and pondered the problem. "We could maybe call it... colour? Leafs is leaf colour just like other leafs is leaf colour?" "'Colour'." Boz rolled the word round his mouth, tapping his hollow stick on the ground. "Yeah, dat work for me. So, what colour dat?" "Maybe... maybe Sacred Holy Fire colour?" Grarr took a prudent step back. "Grarr you Neanderthal numbnuts. Not same at all. Fetch me some of Sacred Holy Fire and I show your dumb rear end. Quick, before Sky Boulder disappear." Boz watched through the stick's hole as Grarr scampered down through the swaying Useless Plants to the Sacred Holy Fire pit where they kept the magic beast that had fallen from the heavens many moon times ago. A few moments later he reemerged, shielding a flickering glow of Sacred Holy Fire in his hands. Then halfway up the slope disaster struck. Grarr stumbled, fell, and the Sacred Holy Fire fell too. It skittered, rolling down through the Useless Plants, one of which promptly caught fire; it had been a long and hot summer. "loving stupid idiot fuckhead," said Boz evenly to himself, standing up. He strode down the path to where Grarr was flapping at the flaming vegetation, and pulled the plant out of the ground. "This colour nothing like hills, Grarr. Also, you dumb and useless. Also--" Boz sniffed. The smell was weird, intoxicating, delightful. The fading colour of the hills seemed suddenly richer, more meaningful. "Huh." The two cavemen looked at each other with pupils suddenly wide and black as the night sky. Boz laid the plant in front of his favourite rock and, driven by a sudden impulse, pointed his Stick at the still smoking remnants and sucked in a great choking lungful, holding it as long as he could before exhaling it in a billowing curlicue of smoke. "Dat da good poo poo right dere." He passed the Ceremonial Pointing Stick over to Grarr. "These no Useless Plants, nephew. You have discovered that. You good nephew. From now on they... they called Danknug Plants. The Danknug Plants of the Stone People. Has good sound to it." Grarr exhaled his own toke, then smiled, then laughed, at being so honoured.
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Dec 30, 2013 09:01
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crabrock posted:
WHO BETTER BE STUMPIN' UP WITH A BRAWL PIECE SOON ALSO, SIMILARLY TO RADIOACTIVE FUCKIN FAILUREBEAR
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Dec 30, 2013 09:19
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Kaishai posted:It's been a pleasure hanging out here this year, getting to know the taste of some of your livers while fighting to keep my own intact. May 2014 bring us just as much blood, weeping, and glory. Hello "brawl queen". Do not get too comfortable on your bed of skulls and bloody wire. I am coming for you.
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Dec 31, 2013 06:42
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Happy fuckin New Year from the land of the first light you glorious bastards
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Dec 31, 2013 11:58
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No Longer Flaky posted:Ok, I think I'll wait until either I have 5 brawl wins or 1 thunderdome win. I think I definitely wrote the worst piece in the last contest, but I feel like my writing is already becoming better through participating in this thread, and all the new deadlines I have every week. The sentiment is fine, but keep this sort of musing out of the next thread; just write the stories.
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Dec 31, 2013 20:07
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No Longer Flaky posted:That's why it's in this thread. Fair enough. We cool, blood. (bumps fists awkwardly)
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Jan 1, 2014 07:25
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