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FreudianSlippers posted:Castle Doctrine That's right, I remembered that I wanted to go and give this story a quick minicrit suggesting ways you could have actually hit the word count and not wind up with the DQ that you narrowly escaped here. Here goes. quote:
Delete the first paragraph. There, done. Actually, starting with "A crowbar is a skeleton key" and merging that and the following line into your second paragraph would probably be the way to go. Doesn't solve all of the problems with this story by a long shot, but it does fix the wordcount one and give you a much stronger opening.
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Mar 17, 2016 01:14
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Sooner or Later He Brings Up the Templars) your knight is a strict vegan and faces consequence of death upon animal product consumption. Words: 1099 The guy standing beside the beat-up green Civic has a gun, but that don't count for much when there's two hundred eighty pounds of crazy charging at you waving a big-rear end sword. He barely gets it out of his belt and fires one wild shot before taking a smack in his gun hand from the flat of the sword. The gun goes flying and his arm's broke. I step in to get him dosed with chloroform and zip-tied to the rear-view mirror. Coyote does that kind of poo poo all the time, and don't never take no bullets neither. He says it's cause he's magic. Then we get in the car and hide out, waiting on the fourth floor of a parking garage in the middle of the night for the men with the bribe. “Jackpot,” I say. “That fool brought dinner.” I look inside the bag and pull out a sandwich. “What,” says Coyote “is that?” “A pastrami sandwich,” I say. “Hey, it's not like we're dating. Just because you don't eat meat don't mean I can't.” “Bernie, have I ever told you why I'm vegan?” asks Coyote. I pause between bites, thinking. “No.” “It's not any kind of moral reason. I don't give two farts about animal rights. And it's sure as hell not for my health. No, it's one reason and one reason alone. I swore an oath. To never again eat any animal product until my dying day. I've been keeping that oath for nigh on fifteen years, and it pains me every single day. So believe me when I say I would kill for the chance to eat a pastrami sandwich again and put that damnable temptation back into that bag.” I swallow and put the sandwich away, and our conversation turns to the usual. Who really killed Bobby Kennedy and Malcolm X and Michael Jackson. Why they let John Doe #2 get away after the Oklahoma City bombings. And the old favorite, why we don't go after the real money in this city. “Drugs, drugs are too big. Too big for a two-person operation to get near without blowback. The Templars had every ounce of cocaine entering the country going through Mena airport, with both the Bushes and the Clintons elbow deep in the operation's rear end. Right at the highest levels. No, this stuff is where we can make a difference. Civic corruption. Stop the flow of money and everything gums up. You remember the sigil?” I remember the sigil. Down in Coyote's basement apartment, Spread across the walls, the map of the real subway routes overlayed with lines connecting every property ever owned by Donald Trump, and, if you squint hard, it sort of looks like a two-headed snake with one huge wing. Coyote says that explains everything. I nod and think about that sandwich. Then a black Suburban shows up. The guy with the suitcase full of cash gets out, with two guards, and they almost reach the trunk before they notice that our friend isn't awake. That's when we bust out of the doors, me with the guy's piece and Coyote with his sword and the guards take off. We're about to take the suitcase off of the courier when two more people come out of the van. One of them's a weedy little guy in glasses, hanging back and eating chicken nuggets. The other is big as Coyote, dressed in black and holding a riot shield and a stun baton. “Hospitaller!” the big guy shouts, “Prepare to meet your doom.” For a second Coyote looks at him the way I usually look at Coyote. Then his face changes and he charges. “Templar!” he shouts. “Face my revenge.” I'd like to say what goes down is some kind of Star Wars lightsaber poo poo, but it all happens in a few seconds. Coyote comes in low and the Templar blocks with his shield, then pokes Coyote right under the left arm with his baton. Coyote's in pain, but he's not going down. His mouth is wide open, though, and that's when the nerd picks up a chicken nugget and slings it like it's a ninja throwing star. The nugget flies right into Coyote's mouth. Coyote starts gasping and convulsing even though the baton's not on him no more. He's turning blue. He swings his sword high. It takes the other guy's head clean off, and the head tumbles through the air and lands right in the nerd's lap. The nerd drops his nuggets, pulls out his phone, and takes off running. I hear more cars on the ramps below. I go to Coyote, but he's gone. Pick up the sword. It's sort of like Coyote's voice, but different. I look around to see who's talking, but it's coming from inside my head. I can get you safely out of here, but you must pick me up first. The sword itself? It's there on the concrete near Coyote's hand. I pick it up. Now say the oath. “What?” I say. “Wait...really?” It is necessary, yes. “Man, I love a good burger.” Would you rather face the people coming up alone? “All right,” I say. “I swear to never eat any kind of meat or animal product.” Or stolen animal labor. “Huh?” Honey is out, too. “Okay, I swear to not eat any food that's stolen animal labor. We square?” And to hunt and fight the Templars for all of your days. “And I swear to fight the Templars. You gonna help me fight these guys now?” Do you know how to fight with a sword? “Hell no.” I say. Then that wouldn't be a good idea. Walk up to the rail over to your right. I start walking. There's nothing there but a four story drop. “Wait,” I say. “You think I should jump?” I can keep you safe. I'm thinking 'no way' when two Audis roll up the ramp and spin to stops, doors facing me. I go over the ledge with a huge pointy sword in one hand, wondering if I've gone crazy as Coyote ever was. I land on the windshield of a parked Lexus. The safety glass bends down to the console as I hit. Not a scratch on me. Nothing broken neither, bruises only. I take off running. I've got work to do. Gotta learn swordfighting, gotta find out which Indian joints don't use butter. And I've gotta figure how to take the fight to that chicken nugget-throwing Templar son of a bitch.
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Mar 21, 2016 07:13
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Mar 22, 2016 03:49
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Sitting Here posted:
Well, there's that missing word in the second one that makes the only grammatically sound reading be that Joey is wrapping his chest around the narrator's shoulder. But, in the serious-posting vein, remember that judges have to read the whole story. Theoretically, at least. So stories can overcome opening problems in the dome with better middles and endings that would be fatal in the wild, with non-captive audiences.
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Mar 23, 2016 16:56
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Afterimage 1176 Total Words First Impressions 382 Words Martin puts the ring on Clara's finger. There's a rough spot on the inside where a small chip broke off, when he was prying out the stone. It scratches her, just enough to trace a red line, not deep enough to bleed. “What the Devil?” she says. “The stone was a bust,” says Martin. “That demon-goat thing's eye was just a hunk of colored glass. But I thought the setting would work okay as a ring. So will you marry me, Clara?” “With Jade instead of gold and no diamond? What kind of girl do you think I am?” “I can get you another ring,” says Martin. Clara takes it off, sets it down on her jewel box. “When you do,” says Clara, “I'll get you another answer.” He does. They marry on the first day of the twentieth century in a Lutheran church outside of town. Neither of them are believers. Martin breaks his vows during the reception, with Clara's older sister Alice. Spinster Alice up from Indiana, Hussy Alice yielding freely in the coat closet. She comes up to Chicago after the honeymoon. She carries on with Martin for months before they're caught. Clara confronts Alice with sharp words at her apartment. Clara confronts Martin with the kitchen knife at home, driving her point home twenty-nine times. Clara comes back from the hardware store with shovel and lime and finds Alice standing over the body. The smell of gin is overwhelming. Alice drops a bottle, which shatters on the hard kitchen floor. “How could you?” she whispers. “He deserved it,” says Clara, crossing her arms. “If you didn't want him,” starts Alice. “You only ever wanted him to spite me” “I'll show you spite,” says Alice. She strikes a match and lets it drop to the ground. The alcohol, in pools and soaked-through newspaper, catches at once. The carpet Clara's standing on lights quickly. Alice planned to die with her sister. As Clara screams Alice changes her mind, too late to make any difference. The ring is pocketed by an enterprising arson investigator. It is never entered in the logs. He sells it to a pawnbroker who loses it at poker, three of a kind falling to a Jack-high Hearts flush. Gaze Fixed Forward 299 Words Jerome took bribes. Why not? He was corrupt And no one in the city was his match In crossing between both sides of the law As cop and as enforcer of bad debts One day, to let a miscreant escape A beating and the state, he took the ring. He swore he'd never wear a wedding ring. Whenever some girl's virtue he'd corrupt He'd always make a clean and fast escape Until with Isabel he'd met his match Her father was a man who paid all debts And so his boss became father-in-law A man can't marry mob and serve the law So he gave up the badge and kissed the ring And as he rose in rank assumed new debts Supporting lifestyles lavishly corrupt: What sister Anna had Iz had to match And versa vice, a trap without escape. One night Anna climbed up the fire escape “I'm breaking in. You gonna call the law” “Or light me up?” He found and stuck a match He barely heard the phone's persistent ring Engaged in conduct morally corrupt And freely, blindly took on karmic debts. The pattern met, some force put paid those debts Isabel caught her sister mid-escape Her seed of violence grew in soil corrupt And, as though bound by unbent nature's law Did murder as before beheld the ring Her soul and will deformed to fit, to match. As Anna, trembling, held the burning match And tried to blow it out, thinking on debts And reasons for to live that didn't ring With any truth, attempting an escape Burnt fingertips and by gravity's law It fell, her soul not suicide-corrupt Each pattern-match will fall 'til the escape That pays all debts is found by sacred law: A love so true the ring cannot corrupt. Second Glances 498 Words I open the box and see the jade ring. Clarise is on the phone. “It has a bit of a story to it. It's haunted.” she says. “Haunted?” I say. “Or maybe cursed. It's got this thing where every couple of decades the owner steps out with their wife's sister and then they all kill each other and set things on fire.” “You don't really believe it.” “Of course not. I mean, half of the stories can't even be verified. It's just urban folklore around people who just left town and fires caused by someones greasy rags. Just a big pile of confirmation bias.” “You're absolutely sure,” I say. There's something I don't like about the look it. “Do you think I'd buy it if it could kill us all?” “Well.” “Besides, you already know that magic ring or no I'd kill you if you did step out.” It's true. Or a running joke. I'm never sure. “Anyhow, Val's happily married.” “Oh, you didn't know?” “Know what?” “Val and Gavin was always, well, a sort of a beard situation, and now that Gavin can marry for real, it's over. All but the paperwork.” “Wait, Gavin's gay?” “Wasn't that obvious?” “No,” I say. “I mean, yes, but, I don't know. I thought 'nobody's that stereotypically-'” “Listen,” she says, “I've got to go. I'll be home Tuesday night. Love you.” I sit, staring at it. I'm afraid of it, even more because fear isn't my first impulse. I was in love with Valerie first. We grew up close friends, and I always wanted more. But Clarise fell for me, hard, while Val was dating... Jimmy Becket? Or was it Terrence Myers? And Clarise was fun, and a great friend and partner, and then Valerie was married too and whatever lingering feelings I had were buried so deep they didn't even come out in my dreams. But now, after all I just heard, the biggest worst idea that ring represents isn't that I'd wind up dead but that I might have a chance with Val. It's raining hard tonight. There's a knock at the door. It's Val, wet and sad and so happy to see me all at once. I reach out to guide her in out of the rain and she somehow winds up pressed against me. I know about the ring. Nobody else did. That counts for something, right? I can run away, crush the thing to powder, or best yet, just not do anything. Pull away, get her a cup of hot tea and some dry clothes and a taxi to a hotel. But we're kissing instead, and it's everything I'd ever hoped it would be and more. Even if I can't do anything, a part of me thinks, this is worth it. I know that part is wrong, dead wrong, but it just gets stronger and stronger. And I'm lost.
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Mar 28, 2016 01:27
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In, and flash rule me as well.
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Apr 1, 2016 23:00
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How I Nearly Single-handedly Sent Our Little College Town Onto an Inexorable Trajectory Towards Both Literal and Metaphorical Perdition (And Don't Regret it One Little Bit) 500 words I'd tried before, of course, with fraudulent grimoires prescribing shameful, humiliating rituals, all for nothing. This was different. As I completed the incantation the candles flared, and there he was. “Gregory Hesselwhite,” the demon said, “Can I take it that you are interested an arrangement?” “You are the demon Abbas, granter of excessively violent retribution?” I asked. “I am,” it said. It looked mostly human, with a jock build and a slightly uncanny vibrational blur. “Do you have a name for me?” “I have a whole list.” “Only one to a customer.” “What, because I only have one immortal soul?” “Your soul?” it said, smirking. “You summoned a murder demon with malicious intent, committing numerous blasphemies in so doing. We already have full claim on your soul.” “Then how can I pay you?” “You have access to anonymous remailers and the dark net, correct?” It looked into my eyes. “Of course you do, you don't find the Labrys Libram by typing it into Google. I'll give you an address and you shall send a short, completely anonymous email to it. 'I know about you and Amber. And I'm not the only one.'” “Okay, but I don't understand-” “That message should set off a glorious festival of paranoia and backstabbing, and bring the entire University closer to us than ever before. So, one name. Who shall it be.” “If it's just one,” I said, “Then Martin Twain.” The demon stared at me. “Who?” it said. “I came prepared, knowing anyone who's done you wrong or stands between you and money or power. That name isn't in my dossier. How did he harm you?” “Is that really your business?” “I'm afraid it is. I am a demon of vengeance, not random murder.” “Well, three years ago I was at the DMV to get my license renewed. They closed up right before getting to me. So I got pulled over the next day and hit with a four hundred dollar fine, so I couldn't afford tuition and wound up down in this basement. But there was one guy, one guy who had broken in line ahead of me. I caught his name and memorized it so I could get revenge someday, but nothing I could do felt like enough. So yeah, him.” The demon started laughing. “What, not good enough for you?” “No,” it said, catching it's breath. “Listen. Down in the pits of perdition, there are queues. Lines for a daily water ration, and such. Those lines are the most diabolical, unfair queues imaginable. The most ingenious demon princes, in collaboration with the souls of the worst of humankind: DMV and INS bureaucrats, Soviet food line managers, all of these. And whenever a soul should happen to jump ahead of their fellow waiting souls, they become incrementally more damned. No, if anything I'll struggle determining how to be excessively violent. Mister Hesselwhite, we have a deal.”
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Apr 4, 2016 02:56
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in with a flash song
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Apr 5, 2016 05:51
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Titanomachy 1000 Words Saturn Return Everybody says I have my father's eyes. It's true. And every time I look at them in the mirror I wish I had the guts to gouge them out. “Peter?” says Gloria, shading her eyes from the streetlight to look in my direction. I'm standing in front of the 24-Hour Eagle, shut down for the night in defiance of name and signage both, a dark void instead of the usual gold-and-white neon glare. “Here,” I say, guiding her to the side of the building, where I've set up the ladder. “You know,” she says, climbing up those steps, “A month ago I wouldn't have been caught dead talking to you. It's funny, isn't it?” “Not really.” “No, I guess not.” I pull the ladder up when we're both on the roof. It's a cold, dry night. The stars burn down on us without glimmer or twinkle. “It's not too late to change your mind,” I say. “Do you know why I came to you?” “Because you know I could do it?” I say. “Because it's in my blood?” When I was five years old, my father got laid off from his job, drove himself home, and murdered my sisters and brother, Mom managed to hide me before he got to her, and she somehow survived what he did when he couldn't find me. Everybody in town knows all about it. It's not the kind of thing that can be kept secret. “No,” she says. “At least not just that. It's the other thing.” I look blankly at her. “Why you wear long sleeves even on the hottest days of summer.” I don't say anything. “Can I- can I see them?” I roll up my left sleeve, revealing the parallel hesitation scars like blank sheet music for an unwritten waltz. She touches them, traces them with her finger. “You know what it's like,” she says, “To want to, but not be able to.” Something else I share with dad, that excessive instinct for self-preservation. Most people who do the kind of thing he did kill themselves, or at least get the police to do it. Not him. He came in quietly and went to prison, where he was just the kind of monster the Aryans wanted. He's risen high in their ranks, I hear. “It took a while, but I stopped,” I say. “It's only been a month since-” “Nothing's going to change,” she says. Her hand moves from mine to my face. “If you want, we can, you know, have sex. Before, I mean.” I pull back like a startled field mouse. “No,” I say, “I mean, I'm, I'm not, I don't-” “It's okay,” she says. “I just thought.” She drops her hands to her side. “Wow, now you're the one afraid of me. It's almost funny. Or I guess it's not-” “No,” I say. “It is.” I try to find a smile that doesn't have pain or sarcasm or predatory hunger directly underneath. I don't know if I succeed. We stand in silence for long minutes. “Are you ready?” “Why do you think I'm doing this?” she asks. “Most people would say you're grieving over your best friend's accident,” I say. “Most people,” she says, “Not you, though.” “No.” “After the way I spiraled out that first week most people were saying 'lover' rather than 'best friend'” “But they were wrong,” I say. “Wrong about everything. We were never that way, and that cow wasn't even my friend any more. I didn't give a drat about what happened to her- no, I was glad she died. Still am.” “But the people in the other car,” I say. She nods. “How long have you known?” “Just since yesterday, after we talked,” I say. “And not known, just suspected. How did you do it?” “Nothing fancy, just put a little E in her mineral water. Well, a lot.” She looks down at the rooftop. “I expected her to drive into a ditch or a tree, not-” “You could confess-” “What good would that do?” she says. “It wouldn't make it any easier to live with. Just put the families through everything again, and make mine have to live with knowing that...” She trails off. “Sorry-” “It's okay,” I say. Things have been difficult between my mother and I since around when I turned fourteen, when I started to look so much like dad she couldn't look me in the face without flinching. I tried bleaching my hair white and dying it blue and cutting it all off, but nothing helped. It was the eyes, always the eyes. “I'm,” she says, “I'm ready. If it looks like I've changed my mind, though-” “I'll stop,” I say. “No!” she says. “Don't stop. No matter what, don't stop.” I nod. She lies down on the slick rooftop. I straddle her, put my hands around her throat, and squeeze. I'd been looking for someone like Gloria for months, since I reached eighteen. Not someone so willing, I hadn't dared hope for that. But someone who deserved it, someone who just plain needed killing. I knew I needed to kill. Not from whatever genetic monstrosity I carry-well, not just from that. Mostly for my plan, the road map for the rest of my life. I'm not going to get away with this. Even the incompetents running the police here will be able to put things together. I'll cover my tracks just enough to rule out an insanity plea. Dad's not in the kind of prison you can get into by shoplifting or bar fighting or jaywalking. The cover charge there is murder in the first. That's the plan. Get inside, get close, and then either get even or get dead. Dad's getting old. I might even have a chance. “Thank you,” I whisper as Gloria's eyes stop screaming.
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Apr 11, 2016 04:18
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In and flash rule me.
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Apr 12, 2016 03:00
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Moonside Archives Thranguy fucked around with this message at 04:37 on Jun 19, 2016 |
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Apr 17, 2016 20:15
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In with San Marino, I Didn't Know
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Apr 19, 2016 07:19
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The Final Logs of Doctor Omega San Marino, I Didn't Know 1169 Words. Day 1 I wake up on an alien landscape, my last memory Fafnir, that leather-bound lunk, wrenching the Tessimal Sphere from The Moment's hands and swinging it at me like a club. Millions of dollars of research, thousands of hours of work the more adequate scientists academia can muster, smashed to pieces against my power armor before I could steal it and put it to better use. It takes me seconds to realize where I am. The smooth but yielding ground, the tall vertical trunks swaying as they tower above, and the constantly shifting direction of gravity allow only one solution. I have not been teleported but shrunk, down to the micrometer scale, and stand on human skin. The Moment's skin, to be precise: the signature of Nega-energy my instruments register is unmistakable hers. We were not partners. I work alone. Robots are infinitely more reliable than paid goons. Had Fafnir not arrived, we would have come to blows over the Sphere. But if we are united in one thing it is our mutual contempt for the so-called Dragon Protector of Earth, and our conflict would wait until his defeat. Some interaction between the Tessimal Sphere, her Nega-energy, and my own tech must have caused this. Fascinating. If it could be reversed and duplicated, such a power might make me unstoppable. Day 4 I haven't eaten since I arrived here. Nor do I believe I have breathed. How could I? My atoms are on a different scale. Chemical interaction would be impossible. Instead, I am sustained by The Moment's Nega-energy. I have modified my battle-suit to store as much as possible. It's not enough to venture more than a few blocks, let alone reach my lunar sanctum. I confess I've never made a study of her powers. The time-slicing effects of Nega-Energy are amazing. The Nega-powered modifications I've made to my boots allow me to travel at speeds that, from my own scaled down perspective, are staggering. No, impossible, even. At my current scale, to travel from arm to head in less than a minute requires perceived speeds many times the speed of light. I have built cameras from the ruins of my helmet. I arrive at her eyes and place them at the corners, wide lenses that capture what she sees. She is not aware of my presence at all, and is formulating new plans daily. Then I go within. Inside The Moment, through the maze of her bloodstream to her brain. I am not sure what my intentions were. I understand the so-called mysteries of the human brain. From that position, I could have operated most mortals like marionettes. But The Moment has no ordinary mind. No, it is magnificent. The activity dwarfs even my own, with Nega-energy time manipulation in constant operation. I am humbled, and saddened at the loss to science when she chose to devote this sublime instrument instead to strategy. But also frustrated. No control, communication, nor even understanding is possible. Day 7 Battle is joined. All of The Moment's plans were useless, as that Aryan lizard-man Fafnir has somehow blundered into her arctic lair. I zoom across her body to her arms. I've calculated the safest place for me: the region between her skin and the Atlantean wristbands that channel her Nega-energy. The bands are as close to indestructible as any material. I brace myself and watch the battle through her eyes. And what a battle it is! She fights with precision and grace, countering Fafnir's clumsy attacks. It is only his brutish strength and endurance that makes it a fight at all. When Fafnir does connect the blow sends them through walls, outside, onto a landscape of ice, melting and steaming from the heat emanating from Fafnir's body. The dance between them, her full of skill and him completely without, would be comic were it not for its intensity. I see a deep, despairing anger in Fafnir's eyes, something he never once showed in our battles. There is something personal and hateful in him, some history he lets rise to the surface here, far from the public eye. Fafnir lunges, off-balance, with his left hand. The Moment grabs it with both of hers, twisting and pulling. The bone gives way. I can almost hear the snap despite the silence of my microscale world. She blasts it with concentrated Nega-energy and it withers. She rips it off his body. It would make a fine trophy of the fight, and Fafnir will be months regenerating. His eyes go red and he enters a berserk rage, sweeping his right hand, claws extended, across The Moment's midsection. I feel like I'm in an earthquake as her whole body shudders. She looks down for a second and I see how bad the wound is. Fafnir moves in closer, a killing look on his face. I have never known any invention that would not be improved by the addition of lasers, and my eye-cameras are no exception. Single shot, for emergencies, I fire them straight into the monster's eyes. They're so tiny that all they do is cause an instant's flinch, but that's as much time as The Moment needs to launch herself to the skies. Fafnir tries to follow, but he needs to breathe, so cannot follow her far. Day 10 The Moment floats through space, unconscious. Her wounds are mostly healed, but the process has drained her reserves of Nega-Energy to nearly nothing. I've plotted our course, though, and, amazingly enough, it will take us not just to the moon but to the very doorstep of my own lunar hideout. Could it be that she has been aware of me all this time? I will have to ask, once I am restored to normal size. In my laboratory, that task should be trivial. Day 12 We strike the lunar surface at full speed. The impact causes fresh wounds and reopens old ones. The Moment's Nega-Energy works mightily fixing them, completely exhausting itself, every new erg generated going to protect her from the vacuum's ravages. Her heart stops. I should hurry to my labs, restore myself before the Nega-energy in my battle-suit and my cells runs out. But instead I find myself moving the other way, into her body, through the strangely still arteries, straight to her motionless heart. I release the Nega-energy in my suit. It starts to quiver, to fibrillate, but refuses to beat. I send a command to the computers in my lab, ordering them to open all of my files to The Moment should she enter, starting with these logs. With my decades of carefully hoarded tech and her powers and brilliant strategic mind, she will be unstoppable. If this works. I'm not sure how I even know how to do it, but I relax something and the Nega-Energy flows out of my body. I feel my atoms melt away. It's surprisingly painless. Her heart beats, then beats again. There is barely enough of me left for one final thought: Revenge me!
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Apr 25, 2016 01:48
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Inverse World Crits This week was not so good, in a different way from other not good weeks I've judged. There weren't all that many stories that were particularly bad, but the top stories this week were not all that strong. Like, would have been hovering around the wrong side of the HM/No Mention line (8/10 on the scale here) in a more normal week. Overall, I think that the problem was lack of ambition and energy. A Virtue We're already in Inverse World as this is a first-time domer posting early on Saturday and yet, in defiance of longstanding Thunderdome tradition, not horrible. quote:Gus had been part of the second time Esmé had an extended wait for a bus The ending is a bit of a cheat, to be honest. Dementia endings are usually regarded as 'oscar-bait' in general, and when you establish that your main character is 82 years old and, by the rules of your apparent POV, aware of that fact, it's a lot harder to sell. This and some awkward prose is going to put you at 7/10. Having read the original you're working on, I'm not sure exactly what you were trying to invert. Djinn's piece is frenetic and yours is languid, I suppose, but I don't see much by way of themes. Even with the note you put in it's not that clear. Invisible Hand So you got dealt the worst hand by this prompt, having one and only one choice of story to invert and having that story be one that did very poorly. (Although I personally wouldn't have had it at the bottom that week.) This story was a mess. As with your other story, you have some fairly strong dialog skills, a rarity in the dome. Unfortunately, they're getting wasted again, this time with some preposterously heavyhanded attempted satire and excessive worldbuilding that still doesn't quite manage to make sense. (Just to pick a single thread, somehow these megacorps are so completely in charge as to have taken over the military and generally reorganized society but are still somehow vulnerable to a civil court?) Also, stakes are all over them place here, and 'and then they all blew up' is just about the worst ending you can give a story. 2/10, DM candidate. The part where I try to figure out what you inverted: I think that what you're going for is inverting the narrator-as-smartest-person-around to a narrator who's the dumbest guy in the story? Although you have to have him figure something crucial out for the ending. Also inverted 'no ending' to 'extremely definitive ending', but that didn't really work out very well. How to Finish a Sentence I think that I'm going to have to file this one as 'good implementation of a flawed idea'. The prose is adequate, although the voice seems a little too flat, a little too human to really work as a non-human narrator, and there's a general lack of agency going on here. I feel like this kind of narrator should be either more alien or have a stronger personality and voice or both. The biggest problem here is that there's no sense of what the spider eats actually being consumed, lost to the host forever, and if you're going for that as subtext or unreliable narration it's not working. 7/10 The part where I try to figure out what you inverted: Pretty darn clear, a non-human that goes from knowing a lot to knowing nothing reverse to one that goes from knowing little to knowing a lot. The problem is that the original was the more interesting conceit, and the problem with both stories is that too much time is spent directly explaining the concept. A Wall all Night The opening is interesting, but is hovering just barely on the right side of confusing. What is Satch, if not an angel? Will we find out? When we have angels, a character named Jack wearing a seersucker and drinking scotch is almost overkill as far as devil-signifiers. Looks like we're not going this way, though. Having a character comment on how bad a line of dialog is never, never works. Some short pieces that stick out as bad choices: “heart eclipsed”, “Jac”, two “metaphysicals” in a row when one would be too many, “.',”,”suffused booze”, another metaphysical. At the end of this story, what has happened? What has Satch done? You're trying for a reversal where we're meant to think he's supposed to fix this doomed relationship, but when you turn it around, what has Satch done? These crazy kids were going to break up with or without him. 3/10. The part where: Someone ramping a party up becomes someone winding one down, in a addition to an unhappy couple taking a more mature approach to their situation. On the Farm Starting in, the prose is both overwritten an boring. You're feeling the need to assign an adjective to every noun, and then winding up picking the most obvious or cliched one possible. quote:When his father died; Jameson left. You introduce a motorcycle in the tenth paragraph. That's a little late for an apparent genre shift. It was looking fantasy-ish up to then, now it's post-apocalyptic maybe? Also, this is where we see the first signs of conflict, which is way too late. And it's only a conflict if Jameson wants something he can't have, which we don't quite see even yet. quote:Raids were common, it was far easier to steal what you needed to survive than to make it yourself. The part where: well, you said it outright, but I see it Whimsy Prefacing your story is bad bad bad, don't ever do that again. There is nothing wrong with the word “said”. It's almost punctuation and not a word you should worry about overusing. When you do replace it, do so sparingly and for effect. Don't ever use words that don't do anything that 'said' doesn't do, like 'uttered' or, in your case, 'offered'. Comma splice in the third paragraph. I'm going to be disappointed if this cape isn't literally bedazzled. Strange capitalization of 'table' and 'she'. Inconsistent on that last. More comma splices. So, to recap-summarize, a fan of stage magic has married a performer who's lost her way. He goes to see The Master, who is so flamboyant it's painful to read, and he suggests 'whimsey' as the solution, which goes over like a lead balloon. One of those stories that appears to be going for humor but fails to include anything remotely humorous. I think you may be attempting parody of the original here, but it doesn't really work and parodying something that the readers probably won't have read until after they finish yours, if at all, is a pretty bad idea. 1/10 at most. The part where: The part where I wonder if you read the part of the prompt that told you not to try and rewrite the original story. Bedazzled cloaks are the opposite of tribal tattoos? Also, where the original was a good story, this was not. My Secret Plan to Undermine the Policy Agenda of Michelle Obama Okay, this is light, actually hits on the humor side more or less. A little low stakes, a bit of an unlikeable protagonist. And Mrs. Metcalf seems a little too-easily gulled. There's more to it than most of this week so far. More energy to it, in fact this was the only story that really had any energy at all. 8/10 (I liked this considerably more than the other judges) with a caveat: I'd rather not see this kind of story get the win but would have been be okay with an HM. I mean, it's fairly well written, but unless the prompt specifically calls for this sort of thing, I'd rather not see something with themes this juvenile win, at least not unless it's really, really fantastic, and this is merely good. The part where: Character is trying to get sick rather than get healthy. No More Lies, for Once A fairly good story, this one. My one major problem with it is that I have absolutely no idea how old the narrator is, if he's a kid in fairly deep denial or an insane and/or mentally challenged adult. There are some practical matters of undressing and re-dressing a corpse that are glossed over as well (or was he put on the sofa naked? Surely not? A robe? I guess you're deliberately glossing over this part to make the story less BTS-esque than it already is, perhaps. 7/10. Probably would have been my top pick if I'd been judging alone. The part where: Pretty clear, original was about letting go of a dead father and this is about not letting go of same. I Used to be Before starting the story, just from the title, wondering if this is going to be another meme story. Thankfully no, but this is...not exactly a story. Monolog, confessional, and there's a character in there, but not enough conflict or interaction to really drive much narrative out of it. Second person is always tricky, and when the 'you' is apparently the entire audience it's even more so. I'm not sure what's going on with the strange semicolon break near the beginning. 6/10. The part where: Fairly obvious even if you hadn't stated it. Final Thoughts Not a good week when you're still looking for a viable win candidate and run out of stories. So I'll heap a little extra shame on all four of this week's failures, because, well, this could have been any of your weeks to shine.
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May 3, 2016 06:21
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In with Cake Happy New Year 2016
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May 3, 2016 07:22
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Fugue Archives Thranguy fucked around with this message at 04:39 on Jun 19, 2016 |
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May 9, 2016 01:46
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 Thunderdome CXCVII: Stories of Powerful Ambition and Poor Impulse Control Like a lot of domers, I'm a fan of RPGs, but my current tastes tend more towards the indie/hippy/storygame side of the hobby, so this week will be based on one of those: Jason Morningstar's Fiasco. It's a game that lends itself to, well, the kind of stories in the week title, with the specifics governed by which playset is used. And there are a lot of playsets out there. Here's how it's going to work. We're not actually going to play the game itself, but instead, when you enter you can pick any official playset (I'm going to post a list of those right after this so they don't clutter the prompt post. By 'official' I mean in the main book, in the companion, or one of the playsets of the week), or ask me to pick one for you. Just post 'in' if you want me to pick. Then I'll use that playset to generate three relationships, one need, one object, one location, and one Tilt element. And that's your prompt. Use it to write about powerful ambitions and poor impulse control, which usually means things going horribly wrong for someone. This is the setup for a three-person game, more or less. In the game the relationships would form a triangle between three characters, but you don't have to do that. In the game, the Tilt element would be something that comes into play about halfway through, but again, you don't have to do that. In fact, given that these will be more heavy/detailed prompts than usual, so I'm going to say right here that they're here only to help/inspire you this time. I'm not going to be judging you on prompt usage, so if you come up with a story that fits the overall theme while barely touching them, fine. Or if you use every morsel served up, also fine. Or somewhere between. Your call. No Fanfic, Erotica, Google Docs, Poetry. Word limit: 2000, but there's a catch: if you go over 1500, you cannot no mention this week. Stories not good enough to HM above that line will get DMs, so if you need to use those last couple hundred words, write 'em good. There may be a lesson about ambition and/or impulse control in your decision, there. Signups Close 11:59 PM Pacific time Friday Submission Close 11:59 Pacific time Sunday Judges: Thanguy ??? (Could be you!) ??? (Could also be you! Not at the same time, though.) Entrants: 1. flerp (News Channel Six) 2. newtestleper (Town and Gown) 3. Toxxupation (Tales from Suburbia) 4. Mr. Gentleman (Hollywood Wives) 5. Oxxidation (The Ice) 6. Sitting Here (Heroes of Pinnacle City) 7. Sparksbloom (Break a Leg) 8. Grizzled Patriarch (A Nice Southern Town) 9. Entenzahn (Tartan Noir)  10. Chernabog (Havana 1953) 11. Quo Pro Quid (HK TPK) 12. Carl Killer Miller (Lucky Strike) 13. curlingiron (The Manna Hotel) 14. kurona_bright (1913 New York) 15. spectres of autism (Return to Camp Death) 16. Steve Harvey Oswald (Vegas) 17. Chairchucker (Unaussprechlichen Klutzen) 18. CANNIBAL GIRLS (Touring Rock Band) 19. Ceighk (The Zoo) 20. Tyrannosaurus (London 1593) 21. Fuschia Tude (Last Frontier) 22. dmboogie (White Hole) 23: ghost crow (The Penthouse) 24: Marshmallow Blue (Transatlantic) Thranguy fucked around with this message at 01:55 on May 14, 2016 |
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May 11, 2016 00:59
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List of Playsets A Nice Southern Town Boomtown Tales from Suburbia The Ice Fiasco High Regina's Wedding Vegas Mission to Mercury Lucky Strike Reconstruction Flyover Manna Hotel 1913 New York Transatlantic Dallas November 1963 London 1593 Dragon Slayers Objective Zebra The Jersey Side Quest for the Golden Panda News Channel 6 Town and Gown Break a Leg The Penthouse Horse Fever Red Front Camp Death DC73 The Zoo Los Angeles 1936 De Medici Havana 1953 White Hole Hollywood Wives Salem 1962 Home Invasion Flight 1880 Saturday Night 78 HK TPK Heroes of Pinnacle City Back to the Old House Living Dead Tartan Noir Touring Rock Band 2 The Beast of Sucker Creek Dangerous Games Planeta Droga Return to Camp Death Rat Patrol Unaussprechlichen Klutzen Last Frontier Gangster London Touring Rock Band
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May 11, 2016 01:01
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flerp posted:give me whatever the gently caress this is im in News Channel Six Relationships: Family: Ex-spouses, current parents We've Got History:”The restraining order is still in place, you know.” Fooling Around: Did it once at the office Christmas party, you think. Need: To Settle Things: With that suit who doesn't get your “vision” for the news Location: Face Time: Book signing for your recently published memoir/cookbook Object: Where's the Warning Label? Exotic animal, exotically out of control Tilt: Paranoia: Someone is watching, waiting for their moment. newtestleper posted:That's a lot of words. Can I not read all that and still be IN? Town and Gown Relationships: Friendship: Fraternity/Sorority Work:Tattoo artist and client Romance: Married Need: To get Rich...by killing someone old. Location: West Campus: Bridge across the ravine to East Campus Object: Transportation: Often-patched old canoe Tilt: Guilt: Someone develops a conscience Toxxupation posted:In with Tales from Suburbia. Tales from Suburbia Relationships: Community: Officials (judge, county supervisor, town attorney) Family: Parent and Step-child The Past: Fast friends when this was all farm country Need: To get even with the 'community policing officer' Location: Poppleton Terrace, the cul-de-sac at the end of Avanti Way Object: Information: A property survey from the 1940s Tilt: Innocence, a well-meaning stranger intervenes Mr Gentleman posted:in, pick for me Hollywood Wives Relationships: Romance: Dominant and submissive Crime: Killer and would-be victim Work: Plastic surgeon and patient Need: To cover up...your immodest child Location: Leisure: Resort gift shop Object: Weapons: Box of rat poison Tilt: Tragedy: Pain, followed by confusion Oxxidation posted:In with The Ice. The Ice Relationships: Community: Social Adversaries Crime: Smugglers (artifacts, endangered species) Romance: Current spouses Need: To get out..of responsibility for an accident Location: Mactown:Business:The tool shed inside the Carp Shop Object: Untoward: A 55 gallon urine barrel Tilt: Tragedy: Death, out of the blue
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May 11, 2016 08:04
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Sitting Here posted:Didn't read the prompt, am in, pick all the things for me Heroes of Pinnacle City Relationships: The government! Military leader and personal security Allies! “I have to fix everything he breaks” Romance! You remember, they dont't- time travel makes you sad Need To find out..where she went, and why Location Exotic: Summit of Mt. Everest Object: Ominous: Abraham Lincoln's still-living brain Tilt: Guilt: Somebody panics. sparksbloom posted:In with Break a Leg. Break a Leg Relationships: Family: “Apparently they're cousins but don't mention it.” Friendship:”We're friends? News to me, but if she says so...” History: Went to school together Need: To get revenge...for the humiliation you suffer daily Location: Neighborhood: back alley, marked with a warning Object: Dubious: A severed finger Tilt: Failure: A stupid plan, executed to perfection Grizzled Patriarch posted:In with A Nice Southern Town. A Nice Southern Town Relationships: Crime: Corrupt official/local big shot Family: Parent-in-law/son or daughter-in-law Friendship: Bitter social adversaries (church friends) Need: To get even...with this town, for what it has turned you into Location: Up and about : a farmer's field up past Surrey Avenue Object: Transportation: Golf Cart Tilt: Failure: Something precious is on fire. Entenzahn posted:In with Tartan Noir Tartan Noir Relationships: Investigation: Ex-armed forces and contact Friendship: Friends with far too much sexual tension Crime: Neds with a proud set of ABSOs Need: Tae get pished...'cause it's all gone to shite Location: Residential: Comfortable three-bedroom house Object: Personal: The medal you won that time Tilt: Mayhem: Cold-blooded score-settling Chernabog posted:My powerful ambition is to not get a DM this week. Relationship: Visitors: “What are we smuggling this time?” Government: CIA case officer and double agent Romance: What happens in Havana... Need: To get even...with the secret police Location: Seaside Malecon: Beachside grilled seafood vendor, who sees everything Object: Weapon: Crate of .45 US M3 “grease gun” submachine guns Tilt: Paranoia: The thing you stole has been stolen
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May 11, 2016 08:31
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QuoProQuid posted:
HK TPK Relationships: History: Survivors of the epic shootout Romance: Obsessed crush and unknowing object Strange: Savant with skills and the one who knows how to trigger them. Need: To get the truth...about why they didn't shoot you in the head. Location: Odditites: A crowded double-decker streetcar Object: Information: The mole's mobile phone with all his contacts Tilt: Tragedy: Death, right on time Carl Killer Miller posted:In with Lucky Strike Lucky Strike Relationships: Antisocial: Violent rivals Brothers in arms: Foxhole buddies Brothers in arms: New guy and veteran Need: To get out..of a relationship that's turned weird Location: Rest and Recreation: Beneath the auditorium stage Object: Dirty: Truckload of soap, blankets, shirts, shoes, and chocolate Tilt: Paranoia: A stranger arrives to settle a score curlingiron posted:I wasn't gonna enter since I turn 30 on Friday and some weirdos from the internet are coming to visit this weekend, but I loving love Fiasco, so gently caress it, in. The Manna Hotel Relationships: Community: National Pony Express Association, “an all-volunteer, non-profit historical organization for the purpose of identifying, reestablishing, and marking the original pony express trail Family: ex-husband and ex-wife Romance: infatuation Need: To get laid...to propagate your superior bloodline Location: Inside: a flyspecked windowsill Object: Transportation: A pickup truck, dented and dirty Tilt: Mayhem: A dangerous animal (perhaps metaphorical) gets loose kurona_bright posted:I'll take 1913 New York. 1913 New York Relationships: Romance: Former lovers Friendship: Friendly sporting rivals Community: Radicals (Organizers, anarchists, Wobblies) Need: To avenge a great wrong...committed by a police officer Location: Chinese New York: A high-class brothel on Mott Street Object: Information: A treasure map Tilt: Guilt: betrayed by friends spectres of autism posted:in with return to camp death Return to Camp Death Relationships: Family: Foster siblings Camp Clearwater: Haunted survivors of the massacre 20 years ago Romance: Easy lay and desperate virgin Need: To gently caress...up someone who desperately deserves it Location: Regional community Hospital: Morgue Object: Weapons: Bouts of violent,blackout rage Tilt: Innocence: Someone is not so innocent after all. SteveHarveyOswald posted:in. hit me with a thing. Vegas: Relationships: Family: Feuding relatives Business: Casino Staff and a guest Friendship: Born loser and best friend Need: To win friends by burning through a fortune Location: Residences: Trailer Park Object: Valuables: envelope full of cut diamonds. Tilt: Mayhem, Magnificent self-destruction
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May 11, 2016 16:41
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Chairchucker posted:<A bunch of quotes that I'm interpreting as In. If not, say so and someone else can yoink this prompt I guess.> Unaussprechlichen Klutzen Relationships: Romance: Service worker and customer with inappropriate crush Mysterious: “I am writing to invite you to witness a peculiar event.” Friendship: Friends since childhood Need: To get power...over the person you love Location: The Town:The Ellingboe Museum Object: Ancient: Mathematical Etchings Tilt: Failure: A tiny mistake leads to ruin CANNIBAL GIRLS posted:Fiasco is cool as hell and I am in with Touring Rock Band. Touring Rock Band Relationships: Good friends: Best friends since yesterday Bad friends: He owes you his career Family: Faked family Need: To get out...of your loving marriage Location: The Arena: The green room, with snacks Objects: Fuckin' awesome: A mountain of cocaine Tilt: Paranoia: Two people cross paths, and everything changes Ceighk posted:in with whatever and another The Zoo Relationships: Romance: Just broke up Illicit: The would be-thief and the one with the plan Community: Animal rights activists or sympathizers Need: To get even...with those monsters who let poor Buttons die Location: At Home: Basement habitat nobody's supposed to know about Object: Still more animals: a fish worth $120,000 Tilt: Guilt: A showdown Tyrannosaurus posted:In with whatever you'd like me to write about. London, 1593 Relationships Romance: Secret lovers Espionage: Sir Waler Raleigh's men: scholars or bravos Espionage: Spymaster Sir Robert Cecil's agents: informers or intelligencers Need: To get paid...in information Location: The Underworld: The Tower Object: Official: An official pardon with the name left blank Tilt: Tragedy: Pain, followed by confusion Fuschia tude posted:In w/ Last Frontier Last Frontier Relationships: Around the Village: Representative/citizen (Case worker, parole officer, native corporation official) Crime: Fishing outlaws (quota thieves, endangered species bycatch sellers) Friendship: A sourdough and a cheechako Need: To get rich...through selling illegally-cleared timber Location: The harbor: Aboard the purse seiner MV Julie Autumn Object: Sentimental: A novel written in longhand Tilt: Mayhem:Cold-blooded score-settling
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May 11, 2016 17:25
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dmboogie posted:gently caress, I've missed this bloodstained corner of the internet. Relationships: Crime: Innocent convict and accuser Crew Members: Endlessly patient mentor and arrogant protege Religion: Agnostic and Unguite proselytizer Need: To punish them...and make sure she sees it happen Location: Intel/Sec: C9 Combat holo-training creche Object: Weapons: Stasis gun (do not fire the stasis gun) Tilt: Mayhem: An out-of-control rampage
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May 11, 2016 21:27
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ghost crow posted:In, and i'll let you pick. The Penthouse Relationships Family: Cousins Crime: “We just love setting fires. Don't we, honey?” Community: Opera soloist and conductor Need: To get laid...with someone my relatives will have Location: Employees Only: Electrical closet-huge cables feed into giant, humming breakers. There is much more power available here than seems necessary. Object: Untoward: Glass jug of Vietnamese snake wine – a cobra floats inside Tilt: Mayhem: A frantic chase
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May 12, 2016 05:14
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Marshmallow Blue posted:Hey everyone, I'm a lovely first-time writer. Transatlantic Relationships: Friends: Built on a lie Courting: Former lovers On Board: Mutual imposters, stowaways, and criminals Need: Truth..About a missing lifeboat Location: On deck and off: Overboard Object: Violent: Grand piano on casters Tilt: Paranoia: what seems like dumb luck isn't – things are afoot Thranguy fucked around with this message at 00:05 on May 14, 2016 |
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May 12, 2016 17:00
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Only 12 hours remaining to sign up this week. Also, just to make something clear, more than one person can pick the same playset. I've been avoiding duplicates when I'm picking them for you, but if you're not in yet and want a specific one someone else has already used/been given, go right ahead. Thranguy fucked around with this message at 20:13 on May 13, 2016 |
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May 13, 2016 20:05
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 Signups are closed. Write some good words, people. Or at least some memorable ones. Also, I could still use co-judges, any of you not-in people.
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May 14, 2016 08:07
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 Submissions Closed Our remaining toxx has until 9 AM to submit. I'll crit any other failures that get in by then, too. Judgment will probably be around the same time.
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May 16, 2016 08:22
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 Thunderdome CXCVII ResultsThis was a very good week, as the dome goes. Almost everyone gave me what I was wanting to read, with varying degrees of success. My main complaint this time around goes to proofreading issues, which too many stories had. One story actually lost out on an HM because of a one-word error that confused the ending just enough to break it. Almost half of you took on the risk of those late 500 'red zone' words, seven stories in total. The results were mixed, there: four of those did well while three did not. Let's start with the downside. Things did not go well for extra-word using Mr. Gentleman's The End of Some Things, CANNIBAL GIRLS's After the Show, or Fuschia tude's The Road to Riches. They might have escaped mention at a lower word count, but the rule is the rule, so they get Dishonorable Mentions. Flerp's Going Back Through the Smiles also gets a Dishonorable mention, mostly for not hitting the part of the week's prompt that I did care about and for not doing anything interesting enough to justify the nonstandard structure. Which brings us to the week's loser: Chernabog's Self heist for completely falling flat with its characters, action, dialog, and ending. Onward to happier things: Things went well enough for dmboogie's Your Lists Are Numbered, Punk and Entenzahn's Clean, well enough to earn them Honorable Mentions. I had a really tough decision at the very top. Three stories were all extremely entertaining, well-written, and made me smile. Any one of these would have been a satisfying winner for most weeks, but only one of them can actually win. So two more Honorable mentions go to Oxxidation's Breath and Bone and spectres of autism's Triage. And the winner is Tyrannosaur's Black Bile, Yellow Bile, Phlegm, and Blood. Welcome back to the Blood Throne!
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May 16, 2016 17:27
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 The Aftermath: Fiasco Week Crits Special Fiasco-based scale from 0-15 Black or White (The color differences are just flavor in this case; higher numbers are better) Marshmallow Blue's The Senator's Crossing Third sentence of the first paragraph bogs down a bit with two 'he's multiple times alternating. Changing the first 'he' to 'Charles', 'the Senator', or any other clear reference would make it clearer. Whole opening is a bit expositiony. Last line of paragraph four especially so, some serious 'as you know, Bob' dialog there. Thinking in direct quotes is probably not the best choice. So, this is not exactly good. There are a lot of proofreading issues, and the two narrative threads don't quite connect together well enough, and the dialog stays expositiony from time to time. But I don't quite hate it. There's some good, clearly-described action, characters, and, some of the time, okay dialog. White 6: Weak Chairchucker's This Cult Belongs in a Museum Interesting opening. I'm a little bit wary, since it's mostly establishing mystery between the reader and the text rather than conflict between characters. So, this is cute. I'm not a fan of the archaicisms ('for this was indeed Jarrod', especially since you aren't going whole hog with that kind of narrative voice), but the humor and dialog all work. Not too much substance. This was right at the edge of an Honorable Mention, but what kept it from making it over the line is that 'Nick' in the third-to-last paragraph that could have been a 'Jarrod', and the momentary confusion that made for. Always proof your stuff, people. Black 8: Nothing to Write Home About Mr. Gentleman's The End of Some Things Opening is a bit overwritten, but is successfully establishing a character if not yet a conflict. The prose settles down a bit, but the story is treading water up until paragraph five, which is some fairly bald exposition but may actually move things along. Ultimately, though, it's unnecessary. You could probably drop it entirely, condense the first four paragraphs into one short one, and head straight into the press conference, which does well enough establishing the situation on its own. After that first section, though, the writing gets a lot better. The overwritten/purple prose comes back a bit near the end, in the paragraph that starts 'She twirled the kebab stick”, but other than that. The ending falls apart a bit as well. I think the entire last section could go, that the second-last one would be a better place to end the story. So, I'm really wishing you had done the 1500 word version of this story. This might not have DMed without the special rule, and with the right major cuts might have made it a solid contender for positive mention, but as is Black 3: Harsh Chernabog's Self heist The opening is not good. The point of opening in media res is to actually get right to the action, so opening with a few long overwritten lines of internal monologue before getting to your opening defeats the purpose. Semicolons in narrative prose are usually bad, always avoidable, and never something you want to do more than once in every few paragraphs. They draw attention to the narrative voice (since they are essentially the narrator saying 'look, these things are related'), which you usually don't want to do. Another very harmful proofreading failure: 'steering' instead of 'stirring' completely confuses the sense of place in the second scene, for a moment the reader thinks they're driving and cooking at the same time. The ending is a bit rushed and anticlimactic. When you start out by deliberately not showing a bloodbath action sequence, you're promising that what actually do write about is going to be more interesting, and what we have here isn't much, either in terms of action or character. Zero: The Worst Thing in the Universe dmboogie's Your Lists Are Numbered, Punk Listicle Sci-Fi, a bold choice. The opening works well enough, although the third paragraph slows down a bit too much for some direct exposition. Overall, this works. The humor hits often enough and the action is solid. It's a little bit light on character, and may spend a bit too much time before getting to the central dynamic of the story between Clara and Lark, but it's a good little yarn. White 11: Not too shabby Oxxidation's Breath and Bone Very strong opening, evocative and intriguing, managing to stop just short of the purple/overwritten zone and right into the sweet spot for prose. So far, very good. I don't like the second-hand flashback. That may be the only way to convey things with the structure you've chosen, but I can't help think the story would be better if you'd at least found a way to do Lisa telling what happened as a full-on scene between her and the narrator. I think you had Lisa mysteriously appear out of nowhere twice in a row, which feels like setup for a different sort of supernatural-ish reveal about her than the one you eventually went with. Not perfect but certainly a story I'd have been fine having win if there hadn't been one even better. Black 14: Awesome Entenzahn's Clean The opening run-on does a bit of a garden path thing at the very end, with the last comma phrase sort of wanting to fit the pattern. Otherwise a fairly strong opening. It's not instantly clear that Gregor is the narrator. Overall, a good little story. I'm a bit confused about how the events work out: if Bruv and Melik already know what's up, why do they need to make the phone call/conveniently leave Gregor alone? The notebook, if not the photo, seems like fairly poor operational security on the part of the police. And it's a retrospective miracle that nobody panicked into a tell after the 'Scotland Yard' line, given what everyone knows. Black 10: Pretty good CANNIBAL GIRLS's After the Show Lyrics as an opening is a brave (foolish?) choice. There's not much there there in these, other than a set of really, really weak rhymes that I sincerely hoped I'didn't see lampshaded. Good thing it wasn't. The 'real' opening is a bit over-written in that particular bad music criticism way, which may be semi-intentional. I'm not a fan of the viewpoint shift, and the subsection title doesn't make sense since this is the closing number and not the opener. quote:The female twin could have been a model if it weren’t for the lines around her eyes and mouth belied the youthful top and shorts that she wore This sentence would be a mess even if you hadn't omitted a crucial 'that'. Okay, the problem with this one is that it's probably from the wrong point of view. Valerie doesn't have much agency in the story, she's watching it happen, and doesn't even get to see the key parts. Or maybe you have the right character and the wrong action; Valerie is interesting enough and could probably have carried a story that was more about her. Another DM-by-extra words case here White 3: Grim Ceighk's Vegetarian Dreams of Violent Revolution I like the opening line, but suspect a slightly shorter version could have even more punch. The rest of the paragraph isn't as good, with a lot of pre-telling things that are about to be shown and using too many words even for that. quote:Since pledging to forego meat entirely a year prior he had been haunted by a growing sense of detachment from the animal-consuming element of society, an element which, he sometimes had to remind himself, remained frustratingly dominant beyond his immediate social group, which subsisted primarily on kale. This is another story that I can't really dislike all that much. It delivers some of what I'm looking for, even if it is so 'tell-y' that it almost reads like the extended outline of a longer story. I think that this could benefit from a change to full-on first person, losing the slightly arch third person limited narrator who isn't quite strongly enough on Pat's side. White 7: Weak QuoProQuid's Nasty, Brutish, and Short Very interesting opening. The “I will never haunt you” is a bit confusing, seems to be reversed? So, that escalated quickly. A little too quickly. No, a lot. Not enough is done to establish Lizzie's powers, which at first seem like time-reversal, or possibly specifically ressurection. Her ability to go full-apocalypse comes out of nowhere, as does her desire to do so. Some points for effective and powerful prose, though. Black 4: Savage flerp's Going Back Through the Smiles Another interesting opening, establishing a single-character conflict. But your second section undermines the basic premise: an actual newscaster that smiled through that kind of story wouldn't keep their job long at all. So, this is competently written, but there's not much substance to it. A lot of setup with no payoff. I mean, the reverse-time structure means that that can't happen in a typical narrative sense, but that structure does allow you to it a payoff with a revelation about the past that explains everything in an unexpected but logical way, and you don't do that either. Instead we have a series of almost unrelated scenes, presented in reverse-time-order for no particular reason. And it doesn't hit the prompt (the main one, that is, not the individual one.) Not much ambition, poor impulse control going on here. White 1: Dreadful Grizzled Patriarch's The Jackalope The opening is a bit weak, but has some promise of conflict by the end. Third paragraph is a mess. This is a better effort at a single-character story this week than the previous story, but it doesn't quite work. I don't really buy someone being quite this stupid sober, mainly. (Or if the narrator is supposed to be genuinely mentally challenged, that needs to be clearer and then I can't see them being this unsupervised.) But the thought processes he's having are just smart enough that I can't see him doing things this stupid, at least not, as I said, unaltered or not directly provoked. This feels sort of like a subplot ripped out of a larger piece, or at maybe the first part of one, with the rest being about someone brighter trying to get him out of this or at least minimize things. White 3: Grim Tyrannosaur's Black Bile, Yellow Bile, Blood, and Phlegm Strong opening. Is “a great read” anachronistic? Feels like it even if it isn't. And a very, very strong story behind it. Speaking of anarchronisms, Given the first performances of the plays mentioned and Marlowe's death date, you have to have Shakespeare writing about six plays in advance for the timing to work, and I suspect in reality he was barely finishing them by opening night and not working on the next until well into the run. But I can suspend disbelief here. White 15: Fan-loving-tastic spectres of autism's Triage Another really strong opening. A lot of summary in paragraph 5, but at least it's summarizing some interesting dynamics. I almost feel like you're trolling me with those repeated narrative semicolons. None are particularly awful, but that's not a sentence structure to repeat that many times so close together. This is another really, really good story. There have been a lot of weeks where something like this could have won, but I think it falls just short of the other two really good stories this week. Black 13: Awesome Fuschia tude's The Road to Riches Opener is a bit week, sort of flat dialog. Pickups, not deliveries. This story has the opposite problem as Jackalope: the characters are being a bit too rational, keep shooting down the plot they're in. But they keep going, somehow. This story fails in a way I'm honestly surprised more of this week's stories didn't fail: not pulling off the tone shift between comedic and serious. The serious side works much better than the comic/buildup part. Another one where using the extra words did harm, this would have been solidly in the upper-middle at worst if that section were cut down and you got to the better parts sooner. White 4: Bitter kurona_bright's Letters Should probably be 'behind myself' or just 'behind' in the opener, which is nothing special. The long list of hiding places sort of drags. Supernatural element introduced pretty late in the story. There are some good parts here, but they don't really hang together very well. There's too much that isn't revealed by the end of the story. (Not 'exactly what kind of undead are these two', that can go unsaid, but things like why Tom is important to her (the text strongly implies he's not her husband/the kids aren't hers), what he's accused of, how these letters will help clear him, why he's being framed. All seeds for a juicy noirish story, but instead of cultivating them we spend time on Ray's situation and dancing around the supernatural. (Also, why does the undead want education spending, anyhow?) Black 4: Savage
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May 16, 2016 23:08
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In One's an illegal street doctor troubled by the compromises they make to keep their practice going. The other's a disgraced luchador wearing the tattered remnants of his final mask.
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May 17, 2016 05:25
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I'm voting sebmojo, because Muffin's reminds me too much of Vonnegut, who I, in my poor taste, don't like much.
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May 22, 2016 06:14
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Comrade Rusty and the God 1464 words (999+301+200) One's a diminutive, Russian spy with no country the other's a two faced god from a forgotten Amazonian tribe. I'm riding a swing, and feeling the pure joy of that long moment between the upswing and the down, suspended hummingbird-free in air and actually feeling nine years old and not twelve times that and stuck in this strange and tiny body. Then my situational awareness kicks in and spoils everything. Something has gone badly wrong. The couple on the bench to the left bickering over relatives are FBI. The two joggers, orbiting in opposite directions and nodding as they pass are SVN. The bald man walking five purse-sized dogs is Mossad. Anyone else? There are pole-mounted mirrors in front of me and to either side. A quick glance at their distorted images shows two more suspects. Chinese intelligence, maybe? Or one of the American groups that doesn't let Hollywood or Congress know what their initials stand for, more likely. And, to my left, from what would be a blind spot for a less trained observer, I see a hairy-faced man wearing a hood and coal-dark glasses. No, not a man. A god. An ancient god I've had dealings with, a lifetime ago, who calls himself Sinner. I've only got one asset: surprise. They're looking for Ruslan Stregovitch, born 1912, not Chip Sawyer, age nine. They probably think I'm my grandson or great-grandson and that following me will lead them to their target. Sinner grabs me right at the bottom of the swing, holding my arm to arrest my momentum. “Yo, Rusty,” he says, loud enough that the spies all hear even without their parabolic microphones, “Hate to call in the whole fountain of youth card so soon, but I really need your help.” The Mossad man is sprinting at us, his dogs scattering across the park, leashes trailing behind. The other agencies restrict knowledge that such things are possible higher up the chain of command, or do not know it at all. “We've got to get away, and fast,” I say. “How did you get here?” Sinner starts running, practically dragging me along. He's half jaguar, and that translates to Olympic-caliber fast. “I got a sweet ride,” he says. There's an unmarked white van ahead of us. The passenger door opens up and he tosses me in before running around to the driver's side. “So, you're really good at finding things, right?” asks Sinner as the van jerks into motion. I chuckle. King David's tuning fork, the last firebird egg, the map of the inhabited worlds of the Milky Way, all safe in Vault Three miles below Moscow, all thanks to me. “You could say that,” I say. “And you do owe me big.” “Feh,” I say. “You gave me too much. I expected to be back in the prime of my life, not so young I have to wait around another four years for my balls to drop.” “You said 'young man.' Back in my day that was anyone big enough to hold a pointed stick and not pierce his own foot.” Sinner swerves across the right lane and into the shoulder, then back across traffic again to pass a slow-moving car. “Anyhow, after you left I realized my stick was missing.” “Your stick,” I say, checking the mirrors for followers. “Yeah, my stick. Wasn't where it was supposed to be, and I couldn't find it anywhere.” The digital billboard ahead caught my eye. “Is that my picture?” “Is it?” asks Sinner. “Let me see.” He pulls down his hood, revealing his eyes, set in the back of his head. He's got a tattoo of a nose and mouth there, just for show. My suggestion. Looks way less uncanny with the whole face. He cranes his head around until his eyes face the billboard. “Sure looks like you. How'd that happen?” “The FBI have never been believers in anything stranger than flying saucers, but they see a strange man drag a kid into a creeper van and they- wait, how have you been driving?” It's easy to forget about Sinner's eyes, especially with those dark glasses on. “Hey, god of information right here.” “Who can't find his own piece of wood.” “I got some blind spots, sure,” he says. “But I'm good enough to know where the nearby cars are and where they're going.” The van swings across lanes again to a chorus of honking horns. “Well, in a few minutes we're going to have the police after us.” Or less than that: sirens from behind, and a highway patrol motorcycle appears behind us. “Where are you trying to go, exactly?” “Home,” says Sinner. “Brazil?” I say. “Thousands of miles away?” “It's okay,” he says. “I know a short-cut.” He steers the van left, all the way to the median, then across both lanes of traffic and over the barrier at full speed. The bottom scrapes and probably leaves key parts behind, but it makes it over and we start careening down the hillside. We narrowly miss trees and jutting rocks, then pass under a fallen branch and onto a dimly-lit featureless tundra. The engine dies and the van slides silently across the ice. “Listen, Rusty,” says Sinner, “I'm sorry about messing up your new life up in the States.” I sigh. “It was already ruined. I must have left some hair, some skin, some DNA somewhere, and they found it.” “Still, you probably could have talked your way out of it,” says Sinner. “Framed some local old guy or something.” “Nichevo,” I say. “It was about to become a hell at any rate. Being surrounded by idiot children, the teachers no better than the students. Dealing with bullies when you can kill any four of them at once with your bare hands. And worst of all, having people a tenth of your age develop... crushes.” “That one's tricky. Going by the old half plus seven means it'll be a long time before anything you do isn't weird from at least one direction. You could always go home, look for work from your old spymasters.” “I have no home. My home was the glorious revolutionary Union of Socialist Soviets, and it is dead.” “Was it? Glorious, that is?” says Sinner. “For a time. We all truly had something to believe in. It turned out to be pure bullshit, true, but we believed, and with that belief, we made glory. Beat the Reich. Put men in space.” “And dogs and monkeys.” “Them too,” I say. “But even if I did come back to the gangsters there now, all they would care about is my youth and its secret.” “Twenty-four years,” says Sinner. I stare at him. “In twenty-four years you'll be able to date a seventy-seven year old woman.” “I think the rule breaks down at extremes,” I say. “You're as old as creation, so what's half that plus seven?” “Fair enough.” The van slides into a dark cave mouth, and emerges in the Amazon jungle. It comes to a stop and won't start again, so we get out and walk. “Couldn't you just get another stick?” I say. “I mean, here we are in the jungle, surrounded by trees.” “Yeah, maybe,” says Sinner. “But it wouldn't be my stick, you know. Not the same feel. And besides, using one of these would give 'em splinters.” I stare at him. Then I realize that I'm looking into blank skin behind sunglasses, so I walk around and stare into his eyes. “So, when you've been saying 'stick', what you actually mean is your cock?” “Well, yeah,” “And it comes off.” “Doesn't everybody's?” “And goes back on?” “Doesn't-” Sinner stops, tilts his head sideways a bit. “I may now understand why those high priests always looked so angry.” “Okay,” I say. “Do you remember where you had it last?” “Let me think,” says Sinner, scratching his beard. “There was Athena. We had a bit of a cross-pantheon thing from way back, and she drunk-dialed me after her latest break-up. Or was that before or after the thing with the First Lady.” I hope to not find out which one any time soon. “Sometime around then I let one of those British poets borrow it for a while, but I think he gave it back. Let's start with Greece. I know a shortcut there. One that doesn't require passing through Hades.” My situational awareness kicks in again and I notice the six Cartel enforcers setting up for an ambush. Outnumbered, unarmed, surrounded, but side by side with a comrade who happens to be an ancient god but who's probably useless in a fight. No better way to start a new adventure.
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May 23, 2016 06:09
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In
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May 24, 2016 00:40
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In this meagbrawl My sharp wit will mow y'all down Like so much spring grass.
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May 24, 2016 06:17
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The Rest Is Violence 981 Words Casey turns the corner, sees someone running towards him, reaching into his pocket. He shoots the kid three times in the chest. It's his first week on the job. He checks the body. No gun. Phone. Picture of a young black girl in glasses frozen on cracked screen, 'have you seen my sister' in blocky text beneath. Casey panics. Partner Hank calms him down. “No witnesses, no cameras, so no problem,” Hank says. “We can make this right.” Hank hands Casey a .22. Casey does what he's told, puts it in the kids hand and fires twice into the alley walls. Gets his words just right for the review. “I was in fear for my life.” “From a .22?” razz the other cops. Casey sees the prank, learns the lesson. Anything smaller than a .38 makes a shameful story. He collects his own drop pieces, taking guns off perps who can't complain. He follows up on the girl, finds out she went missing a week back. He gets nowhere. His bosses tell him to stop wasting his time. He gets busy. Work cases. Hank shows him what's what. Casey learns whose money to take and who to bust for bribery. He learns how to hold the line when protests turn to riots. He faces down broken bottles and Molotovs behind his riot shield, gets a medal pinned to his chest. He does favors: a license plate look-up here, a lost or found piece of evidence there. The favors are returned. Money, always money and help hiding it when bad habits don't eat it all. Hank introduces Casey to The Spot, a club with classy whores to every taste and big discounts for members of the force. Everybody has a type. Hank's is freckled ginger girl-next-doors. Casey learns that his is long-haired Asians with big doll eyes and broken English. The favors get bigger. Hank tells him about Liv Franklin, a rookie one year behind Casey. “She won't play ball,” says Hank. “She going to IAB?” asks Casey. “Rat squad?” scoffs Hank. “No, they're all on board. She's going Federal. Time to prove yourself. This is direct from the Judge. He wants it fast, and he wants it messy.” Casey balks, stalls, makes excuses. Then pictures show up in his inbox. The alleyway shoot, Casey squeezing the .22's trigger with the dead kid's fingers. No words, no demands. He gets the message. He gets it done. He makes it messy. He hates how much he enjoys it. Casey moves up the ranks. Hank introduces him to the Tanners. Judge Zeke Tanner sets the tone at court. Lila Tanner sits on dozens of boards and committees, pulling the strings. “They're brother and sister, not married,” warns Hank. “It's an easy mistake you don't want to make.” The Tanners mix old and new money, all dirty. Their family compound is just outside city limits. Official police details protect out front and the garage. It's good overtime work. Casey's done it before. There's another driveway in back. Guarding that's special duty, top dollar duty, duty demanding discretion. Hank gets Casey on the late night shift. Good pay for standing around. It's quiet enough back that Casey can hear. Sex noises, male and female, and a third person screaming. The Tanners' voices are unmistakeable. It's almost funny, then it isn't, than it is again. The first few nights Casey banters with Hank to drown out the noise. Then they run out of things to say. One night the screaming stops abruptly. Hank gets a call, tells Casey that a delivery is coming. The van arrives a half hour later. It barely stops as someone is shoved out the door. She's familiar to Casey. The pieces float together in his mind. Not the exact same girl, of course. But everybody has a type. The Tanners' is bookish black twelve year olds. Casey forces a grin. “It was a test, back when I started. Not just some random kid, someone they needed to make go away.” “Look at the detective here,” says Hank. “Of course we had to know what kind of po-” Casey shoots from the hip to the gut. Hank's .44 is in his uselessly twitching hand. Casey fires twice more. Headshots. The girl stands shock-still. Casey empties his wallet, hands her a fistful of twenties. “Run,” he says. “Run until you reach the state line, and then run some more.” She runs. The back door opens and out walks the Judge, phone held to ear. “-fully this one will last longer,” he says. “What the hell-” Casey shoots him in the eye. Judge and phone fall to ground. The phone's screen cracks, distorting the picture of Lila Tanner, one eye absurdly larger than the other. Scrambled noises from inside, then cars start up on the other side of the house. The engine sounds come from the phone as well. Casey watches the door, watches the road and sides of the house. He sees nobody. “Pick up the phone, dead man,” comes Lila's voice from the grotesque on the phone. She stretches the last word like taffy. Casey picks up the phone, clears his throat. “You're dead,” says Lila. “And your family, and anyone else-” “My ma's been dead years. You kill my pa and you'll be doing me a favor.” “Then think of yourself. The things that I'll do. If I were in your shoes I'd shoot myself right now.” “Figure there's nothing you can do to me I don't deserve,” says Casey. “Course, I also figure the same goes for what I can do to anyone you send after me.” Casey drops the phone on the grass and reloads his weapon as he walks away. The gargoyle-face spews threats and obscenities. He counts his bullets. Enough? Dumb question. There aren't enough bullets in the world.
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May 29, 2016 20:46
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In.
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May 31, 2016 00:52
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I'll take a mojorule because why not.
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May 31, 2016 02:27
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Sitting Here posted:
Nouns? I love nouns! I'll take one.
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Jun 2, 2016 00:59
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Mashed Potatoes and Stuff Like That Monday: Man agonizes over his mosquitoes; the worst jellybean; +25 words for not shitposting 1007 Words “Wha?”said the prisoner, spitting out a tooth. Doc Odin punched him in the face again, knocking more teeth loose. “I said you should have told me where Zero's hideout is while you could still chew your own food,” said Doc Odin, grabbing the prisoner's right hand. “Too late now, just mushy stuff for you. But if you want to be able to lift your own fork, now is the time to talk.” The prisoner panicked, spitting out words and blood. “England,” he said. “Shropshire. Wroxter. An aboned bubcub.” The last words gurgled almost incoherently. “An abandoned bunker, you say?” said Doc Odin. “Only a few of those there.” He pulled out his tablet and brought up a map. “This one?” The prisoner nodded. “An ambulance will be around for you in a while,” lied Doc Odin. “Don't go anywhere.” Between the handcuffs and broken legs, it didn't seem likely. *** Doc Odin was greeted at the bunker door by a woman, one with the particular transcendent beauty of the multiracial that he always found irresistible. “Karl Horner?” she said. His forged credentials and disguise were flawless. “I'm Aya? Professor Zero's assistant? I'm supposed to show you to the conference room?” “Danke,” said Doc Odin. The room she led him to was filled with a rogues gallery of modern criminality: gang leaders, international terrorists, even two dictators with their bodyguards. Doc Odin suppressed the urge to take them all on. He was unarmed, but his hands and feet were lethal weapons. Zero had already begun his presentation, indicating a picture of a bright yellow object that looked just like a jellybean. “Behold,” said Zero, “The ultimate bio-weapon.” He stood in front of a black wall, making his pure white hair and red eyes stand out even more than usual. “Within this capsule are the worst diseases known to man: resistant strains of Ebola, Malaria, and Anthrax, to start, virulent plagues with a strategic value of a million deaths in whatever city they're unleashed in. But that's just the beginning. The screen moved on to a series of bizarre images. “Those diseases will keep the authorities occupied while the real attack goes unnoticed until it is too late: a more subtle disease that does no more direct damage than the common cold, but after it has incubated makes changes to every exposed human being's appetites, scrambling sexual desires with food and bloodlust.” Pictures of rotten cantaloupes, blood-soaked ears of corn, and men and women drowning in vats of butter appeared on screen. “Many will starve. Few of those who do not will manage to reproduce again. The population will be reduced to a more more manageable number.” “And we're gonna be the ones to manage it,” said one of the dictators. He gestured to his bodyguard, who handed him a glass of strawberry milk. “We'll get to that. For the perfect bio-weapon I first needed the perfect vector,” said Zero. The screen turned live video of a glass cage in his labs. The shiny yellow shell of the jellybean was on its floor, emptied, and within it flew five buzzing insects. “Not just the humble mosquito. The super-mosquito, genetically engineered for endurance, able to induce local populations to help it spread all of these diseases, and each programmed to fly directly to a different major population center.” “And after we'll divvy up the planet?” said the dictator. “Right,” said Zero. “About that.” He pressed a button and Odin felt electricity course through his body. He was shocked and stunned by it, but everyone else got a much bigger dose. They convulsed and died at the conference table. “I really don't like to share. And as for you, my alleged nemesis, did you really think your feeble disguise would fool me? Me?” Zero walked over to Doc Odin. Doc Odin spat in his face. “If you're going to kill me-” “Not before you've witnessed my ultimate triumph,” said Zero. Another surge of electricity hit Doc Odin, knocking him unconscious. *** The cell was small but effective. Doc Odin had been undressed down to his underwear and propped up in the corner. He awoke to footsteps. It was Aya. “So, I'm not really down with the whole genocide thing, okay? So I thought I would, you know, let you out? So you could stop it?” Aya activated the button and unlocked the cell door. “I knew you'd come around,” said Doc Odin. “Say, wanna bone?” “What? No, we don't have time for that.” “They way I do it,” said Doc Odin, “There's always enough time.” Aya rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Maybe later?” she added, not really knowing why. “Let's save the world first?” “If you insist,” said Doc Odin. He reached into his underpants. “I said later, okay?” “I'm not-” said Doc Odin. He produced a pair of tiny earbuds. “We'll need to keep in touch. I'll need you to go to the lab while I take care of Zero.” “I hope those things?” said Aya, “are waterproof? Because there's no way I'm putting this in my ear ? Without seriously hosing it down first?” *** Doc Odin's hands were caked in the blood of henchmen as he wrapped them around Professor Zero's throat. The pale archvillain's face twisted into a smile as he used his last energy to slam his fist into a giant red button. Alarms began to sound as an unsteady electronic voice announced a countdown. “Fifteen-teen minutes to self-de- self-destruct.” “Doc,” Aya's voice came over the earbud. “Doc, doc!” “Did you reach the mosquito cage?” said Doc Odin. “Yes, but there's-” “And there you were able to replace the oxygen tanks with carbon dioxide?” “Sure? But there's a problem? There's only-” “Aya,” said Doc Odin, “I can barely hear you over these alarms. You'll have to speak up.” Doc heard Aya and his triumph turned instantly into agony. “THERE. ARE. FOUR. MOSQUITOES.”
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Jun 6, 2016 07:56
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