crabrock posted:

in

docbeard posted:

Nowhere to go but up. Or laterally, I suppose. Or further down is always an option.

Nowhere to go but in a direction.

SurreptitiousMuffin posted:

Shoot, I'm in.

kurona_bright posted:

I will probably (definitely) regret this, but I crashed and burned the first time this prompt came around. Time for a second try!

In.

Bird Tyrant posted:

In

ghost crow posted:

I'm in

Tyrannosaurus posted:

We're still supposed to write horror, yeah?

Djeser posted:

Oh if this is a horror week, then count me in.

JuniperCake posted:

Awesome prompt. I'm in!

Blue Wher posted:

gently caress it, I'm in to torture you all with bad writing

hotsoupdinner posted:

In.

curlingiron posted:

Question: can we pick a door if we already signed up?

flerp posted:

i dont want a door but can i get a flash rule?

curlingiron posted:

E: Door 1, I guess.

Benny Profane posted:

I'll take Door #2.

CANNIBAL GIRLS posted:

If so I want door 3

flerp posted:

1443 words

The Ocean’s Sorry, He Really Is

“I hate this,” the girl said. “I hate the ocean.”

“I’m sorry,” the ocean said, his words being eaten by the tossing waves. “I didn’t mean to.” She couldn’t hear him. She was lying on the raft, the sun hitting her rough skin, the waves squirming beneath her.
There’s a hint of conflict, but not much of a scene at all. You’re starting your story with dialogue, which—I mean, I’ve never gotten up in arms about that, but I can understand why some people do, because it usually tells you a lot less about the story you’re about to read.

He was angry a couple days before. He was thrashing, screaming. Huge waves reached up high into the sky. He wasn’t sure why he was angry, he just was. He never knows why.
Getting flashbacks to your Gray story. Two characters, one a young child, one a force of nature, talking over each other and past each other. Hopefully there’s more of a point to this story than the other one. Also, “he never knows why”? Whose PoV is this story from?

“God,” she said, dipping her feet into the water. The ocean felt her kick, ripples fluttering through the water. She wanted to leave, but he wasn’t angry. He understood why she hated him. He hated himself too. He kept the waves short, calm, hoping she’d not be knocked over. “Why’d this happen?”

The ocean didn’t remember that night well. All he knew he was angry, like he gets, Yeah, we get it
and that the waves pushed and pulled and he wanted to tear apart everything. There was a ship, and he could seem them struggling, pulling on the masts, and he didn’t care. So far, I kinda don’t care either. We know what the ocean does. Why’s he focused on this one girl?


“I’m sorry,” the ocean said and the waves died down. They stopped and the ocean was flat and still. “Goddamnit, I’m sorry.” Wobbly timeline here, is this present or past?


He remembered what he did.

#

The night he hurt the girl, he was more angry than ever before. He just wanted to scream and shout, but no one ever heard him. Wouldn’t it be more interesting if we got a reason why the ocean was angry? All they saw were the waves. Everything got gray and dark and he saw that ship, struggling against the waves, and he couldn’t stop himself. He slammed it with wave after wave, stronger and stronger, until he could hear the wood splinter. There was shouting, crying, splashes as people fell overboard. The waves grabbed them, pulled them down. He was angry. He didn’t want to be, but he was. Yeah, no, we get it, we understand He kept thrashing. Everything got darker but he kept thrashing. He couldn’t see anything. He was screaming, everyone else was screaming, and the waves were churning and screaming with them. This is kind of effective but it’s still in this facile method of description and I don’t know why. Why not give the ocean an older voice?

Day came. He stopped, still angry, but not wanting to scream. He saw the girl on the raft, drifting through the waves. Her shirt cut up through them like the ocean had slipped a knife through the fabric. ??? Her shirt cut through the waves, vice versa, I can’t picture this He said he was sorry, he was always saying he was sorry, but she never heard him. She kept rowing, off through the waves, and the ocean tried to stay calm.

She yelled at him that night. She asked why, and he tried to answer, but the waves were too loud. She slapped the water, over and over, until her palm was red and bleeding. How old is this girl? She’s old enough to row the boat effectively but she throws a tantrum at the ocean like the ocean will answer her? Then, she used her other hand until that bled too. Odd waste of energy, but she’s not in her right mind, I guess She kept shouting and shouting and shouting, and the waves shrunk. The ocean wanted to sink down, to sink to the bottom, to forget, to stop being so angry.

“I hate this,” she said, her voice echoing in the darkness. “I hate this. I hate this.” She kept saying it until she started crying. The tears hit the ocean, joined him, and he wanted them to stop hitting the ocean. Wanted them to stop making him so cold. The tears? Have you never heard the metaphor “a drop in the ocean” before He wanted to reach up, to do something, to say he can help. Check your tenses, sir He could save her, he could, but whenever he tried to say it, he couldn’t. He couldn’t ever say it out loud, the words dying in the wave. Just the one wave, you see. That one. *points*

#

He screamed, and the memories faded. Hmmmm. The waves rocked the raft. She fell over, a loud thunk crashing through the air, and the ocean stopped. He wanted to say he was sorry, but she was crying so loud he couldn’t even hear himself.

“Why?” she said again, but her voice wasn’t sharp or loud. It was a whimper, but it hurt more than anything else. Nice.

“I can help you,” he said again, but she couldn’t hear him. “I can help. I mean it.”

Her stomach growled and she closed her eyes. Tears streamed down her cheeks, through the cracks in the raft. The ocean got so cold that he felt like he was frozen solid. I see the magical realist thing you’re going for here but I can’t quite buy it. The ocean’s already cold. It’s the ocean.

He got mad, and the waves struggled and slammed against each other and he wanted to scream. He wanted her to hear him. But whenever he screamed, no one would hear the words. They would heard WHOOPS the crashing of waves. Everything would break, and wood would splinter and shatter and everyone will WHOOOOOOPSdrown. He didn’t want them to drown. He just got angry.

The ocean held in his shouts, his screams. He felt it shaking underneath him. On the surface, the waves areSeriously, dude, check your tenses. This stuff knocks the reader out of whatever dream you’re creating for them. weak, rocking the raft softly. But there was a rumbling pooling inside of him. It was this circling tide, swimming underneath the waves. it was like he was about to burst, like there was a huge wave inside of him that was about to jump through the air and collapse on everything when he finally let go. This is really difficult for me to picture. She was still crying, and between the sobs, she was saying something. He couldn’t hear it, but he wanted to. He needed to. There’s this conflict that’s never going to be addressed or resolved because each other’s EXISTENCE is enough to set them off. Which is fine, but I don’t feel like I know enough about the two characters to care why they want what they want. Yes, she’s afraid of the ocean. We all would be, in this circumstance. Give me something else to grab onto.

Then, she stopped. She pulled herself up, and looked at the ocean, the small waves that hid the shaking inside of the ocean. She closed her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” the ocean said. The words were only for him, though. He could feel everything inside of him tumbling over each other, waves and waves crashing onto each other. These descriptions are getting a little repetitive. So many tumblings and crashings. He couldn’t think or feel, he could just hear the waves crashing and aching to scream.

Through all the noise, though, he remembered something. He remembered how she looked up at the stars, and she pointed to one. She didn’t say anything, but the next day, she started paddling towards it. She kept pulling with her hands, saying something, but he was too angry to hear her back then. Too mad at the cold tears and splintersplintered wood, too mad at himself.

She stopped rowing a few days ago. Later, you mean. Her eyes were sunken and swollen and her skin was stained red and peeling. She couldn’t stand up. She’d look out at the distance, and for the first time, the ocean understood. A bit unearned.

He felt the turmoil inside of him fade, like the wave inside of him fadeWHOOPS and all the crashing water became a single raindrop. She was lying on the raft, eyes glazed over, and he pushed it. Just now? Finally? The raft moved along, and she didn’t even notice. She just kept her eyes closed and waited.

He kept pushing the raft, through days and night. She’d take small sips out of her canteen as she looked up at the sun, the waves pushing her along. Sometimes, she’d cry. Sometimes she’d shake. Sometimes she’d scream. The ocean didn’t say anything. He just kept pushing her. Oh, so because she stopped struggling, now she’s being saved? If there’s a moral here, I don’t get it.

The water changed, got warmer and brighter, and he knew was getting closer. He heard the girl’s stomach rumble, and she clenched it tight. She panted and shook, and the ocean made the waves bounce a fish up on the raft. Again, can’t picture this. She reached over and ate it. Then, she sat over the edge of the raft. She was looking into the waves, her eyes blank and tired. She touched the waves, the cold waters slipping between her fingers. Then, he saw it. This little glisten in her eyes, and the ocean kept pushing the raft towards the star she pointed at.

Days kept passing. She was out of water. Then, he felt it. That shift in the water. A ship, big enough to save her. He kept pushing her towards the shifting water. Days still passed. She was getting more tired. She wouldn’t sit up. She wouldn’t move sometimes. The ocean kept pushing. He had to. He was sorry. They couldn’t ever hear him, but he was. I get that the sentence fragments are a part of the voice, but they also keep you from saying anything complex or interesting.

Then, the ship appeared in the distance. There was shouting and screaming, and the girl lifted her head up. She saw the ship loom over her, a huge shade in the waves. She pushed herself up, aching and tired. Oh, good, glad that’s over

The ocean didn’t say anything. He just kept pushing her closer. He saw her smiling, eyes wider than ever before.

“Thank you,” she said to the air. The ocean knew she wasn’t saying it to him, but he didn’t mind. He didn’t say anything. They couldn’t hear him, after all.

That didn’t matter though, because the waves were small and short, and she was smiling and he didn’t want to scream.

The ocean still screams sometimes and feels that churning inside of him. He still wants to say he’s sorry, but as long as he’s got that smile, he knows that it’s alright as long as he tries. Kinda touching at the end, but everything in this story feels so flat and facile that I don’t know what anybody earned through it, including me for reading it.

Sitting Here posted:

The Show
1300 words
Flash Rule: 98) Venice (The Books)

More than ten million people watched Yacob Chen lean over his sink, look in the mirror, and stretch his mouth into an oblong ‘O’ so he could get a closer shave. His headset partially concealed his left eye behind a tinted lens, which reflected the mirror reflecting Yacob. The camera mounted over his left ear captured every bit of black hair that fell to the white porcelain. The microphones captured, with stereoscopic technology, the wet sandpaper sound of his straight razor scraping over stubble. Language is sharp, and it definitely sets the tone and tenor of the story. I want to know why he has ten million people watching him.

Dan Hufflaw from Idaho said, Commissioned a custom str8 razor just like @YaChen’s, never had a closer shave! and his comment was buoyed to the top of cross-platform newsfeed aggregators by an oceanic swell of ‘likes’ and favorable replies. Within hours, it was the featured comment beneath Yacob Chen’s live video feed.

But then a new faction appeared. Dan, @YaChen taught himself metalworking so he could make his own razor, but you non-brands just see something original and throw money around trying to copy it, said Gage Remo from Oregon. There was a small, fierce avalanche of agreement, and a volley of ‘dislikes’ rained down like arrowscliché on Dan Hufflaw.

If you want to have on-brands, you have to have non-brands, Dan said. Creators need emulators and spectators or there’s no point. Somewhere in Idaho, his phone buzzed off the hook as the ‘likes’ and ‘dislikes’ poured in. I like this, although it might go on a bit too long for this length of a story. But I’m glad we see into his audience right away.

Yacob Chen finished shaving, washed his face, then moisturized with some homemade cream, which he scooped out of the stone mortar with two fingers and spread across his high, fine cheekbones like cake frosting. Which you spread across your cheekbones? Sshh, his fingers whispered as they moved over his freshly shaved skin. Sshh. He was careful to not smear any on his eyepiece. And, for just a moment, his viewers hushed. This was @YaChen, after all. The simple novelty of his morning routine could at any moment unfold into spectacle. The steps in his shaving ritual were, as far as his audience was concerned, no different than plot beats in a film script. This metaphor falls flat for me.

Blue-balled, Gage Remo commented when Yacob Chen finished moisturizing without incident and proceeded to get dressed. Yacob’s walk-in closet was famously austere; rather than filling the racks with clothing, he arranged his handful of outfits like visual merchandising displaysWhich look like what, exactly, a neo-normcore rainbow of greys and beiges and blue jeans.

After he was dressed, Yacob sat in his armchair and stared at his living room for twelve hours. Commenters inspected the video feed pixel by pixel. The image was divided into quadrants and @YaChen fans collaborated in poring over every last couch fiber, looking for some clue as to what Yacob was up to. Why would anybody just sit in a chair for twelve hours, even if they are in fact this Andy Kaufman-type performer? ANYBODY would get bored.

At exactly nine o’clock central time, the lights in Yacob’s house went out, and there was a collective international gasp. The stream was still live, but pitch black. There were shuffling fabric noises and heavy breathing. Within thirty seconds, Yacob’s steady viewership of ten million jumped up to twelve million as casual fans caught wind of the hubbub and tuned in.

At fifteen million viewers, the lights came back on. I get what you mean here, but the sentence is structured like the lights are directly controlled by the number of viewers. Yacob Chen was standing with his back to a full-length mirror, looking over his shoulder so the camera could capture his reflection. His stance was bowlegged and he was naked from the waist down.

Neither Dan Hufflaw of Idaho nor Gage Remo of Oregon could summon the words for a comment. Do we know at this point why the focus is on these two in particular? Somewhere in the real world, Dan’s finger was pumping the PRTSCRN button like a piston. nice detail

Yacob crouched down, his backside still facing the mirror. He reached. His fingers dug around inside of his body until, with effort, he produced a small ball from his anus. It dangled there, swaying slightly. Worth a street value of one milli—oh. With a gesture from Yacob, the camera on his headset zoomed in on the reflection of the ball and the fleshy environs surrounding it. There were words on the ball, apparently hand-written and in Sharpie.

PDX
8/20/18

So, this is…something, at least. I’m disgusted, but like the viewers of the video, I’m not looking away.
*

Here’s Why @YaChen’s Portland Performance Will Be the Most Important Show of This Century, proclaimed the front page of the Portland Mercury. Could we get an excerpt, because I still don’t know why. The alternative newspaper’s website had become a sort of ad hoc outlet for Yacob Chen news and speculation.

Ticketmaster’s website slowed to a crawl. Dan from Idaho was in the digital queue, his whole body quivering with tachycardic excitement. A bit of an awkward phrasing. In another browser tab, he compared ticket prices from Coeur d’alene to Portland. Gage Remo in Oregon actually went to the box office at the Keller Auditorium, physically, redundant to stand in line and get his paper ticket, which was actually just a printed copy of the E-Ticket. Seems like an unnecessary detail.

Yacob Chen arrived in Portland a few days before the show. Crowds gathered where he went, whether he was sampling the local food trucks or exploring the famous japanese Capitalize gardens of Washington Park. How is he able to –walk- anywhere? Nearly one thousand people were waiting outside of the old Cinema 21 when Yacob emerged from an afternoon showing of Man on the Moon, Dan and Gage among them. Everyone had their phones, tablets and headsets out, watching Yacob watch them watch him. This is where the Black Mirror vibe gets a little heavy-handed.

I liked that movie before @YaChen made it cool, Gage Remo commented on the stream as the Portland drizzle fell lightly on his phone’s screen. He saw the top of his own head in the crowd on the video feed, his face angled down at his phone. He saw, from Yacob’s perspective, Yacob hold up two open pans of gold paint. Then, like a holy man giving darśana to his followers, he swung the cans by their handles and doused everyone within fifteen feet with liquid gold. Cries of protest and confusion went up as expensive electronics were ruined. Twenty million viewers watched Yacob Chen watch his fans watch themselves get covered in paint. I like the scene, but what does it add other than satisfying the prompt?

*

@YaChen Promotional Event Turns Into Panopticon of Chaos reported the Portland Mercury the following day, hours before Yacob was set to take the stage at the Keller Auditorium.

I haven’t washed the paint off my hand yet, Dan Hufflaw commented, and attached a picture of his gold-spattered hand as proof. So psyched for the show.

Dan replied with an eye-rolling emoticon and said, You’d eat up any spectacle they set in front of you if it got enough enough shares in your social network. It’s weird, things are happening within the story but it doesn’t feel like there’s any sort of real progression. No one’s really changing. Maybe if the gold paint had spurred something within one of the characters.

Both men were seated in the front row at the Keller Auditorium. The room was quiet except for quiet quiet quietmurmuring between those few who’d come with friends. White-blue screen light from nearly three thousand phones made everything look ghostly. All eyes were on Yacob’s feed. He was watching them from somewhere. The audience watched themselves through his camera, trying to suss out the angle from which Yacob was observing them.

At eight o’clock, the house lights went down, the stage lights went up, and the audience fell into an excited silence, like inverted applause. -Is- silence the opposite of applause?

Dan and Gage crainedcraned their necks, trying to see through the tiny gap in the red velvet stage curtains.

The curtains opened. The stage was sparse, empty of everything except a large, hanging screen, which was bathed in empty white light from a projector. There was a long beat, like the gap between songs on a randomized playlist, where anything was possible. I’m torn on whether I like or hate this simile. It’s shallow, but that fits the story. All eyes in the auditorium were on the stage, their devices temporarily forgotten.

On the projected screen, credits began to roll:

STARRING:

Kaylee Buxton……………………………………….10,344 Comments
Pradeep Krishnan…………………………………...10,011 Comments
Dan Hufflaw………………………………………….9,804 Comments
Gage Remo…………………………………………..9,804 Comments
Mirna Smoot………………………………………….9,799 Comments

And on, and on, and on. The house lights went up. Ushers came down the aisles to escort the disabled and elderly to the exits. ha

The stream was over. Dan and Gage filed out of the auditorium in the gush of bewildered fans, viewers with nothing to view except their own gape-mouthed reflections against the black of a dead video feed.
We never get a “why”, is the problem. There’s plenty of “what”, and the “what” is flashy and captivating, but the lack of any central character motivation leaves the readers on the wrong side of that twist ending.

Sitting Here posted:

We also confirm conclusively that Team Ock sucks.

crabrock posted:

Even with a forfiet we got within 1 vote of winning, and we didn't even have to tap into our latent nazi genes, so team mermans is the best team with the best stories. They will make an underdog sports story about us some day. I love u guys. RUDY

Sitting Here posted:

I was crushing upstarts before you came into this dome and i'll be crushing upstarts when you're a smear across the floor

only reply to this if you're brave enough to get crushed, by me, in a brawl again

Sitting Here posted:

up·start
noun (derogatory)

a person who has risen suddenly to wealth or high position, especially one who behaves arrogantly.
"the upstarts who dare to challenge the legitimacy of his rule"

synonyms: parvenu, arriviste, nouveau riche, status seeker, social climber, a jumped-up ——, johnny-come-lately

"these upstarts, they don't know their place"

Sitting Here posted:

crabrock posted:

i am gonna judge this brawl.

Fools' Brawl - Ironic Twist v. Sitting Here

April fools'! That's what you're writing about. A prank. A story in which one person pranks another person. Is it an innocent prank, and everybody laughs at the end? Or is it one of those mean pranks where people cry? I don't like those pranks. I think pranks should be silly.

Twist - Your challenge is to write a story that doesn't crawl up its own butthole in terms of ~style~ and can actually convey a straightforward narrative.

Sitting Here - Your challenge is to write an active character that has his or her poo poo put together.

In a way, this is a brawl against yourself, because both of you are strong writers, and it's really about not loving yourself over by settling for your comfort zone.

Let the pranks begin!

Word count: 1500
Due date: April 1, 22:00 EST. THAT'S 10PM/7PM. don't loving ask me for extensions.