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Brawl Like 334 words minus numbers and divider hyphens. I DON'T EVEN CARE. 1-4, 3, 70% Seventh infantry’s [morale breaks] in the face of a [cavalry charge]. The ranks are broken and they retreat in a [disorganised] fashion. They suffer [heavy] losses. “Preposterous” he mumbled through his moustache.“Another recess?” The Swiss umpire was terse: “You have already used your two recesses, Monsieur Alain. Further recesses are at the discretion of your opponent.” “I’ll allow it. My esteemed opponent has earned it.” Baron Wiefenstahl said, fondling his lucky dice. - In the bathroom of the Palais des Jeux, General Alain gripped the corners of the sink. His adjutant, Bernot, stood at attention by his side. “It’s hopeless. There is no way back from here,” he shook his head dejectedly. “Curse the Zurich Treaty. The Devil rot those bureaucrats.” Bernot patted his superior’s shoulder sympathetically. “At this rate, I’ll have lost half of Lorraine, let alone Alsace. They’ll hang me for treachery.” “Sir…” Bernot ventured. Bernot opened his jacket. Within was a secret weapon that could save the General’s reputation, and the war. “After the setbacks yesterday, sir, I thought it wise…” “Where did you…? No, I’d rather not know. Thank you Bernot. You’ve always been such a help to me.” - Bernot re-entered the War Room. All eyes fell expectantly upon him. “Monsieur Alain has decided upon a conditional surrender,” he stated. “A surrender? That depends upon Baron Wiefenstahl and whether he accepts the terms,” replied the the umpire. “What are the terms, and where is-” The pistol shot rang out from the garden. Spectators rushed to the windows, in time to see a figure crumple on the pristine lawn. A slow round of applause started, and appreciative murmurs: “Aha! A fine play.” “He was a fine tactician, I always said so.” The umpire coughed once for attention. “Ah, well. In the event that one of the competitors should become incapacitated for any reason, the state of play is frozen and a truce is declared in the interests of fairness. Good war, gentlemen.” Jeza fucked around with this message at 01:02 on Oct 18, 2013 |
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Oct 18, 2013 00:57
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I had already read Noah's entry so I knew I was going to lose, but I wanted to write my silly story anyway. And continue my stellar brawl record. Maybe we should start recording brawls on the website too at some point?
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Oct 18, 2013 12:37
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A Workaday Misery - 730~ Words All around them in the coffee shop, life continued as normal. Baristas smiled smiles they've been doing so long that even they can’t tell if they're real, and made friendships that lasted only ‘til the register snapped shut. A pair of awkward young lovers were entangled on the couch, poking and probing boundaries before giggling and pulling back, naïve of where next, but curious all the same. The luminous square-eyed gazes of laptops looked coolly back at themselves in the mirrored glasses of students, and friends caught up for a toll of hot water, latticework fingers around mugs, keen-eared for gossip with easy laughter. Overlooking it all, an old couple shared cake with two forks, and talked without talking, while he, mischievous still, slid his hand beneath the table to squeeze her thigh, just as he had done since their own days as students. Julia and Anthony sat apart from all of it. Their corner was dark, and the warm amber spill of the everyday didn't reach. Together they shared in a different kind of mundane; a simple, regular, workaday, misery. “Was it peaceful? Was she comfortable?” Anthony stared down into the void of his coffee cup, where his haggard reflection came back up to meet him, giving her the answer she didn’t want to hear. “I tried Anthony, I did, I just…” her wide brown eyes, already damp with tears, sought solace in his, and he cupped her hands. "I know. We all know. You did the best you could. It wasn't your fault. You couldn't have known." Deadlines looming at work and an unforgiving boss. A dozen hospital visits in half as many years. It was just another one of her dying swan routines wasn't it? Of course. Why would this time be any different? Just a few loose ends to tie up before she left the office. It might mean she'd catch a little rush-hour traffic, but that wouldn't hurt. Right? Their messages had been wry at first, dismissive, even resentful. How many times had they gone through this ritual? They loved their mother, but this was getting ridiculous. They had jobs, families, and lives of their own. If it was a cry for attention, something needed to be done. Perhaps they should start looking into homes, someplace she might make some new friends. Phoning an ambulance for stomach cramps or arrhythmia, things like that. It was a natural part of getting old, they weren’t things you rushed to hospital for. But the texts began to change. Suddenly things might be a teensy bit more serious than all those other times, and she had left the office right? And then the prognosis wasn’t so good, and she really ought to hurry. And then the Doctors were saying she should get here as fast as she could, that her condition was deteriorating fast and she didn’t have much time. The messages got more frantic, and so did she. But then the phone stopped buzzing. The excruciating silence rang in her ears. Dread filled her, and she willed the phone to buzz again, anything to have the panic back. But it didn’t, and it wouldn’t. It was still sitting in the bottom of her handbag. It was like a lead brick, and getting heavier by the minute with the messages of friends and relatives. But she couldn’t face them. She didn’t think she would ever be able to pick it up. They sat without speaking until they were the last ones left, trapped on their own dark shoreline, the amber tide all ebbed away. A barista stacking chairs told them they would be closing soon. Julia gulped for air and stood up to leave, her coffee cold and untouched. She took a fistful of napkins, stuffed them in her jacket pocket, and tried to compose herself for the journey home. Home, where a worried sick husband would be waiting, and her two young sons, impatient and oblivious, expecting dinner. Anthony put his arms around his younger sister and kissed her forehead, the words he couldn't say crushing him, a memory that would forever be his burden - the frail and failing grip of his mother’s fingers coiled around his, with that awful look in her eyes: “Where’s my baby? Where is she?”
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Oct 20, 2013 03:00
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[Insert witty TD entrance here]
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Oct 22, 2013 17:25
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Noumena posted:Sorry. I thought Fumblemouse was literally asking me for an explanation. I was just answering his post. Don't worry 'bout it. I feel like it is alright to acknowledge crits or answer a question on a piece in the thread. It is only when there is a back and forth crit-rebuttal-response-argument loop that shits up the thread that it is a problem. Hence the rule of not responding to crits in thread, but you weren't to know (though you might if you read the OP!)
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Oct 23, 2013 19:56
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sebmojo posted:Don't respond to crits except to briefly clarify a point or thank someone, doesn't matter who they are from (unless you want to do it in Fiction Farm). Think they mean on the Gdocs, not in thread.
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Oct 26, 2013 20:12
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Give and Take 902 Words
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Oct 28, 2013 04:35
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Bad Seafood posted:WANTED: A mythical beast from non-Eurasian mythology.
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Nov 2, 2013 00:13
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Blood and Tequila - 920 Words Even drunk, he played the guitar better than anyone. His calloused fingertips extracted from five threadbare strings melodies beyond the reckoning of normal men. His talent earned him neither fame nor money. He drifted from cantina to cantina, town to town, playing for handfuls of pesos, though he preferred mezcal or tequila. His age was impossible to tell, though he was certainly not young. Excessive drinking and vagrancy had disfigured him. He was unwashed; his beard was ragged and unkempt; his nails cracked and encrusted with dirt. Most noteworthy of all, he was a mute. But then, what use is language for a man who only drinks and plays la guitarra? Despite his pitiable state, he never begged. During the day, he could be found curled, snake-like, around whatever grimy bottle last night’s earnings afforded him. Nobody saw him sleep or eat. Nobody even approached him - thick shackles clasped to his ankles marked him as an escapee, his mutism a lunatic. That evening, he dragged the chains around, like Marley’s ghost, on the dusty outskirts of Asunción, where those who saw him were not pitying enough to care nor condemning enough to report him to las autoridades. He had already played at three cantinas that night, and was already staggering under their influence, bounding from wall to wall like some caoutchouc children’s toy. A further two had turned him away, disgusted by the reek of his stale sweat and the tequila on his breath. The final cantina along the stretch of the Calle 15 de Agosto, La Fantasma, was an establishment almost as decrepit as he was - dimly lit by nicotine stained gaslights and filled with hard drinking, hard working men, half-hidden behind the haze of their filthy cheroots and pipes. Among such clientèle he hardly stood out, though he soon would. There was no stage, but such things were wasted on him. He played and they listened, that was how it worked. His fingers reached for the strings, and plucked a solitary chord that cut through the smoke and chatter with the clarity of a steamer’s foghorn. Dice games stopped, conversations petered into nothing. Drinking ruins all the senses but the ears, and the patrons of La Fantasma were keen listeners indeed. And with their attention, he began to play. The music was of an otherworldly kind, a kind that resonated not in air but in the heart. Raw, primal, forgotten emotions welled up from within his audience. They were enraptured. Drinks went undrunk, cigarettes died lonely deaths hanging loose and neglected from open mouths. And when the final strum was stilled, there was no applause. From table to table he went with cupped hands, and even the poorest among them gave generously, and with more reverence, than at church in their most humble hour. None were left unmoved by his music - beers were salted by old griefs thought buried, marital beds were returned to with fire that had burned out decades ago, old feuds were forgotten and new ones were born, all in space of a few short minutes. None that is, save two. They stood out in the street and waited, hearing now the discordant twangs of the guitar settling down. They had followed the guitar player as he wended his swerving course throughout the evening, and now their chance was upon them. The man with the guitar that charmed all who heard it - a prize beyond value - was finished his rounds at last. Their target stepped out from La Fantasma with bottle in one hand and guitar in the other and set off into the night. With moonlight glinting upon their machetes, the robbers followed. They followed the guitarist as he slowly left the city streets behind and headed down a deserted country lane. It was the perfect chance, they thought to themselves, when without warning, the guitarist disappeared from view. They ran forward, pretences dropped, but could find no sign of him. At first they were baffled. Were their eyes playing tricks on them? He must have noticed them and fled into the bushes - and yes, there it was - the unmistakable sound of chains from the roadside. With blades raised, they crept into the undergrowth, following the clanking of chains. Suddenly, something leapt from the blackness at the throat of one of the robbers. He had time only to scream only for a moment before he succumbed. His companion ran over to help, but was met instead with a gruesome sight. Standing atop his savaged partner was a black dog, but it was no ordinary dog. Instead of paws it had horses’ hooves, and around its legs were thick shackles and chains. Its head was lupine, but with an over-large jaw swarming with serrated fangs, and red eyes that burned like the fires of hell. It howled with some unnatural skreigh, dissonant and full of feral malevolence. The man had time to whisper half a prayer before the demon was upon him, gnawing and thrashing. The last thing he felt was the hot, heavy breath of the cadejo on his face, and the heady smell of blood and tequila filling his nostrils. * The guitarist bent down and dipped his fingers into the mostly devoured carcass of a robber, and with the blood oiled the strings of his guitar. Hunger sated, for the time being, he took the road to wherever it would take him, followed now only by the sounds of his chains.
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Nov 4, 2013 05:39
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inthesto posted:Let's brawl I'll judge babby's first brawl. 750 words on the prompt Warmth. Interpreted as broadly or narrowly as you like, but not as some half-assed tacked on bullshit, as the central theme of your story.
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Nov 4, 2013 05:42
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stoutfish posted:Time to shine. Give me a flash rule.  Flash Rule: Your story must be set in a Soviet era CIS* country *I will also accept any other suitably gritty Eastern European country. Vodka a plus, but not compulsory. Jeza fucked around with this message at 19:04 on Nov 5, 2013 |
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Nov 5, 2013 19:00
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Ronnie_Long posted:You hurt my tiny panda bear feelings on the last one, but I'm still in. I'd like a flash rule as well, please. Really wanted to flashrule you a panda but I'm just too nice. Your protagonist must have some kind of disability, mental or otherwise.
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Nov 5, 2013 21:59
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Sweet_Joke_Nectar posted:In. I've needed an av for years. Let's rock a flash rule too Flash Rule: In your gamble, the stakes must mean everything to one party and nothing to the other. edit: Well this is awkward. Feel free to pick one or both, although they don't mesh too well. Jeza fucked around with this message at 15:50 on Nov 6, 2013 |
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Nov 6, 2013 15:47
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Nah let's open this pit up, NaNoWriMo style. Progress counts, criticism debates, general advice or just ask questions answered in the OP! If you do any of these things I will cut your word count in half. Possibly also your loved ones.
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Nov 8, 2013 18:45
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My crits are in the offing. Inthesto, if you're out there you gotta post your brawl entry or make some kinda noise or else you'll just default lose.
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Nov 11, 2013 22:19
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Probably means less people will read them but I think there's enough wall o' texts in here for the time being. MY CRITS ARE IN HERE https://docs.google.com/document/d/1mAJ9FoEt-qFYdcdiHTeg2U0kM4mt0knUB3t3tjqJTGQ/edit edit: inthesto posted:Sorry, real life has been jerking me around a ton lately. I'll have my entry posted within the next eight hours, as of this post. No problem. Not much honour in a default win.
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Nov 13, 2013 00:09
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Brawl Results: CantDecideOnAName versus inthesto Slow judgement, sorry, but the winner is CantDecideOnAName. They were two completely disparate entries: stylistically, tonally, and plotwise, which made them hard to compare to one another. Nevertheless, both were mostly good, though I have semi-significant gripes with both. I will try and post up some crits when I get the chance. Been super busy recently, tomorrow until Monday looks like the same. I'm sure I'll find an hour or two somewhere.
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Nov 15, 2013 00:32
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Quick and Dirty Crits for Canty and Inthesto: Canty Funnily enough, the part of this that I like most about this may well be unintentional. The repartee going on between Chris and Jesse at the start about magic is very easily just interpreted as a kind of joke, Chris poking fun and being a prick by asking the impossible. Then the expectation gets subverted by the fact that, oh, he really is a magician. Well how 'bout that. I reckon you didn't mean it to read like that, though if you did - props. Just goes to show how strange it can seem to read a piece as an author and as a reader. The conclusion is suitably prompt hitting and horrifying. The weaknesses of the piece lie in two places: firstly, the character of Chris is just too unlikeable. I see no good reason for it. You would do far better to have it as good-natured jibing. This would increase the emotional impact of what was happening to Chris in the second-half of the story. That leads us neatly onto the second problem, which is that the situation going from fine to hosed up is too abrupt. You lose the opportunity to build up the suspense and discomfit. You have the scenario that is perfect for that kind of psychological horror, but the story become imbalanced because of how it all pans out. Again, Chris' reaction being anger rather than fear just reinforces the negative reader perception of the character and makes us sympathise less. I just don't see in a situation like that somebody reacting in that way. So yeah: two things to watch out for are characterisation and the weighting of your story. You have fluff in the first half that would be better used in building the climax of your story in the second half. inthesto As different a story it would be pretty hard to imagine. I liked the idea and some of the execution, but in my opinion you didn't take it far enough. Since the aim of the story is nothing like excitement, you've got to be aiming at something else. Heart-warming? Amusing? Perhaps some from column A and a little from column B. I think you only brush the surface of the potential with what you've submitted. Most of your story is just factual description of a cat getting onto a windowsill. The real strength, and the thing you should have stressed, was the perspective of the cat. What does this situation look like from a cat's POV? What does a cat think about this? We only really get this at the beginning and end of your story. The whole middle is just mind-numbing step by step account of a cat climbing. It actually serves very little purpose. Even the dramatic moment, the shredding of the draft paper, has no point.
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Nov 16, 2013 21:38
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Jaunty, disturbing ditty and Pirate Radio.
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Nov 18, 2013 14:31
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God Over Djinn posted:Okay to enter just for the hell of it, even if we've never posted in CC? Sorry friend, 99% of SA can't enter. The banner ads are just to taunt suckers.
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Nov 19, 2013 20:23
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Not gonna make it this week
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Nov 25, 2013 05:48
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V for Vegas posted:Frog me up. Sounds like a nice challenge. Flash Rule: Your story must be about something being "broken into pieces".
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Nov 27, 2013 01:08
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All Fall Down - 1000 WordsV for Vegas posted:Flash rule: Your story must be in reverse chronological order. The Jenga bricks were well and truly spilt, and the whole house was suffused with the warm lull of a Christmas evening, but something was very wrong. Beautifully wrapped presents lay unopened beneath a tree, slightly off-kilter under an overabundance of tinsel and fairylights. A winter wind blew in through an open front door, and the storm door slammed against the wall with every stray gust. From windows framed by torn curtains, blue and red light poured in, rendering the scene sterile and eerie. Grim faced silhouettes moved around the house, while white ghouls pored over everything in the kitchen. With a pair of tweezers, one slipped a torn and blood-stained envelope into a little plastic pouch and sealed it. *************************** Jared staggered backwards, hands clutched to his stomach and horror written on his face. As he stumbled, his foot caught the Jenga tower and sent the wooden bricks scattering around the room. Alice began to cry. “It’s OK, Alice,” Marcus said with measured calm “We can build it again later, together. Don’t cry.” Jared tripped on one of the stray bricks and fell, one hand flailing behind to find purchase, managing only to rip down one of the curtains. “Oh God, oh my God,” Eleanor kept repeating, “We have to phone an ambulance. You’ve killed him.” “Don’t panic. Nobody knows he’s here.” But Jared wasn’t dead. He began struggling to get up. “Alice, don’t you want to see what Daddy bought? Why don’t you open the box and have a look?” With red-rimmed eyes, Alice looked down at the box still in her hand. She pulled off the lid with a popand fished out what was inside. Marcus walked calmly over to Jared, who was now back onto his knees, but unable to gather the strength in his legs to stand. “So what is it, honey?” he called out to Alice, as he loomed over the injured man. “A neck-luss!” she shouted. Jared slumped to the ground. “Well I never!” he said jovially, standing back up. “A beautiful necklace for my beautiful little girl. Isn’t it beautiful, Eleanor?” He turned to look at his wife, who simply stood staring at him, paralysed by shock. His tone turned serious. “We’ll get through this - as a family.” He opened both arms wide. Alice ran straight towards him, recognising a hug when she saw one, and he scooped her up in one arm. Eleanor didn’t move. “What’s the matter? Come on, Ellie - it’s when times are hardest that we have to stick together as a family.” His eyes locked onto hers. “Especially for Alice’s sake.” *********************** “...the front door was open,” Jared said “I just thought I’d-” His face hardened as soon as he entered the living room. “What are you doing here?” “Who’s this Eleanor? A friend of yours?” Marcus asked. “Jared, wait! Don’t do anything, he’s-” “Get your hands off her!” Jared shouted, his colour rising. Marcus’ face was one of playful confusion. “Take my hands off her? She’s my wife!” he laughed, “Why should I?” “You bastard!” Jared roared, and rushed straight at Marcus. Marcus loosed his hand from behind Eleanor’s back to defend himself. The two men connected fiercely. ******************* “Well, we can’t open it in here can we? We have to do it under the tree right?” Alice nodded vigorously. “Well let’s go then.” Marcus smiled indulgently at her, and put one arm firmly around Eleanor’s shoulder to bring her with him, one happy family unit. In the middle of the living room, cosy with the gas fire cranked to max, a Jenga set was half-collapsed. “Oh?” Marcus queried, “Who lost?” “Nobody,” Eleanor replied, “We were building it together. Alice doesn’t like it when it all falls to pieces.” “Is that right? Well, you can finish your game in a minute. You can go ahead and open your present now, Alice.” She tore through the wrapping eagerly, while the both of them stood together awkwardly and watched. The front door slammed. A voice called out: “Hello? Eleanor? Anyone home?” ******************* “Marcus! I told you not to come round here any more, the court already-” “What? Am I not allowed to bring my own daughter a present for Christmas now, Eleanor?” “Fine...fine, just, leave it under the tree. Then go.” “I want to see her open it.” “Are you kidding me? Get out of here before I call 911, I mean it. You can’t just come around whenever you feel like it.” Marcus sighed. He gingerly put the little ribboned box on the kitchen counter and pulled his other hand from behind his back. Eleanor paled. “Alice, honey, could you go upstairs to your room for Mommy?” Alice stood in the doorway of the kitchen, saucer-eyed and chewing on her thumb, watching both of them. “Wait a second,” Marcus’ voice cut in, “Don’t you want to open your present first, Alice?” Alice’s eyes lit up. With one hand, Marcus pushed the present along the counter. ********************** It had taken Eleanor several attempts to put into words what she wanted to say to Jared, but she thought she finally had it. She read the final line back to herself: “If it wasn’t for you Jared, I don’t think I would have ever escaped. You saved my life, and Alice’s. I can’t imagine there ever being a man more kind, caring or loving as you. Merry Christmas” She paused for a moment, then smiled to herself, and added two little crosses at the end. It couldn’t hurt, anyway. From the front door, the doorbell rang. “Could you get that sweetie?” Eleanor called from the kitchen as she sealed the envelope. Alice sped through the hall and reached up as high as she could to turn the handle. The door swung open. In the doorway stood a haggard looking man with a wan smile on his face, one hand outstretched, proffering a neatly-ribboned present. In the other behind his back, a knife. “Daddy’s got a present for you, sweetheart.”
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Dec 2, 2013 03:00
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Thunderdome LXX - "And what did you see, my darling young one?" This prompt is mostly pulled out of my rear end, but there we go. Bob Dylan posted:Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son? Here's a song by renowned poor vocalist Robert Dylan. While the last prompt was all about writing within constraints, now here's a prompt where you're given a bunch of choice. This means, ideally, better stories because you can write to your strengths. Although probably not. Anyway, every contestant gets to choose one line. ONCE A LINE IS TAKEN, IT IS TAKEN. You have a huge amount of prompts to get going with here, so I expect decent end results. The stories practically write themselves from some of these for gently caress's sake. All genres are fine. Your extra-long word count special this week is 2000 words. Don't feel pressured to write even half that if you feel you don't need to. I don't credit stories extra for their length. In fact, don't write it that long unless you really want to. The more 2k stories I have to judge/crit, the crankier I will get. The unusually long word count is there to allow you wiggle room to fully flesh out your story. If you got a 1600 word first draft and think, ah gently caress it don't need to edit this poo poo - I'm going to know. I always know. I see into your soul and read the pitiful story within. Your deadline is Sunday 11.59pm GREENWICH MEAN TIME, i.e. NOT UNITED STATES TIMEKEEPING. That is five hours earlier East Coast, and eight hours earlier West Coast. Goons in other places - you already know the drill. My co-judges are: Bitchtits McGee, DrKloctopussy Entrants: V for Vegas: I heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world Your Dead Gay Son: I'm a-goin' back out 'fore the rain starts a-fallin' crabrock: I met a young child beside a dead pony Kaishai: I saw a highway of diamonds with nobody on it Erogenous Beef: I met another man who was wounded in hatred Fumblemouse: I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow God Over Djinn: I've walked and I've crawled on six crooked highways Noah: I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it Sitting Here: I heard the sound of a thunder that roared out a warnin' Obliterati: And the executioner's face is always well hidden Tyrannosaurus: I met a young woman whose body was burning Auraboks: I saw ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken docbeard: Where black is the color, where none is the number dmboogie: I've been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard Nubile Hillock: Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten Radioactive Bears: But I'll know my song well before I start singing Lazy Beggar: Heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley magnificent7: Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter - In-Prompt Brawl EchoCian: Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter - In-Prompt Brawl Dermit: I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children Full Fathoms Five: I met one man who was wounded in love Bad Seafood: I saw a black branch with blood that kept drippin' DreamingOfRoses: I'll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest Jagermonster: I saw a white ladder all covered with water Purple Prince: I heard ten thousand whisperin' and nobody listenin' Jeza fucked around with this message at 19:02 on Dec 6, 2013 |
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Dec 3, 2013 01:25
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Noah posted:I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it. That's how rushed my prompt was, give me a moment to ruminate.
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Dec 3, 2013 02:36
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Jagermonster posted:In with "I saw a white ladder all covered with water." No, you don't. Prompt can be interpreted as flexibly as desired, though I will be noting whether stories take the prompt and run with it or just shove it in as lipservice.
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Dec 5, 2013 00:04
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Less than 4 hours until deadline. All those who have flaked, know that while I will ostensibly forgive you in public, deep down I will be holding a grudge for months, maybe even years.
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Dec 8, 2013 21:18
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Submissions are now closed. If you submit now, your fate is within my whimsy. My cruel, British whimsy.
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Dec 9, 2013 01:01
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Thunderdome LXX Results This week's winner is God Over Djinn. Overall, this stands out as one of the most solid weeks of TD I can recall. I didn't fall to my knees in abject despair at one single entry, which may well be a record. Also unusually, the highest quality of entries was located nearer the earliest entries rather than the end. Despite a generally decent level, there weren't many truly excellent pieces this week. There are no Honourable Mentions this week which reflects that. This week's loser is Lazy Beggar, who by name and nature, submitted late (this did not affect your result) and whose effort, while by no means being the worst loser I've seen, was incoherent and not a particularly enjoyable thing to read. A Dishonourable Mention goes to docbeard for writing a whole load of pretty much vapour. God Over Djinn, throne is yours. Get thinking of a prompt.
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Dec 10, 2013 00:38
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crabrock posted:another idea: write your story in binary. 0110011001110101011000110110101100100000011110010110111101110101
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Dec 11, 2013 22:36
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Fumblemouse posted:Are we going to update the judge picking rules now the Boss Three have sublimed? If we codify it, should it be last week's winner, one previous winner, and one guest at the former's discretion...or something else? Weeks over weeks of trial and error has generally refined it to: Winner + 2 of any of the following, maybe in this preferential order: HMs from that week, the winner from week before, HMs from week before, multiple winners, literally anybody who volunteers. Merry Christmas.
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Dec 25, 2013 22:14
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| # ¿ May 22, 2024 03:50 |
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Bad Seafood posted:I think the previous week's winner plus two judges chosen at their discretion is the best system. Yeah, I meant those preferential things as, like, a guide for judges to be picking peeps, so they aren't just picking with no rhyme or reason. Easy for us who have been round the block, but for new winners it might be helpful.
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Dec 25, 2013 22:18
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