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Faith 958 words I just saw my first dead body. The morgue had called me during class; I ignored it at first. I called them back a few hours later, while I had a break between classes. They asked me if I would come down and ID a body they believed to be my father’s, then they gave me an address in La Habra, California. I said there must be some mistake, my dad is in Boise, Idaho this week. That may be true, they said, but that’s where the body is, and you’re the nearest listed family member, and would you come check the body for us anyway? There was no mistake. It’s my dad’s body. My dad has this unmistakable beard. It’s full and thick, like an untouched forest. I’ve never seen anybody else with a beard like it. I’ve started growing my own beard recently, but it’s no match for my dad’s. His name is Karl Pudlowski, but everyone calls him Moses, because he looks like he walked out of the pages of Exodus. He often jokes that it’s his best feature, that it gives him his strength, like Moses’ beard. I don’t think he’s actually read much of the Bible—clearly—but he always was a true believer. He is also most certainly dead. My father’s other defining characteristic, aside from his beard, is his presence. He alters timelines when he walks into rooms. There was the Before Moses time, and the new After Moses time. And everybody in the room would know the precise moment he entered. The air changed. I knew the moment I walked into this room. The giant walk-in freezer has its own special air, frigid and motionless and harshly lit, but I could sense over the top of all that my father’s presence. It’s different, though, like the vestiges of an extinguished campfire. I haven't seen my father in over 5 years. He and my mom split when I was in high school, and I stayed with mom in San Diego until I graduated. He moved up to Seattle with his band, The Revival. He always talked about how they were going to bring back rock music. Said there wasn’t much of a scene in San Diego, all the action was up in Washington. I’d never seen him play—he always said I was too young—but I figured I’d catch him when they came through town, since I was at school in LA now. He’d send me letters, telling me how they were doing. I tried to look them up, but I couldn’t find them, and I told him that, but he told me the rock scene was all underground now, and you could only get the real news from the right people. He’d send me Polaroids of him on stage, with his prized Fender Stratocaster and his glorious beard filling the frame. He must have been killing it up there. Until now, I had never thought about my dad’s death. Hell, I’d thought he was basically invincible. This one time when I was six or seven, there was a rainstorm outside, and I was sitting there watching TV with my mom when he comes into the room. “I’m going to the grocery store,” he said. “Please don’t, Carl.” I don’t know why she said that. She cried for a bit while he was gone. When he came back, blood was running all down his face and through his beard, and he had cuts all over his arms. “You will never believe what just happened,” he said, and proceeded to tell us about how the car got struck by lightning, causing him to lose control of the car, and the car had wrapped itself around a tree. Glass had shattered everywhere, and he was all cut up, but totally fine, otherwise, so he’d walked home. My mom cried some more, though I’m pretty sure they were happy tears this time. He’d also managed to save some of the groceries—only the beer, though, and he’d lost one of the cans in the crash, he said. I’m still not sure why he and my mom separated. My father had always been good with people. My dad liked to throw parties at our house, invite the band and all his friends. Every once in a while, my mom would start yelling at some woman or another. She could be like that, sometimes. My dad would always come in and break it up before anything bad happened. He knew how to handle my mom when she got like that. He’d always make sure to check on the other woman afterward, too, make sure she was okay. The last I’d heard from him was about a month ago. He’d sent another letter, said they were going on tour for a bit. Seattle to Spokane, through Portland, through Boise, down to Nevada, then through Northern California and back up to Seattle. He said he was sorry, there weren’t any gigs in LA right now. I said it was fine, I’d catch them on the next tour. The police told me they’d found him in an apartment in La Habra. Said the neighbors called it in. I guess my dad’s presence really was unmistakable, even after death. They said he’d been living there for 4 years, though. I don’t know what to do with that. An orderly had me sign a clipboard, then she handed me a bag containing his possessions. There wasn’t much. His wallet, a set of keys, a cell phone. A small bag with a handful of little white pills. The cell phone lit up with a text message: “YOUR LATE FOR YOUR SHIFT AGAIN CARL” I don’t know what to do with that.
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Feb 27, 2017 09:00
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Feb 28, 2017 07:27
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I'd like to thank my mom, I wouldn't be here without yo--- Oh, a prompt? Fine. I'll have one up tonight when I get home from work.
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Feb 28, 2017 23:36
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Thunderdome CCXXXIX: Stop trying to crit me and crit me! Every story needs a conflict. This week, those conflicts will be physical. You have 1000 words to write me a story about a fight. The setting is wide open. A duel at high noon. A martial arts tournament championship round. Brothers duking it out in the backyard. A dogfight between giant anime mechs, for all I care. Scale is important, though. We're not talking wars, we're talking fights. Multiple combatants can work, but you're entering the danger zone there, so be careful. Be mindful: it still needs to be a story. It still needs to have beginnings and endings, plot, all that stuff. Most of all, it needs to have characters worth caring about. If I don't care who wins the fight, you certainly will not win this fight. Clarity is extremely important! Check your blocking! I don't need your shakycam bullshit in here. TKOs will be awarded against anyone who dares try to write a metaphorical fight. I want punching, dammit. NO HOLDS BARRED (Except FANFIC and EROTICA. You know the rules, fighters.) PRIZE FIGHTS From now until SIGN-UPS close, anyone who toxxes into a brawl or judges a brawl gets an extra 250 words. PUNCHING ABOVE YOUR WEIGHT CLASS Flash rules get you 150 bonus words. Ask at your own risk. Fight Referee Chili or myself will provide these. FLASH RULES ROUND 2 You can get another 150 words if you take one of my handpicked classic fights as inspiration. Do with the fight as you will, but it should be clear how the fight inspired yours. FIGHT TO THE DEATH  , get 100 words.SIGN-UPS CLOSE: Midnight PST on Friday SUBMISSIONS CLOSE: Midnight PST on Sunday JUDGES BeefSupreme Chili Sebmojo CONTESTANTS flerp (+100)Jay W. Friks (+100)Chairchucker (+150) Metrofreak (+150) Julias (+250)llamaguccii Uranium Phoenix (+250)Fuschia tude (+250)Erogenous Beef (+250)Okua (+150) Gau GenJoe (+150) Deltasquid (+150) Thranguy (+300) Flesnolk (+150) Killer-of-Lawyers (+100)The Cut of Your Jib Kurona_bright Kaishai Bad Seafood Sitting Here (+250) BeefSupreme fucked around with this message at 07:18 on Mar 4, 2017 |
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Mar 1, 2017 04:21
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Chairchucker posted:In please give me a classic fight https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-mm4mLsCAyI
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Mar 1, 2017 04:56
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Metrofreak posted:Hey, I did better than middling low. Now to get cocky and gently caress it all up. In. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2XOg4ktTDAg
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Mar 1, 2017 07:44
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Okua posted:IN with a flash rule Old friends Fuschia tude posted:in and flash me a give, please “If ignorant both of your enemy and yourself, you are certain to be in peril.” -- Sun Tzu
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Mar 1, 2017 09:20
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Thranguy posted:In and I'll take both a flash rule and a classic fight. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ds_-Gbs88eI Your story must include a volleyball net. Erogenous Beef posted:
I am accepting your flash rule but I am adding an addendum: Pectorals wriggling with fury 
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Mar 2, 2017 06:27
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Flesnolk posted:In. I'll take either a flash rule or a classic fight. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NdWKnA-GztI and you should toxx up
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Mar 2, 2017 09:24
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Chili posted:
Let's not kid ourselves, you're all fighting for my throne. And the Beef is Supreme. BEEF MUFFINS AND CHILI, ITS WHATS FOR DINNER (AND BRAWLING) In space, no one can hear you cry softly into your Cocoa Puffs 1374 words “My wife loves these little bird figurines,” Chuck said through a mouthful of peanuts. His jaw pumped up and down, pulverizing peanuts, and little pieces of peanut shrapnel flew out of his open lips. “Buys them all the time. Buys em online, looks for them when she shops, asks for them for her birthday. Doesn’t matter what kind of bird—bluejay, raven, cardinal, pidgeon—she’s covered our shelves with them.” Chuck grabbed another handful of peanuts from the jar in front of him and stuffed it in his mouth, filling his cheeks like a squirrel. “Only problem is, those little buggers are expensive. Normally I wouldn’t mind, wouldn’t say anything—you know how women can be, right? But she buys so drat many of them. “Are you even listening to me, Kevin?” Chuck waved at the robot currently sweeping in the corner. The robot, a standard cleaning robot, did not react to Chuck’s wave, nor to any of his words. Chuck plucked a few peanuts from the jar and threw them at the robot. The peanuts skittered along the floor and landed a few feet from the robot, who immediately turned, chased them down, and swept them into the opening on the front of its body. “You are a focused individual, Kevin, that’s for sure,” Chuck mumbled as he chomped on the last few pieces of peanut in his mouth. He reached for more, but the jar was empty. ======== Chuck sat in front of his nav console, checking the trajectory for his latest trip to Merton Station, a couple of warp jumps out past the Alpha Centauri system. He was carrying equipment—mining gear, construction rigs, all manner of robots—to the station, one of the great quarries for rare elements in the GalStar Intergalactic Commerce Network. Space trucking was a good living, if you could handle the long journeys, the lack of human contact, and the emptiness of space. A sudden bump rattled the chair underneath Chuck, startling him. He panicked, terrified something had just struck the ship mid-flight. Deflector shields were good at their job, so for anything to rattle the chair like that meant it was big. He hurriedly switched over to the diagnostics screen, looking for damage, but found nothing. In fact, the screen showed no contact of any kind, not even to the shields. *BEEP BLOOP BOP* Chuck snapped around, and there was the cleaning robot, sweeping the cockpit. Chuck slumped into his chair and sighed loudly in relief. He took a big bite of beef jerky. “Dammit, Kevin, I told you not to sneak up on me.” He turned back to the console, and resumed checking the nav charts for the current route. Space trucking was all about risk management, and currently, there was a geomagnetic storm causing havoc up ahead. He was presented with two options: wait out the storm, or take a little-used detour around it. It would save him over a week, but it was risky in it’s own right—the celestial movement along that path was relatively unpredictable, thanks to some weird gravitational effects, and it was a high traffic zone for asteroid fields. *BRRRRIP* A message popped up on his nav screen. It was from his wife. Charlie, “Dammit,” he said through strings of teriyaki beef. “She knows I hate being called that.” I wish you’d come home sooner. I know it’s good money, but your trips are so long. Things are going well down here. I’ve been going to that spin class I told you about, it’s good. The teacher is nice. He’s this young guy who just graduated college, he’s really into fitness. Chuck looked at the message in horror, then at his reflection in the window. His hairline was disappearing faster than the stars outside, and his torso pushed against the sides of the pilot’s chair. He looked back at the message, his eyes wide and dilated. I’ve been meaning to tell you, but I wasn’t sure how to say this. I’m going to stay with my mother. You’re gone so long on your trips, I just get so lonely. I’ll probably be there when you get back, so come find me. Love, Janelle P.S. Thanks for sending that check. It came a week later than I was expecting, and I missed a couple of megasales on some figurines I was wanting, so I had to buy them at full price. I put some pictures below! Chuck did not scroll down to see the pictures. Instead, he shoved several more pieces of jerky into his maw, and began chewing vigorously. “Detour it is.” ======== The alarm blared in his ear, and Chuck awoke violently. He looked around rapidly, looking for danger. After a few seconds, the alarm died out, and the dulcet tones of Alan Jackson came streaming from his clock radio. So, thank God for the radio When I'm on the road When I'm far from home And feelin' blue Thank God for the radio Playin' all night long Playin' all the---- Chuck’s hand slammed down on the alarm. He rubbed his eyes and sat up in his bed. The air cycler whirred to life above his head, and the persistent rattling in the ducts that had been bothering him for weeks came with it. He slipped his feet into his slippers, pulled his robe on, and walked down the hall to kitchen. He grabbed a bowl, poured cereal and milk into it, and carried it to the cockpit so he could check their progress. The light on the top of the nav console blinked a bright red at a steady pace. That meant something unexpected had happened, though nothing worth an alarm. Maybe an unidentified object, passing traffic, or a weather alert. Outside his window, he saw nothing but stars. He pulled up the message on his screen. ***UNEXPECTED ORBITAL TRAJECTORY*** Chuck took a bite of Cocoa Puffs. “Orbital trajectory…?” Chuck looked up out of the window again, and still, nothing but stars. He sat down and took a few more bites. With one hand he opened the nav chart, and immediately saw the problem. A super-dense planet had strayed from it’s orbit, and in so doing had pulled Chuck and his truck from their path and into a low orbit. Still, he couldn’t see the planet outside his window, so he pulled up the video screen, and flipped through cameras. And there it was. A swirl of brown and tan filled the frame of the camera facing out the bottom of the ship. “Uh oh.” Luckily, the ship had been able to stabilise itself and maintain orbit, rather than being pulled down into the strong gravitational field of the planet. Chuck knew how to fix this: a boost of speed and an adjustment to his trajectory and he could pull up out of orbit and away from the planet. He set the cereal on the floor next to him, opened the control console, and entered several engine commands. He checked his numbers against the data from the nav screen, then hit execute. A jolt of power from the engines surged through the ship, and he could feel the deck straining underneath him. He watched the nav screen closely. The engines continued to fire. Nothing. The ship’s path did not deviate one degree from its orbit. He tried a second sequence, with a few alterations. Nothing. A third, still nothing. Chuck sat there silently. The stars outside the window continued to slide by, a cruel mockery of forward progress. After a few minutes, Chuck opened a message window, and fired off a request to GalStar Towing. He picked up his cereal and stared at the screen. GalStar was notorious for their slow responses. It would be at least a few days, maybe more. The cleaning robot rolled into the room and headed straight for a small puddle of milk that had splashed while Chuck was trying to pull them from orbit. Chuck reached down and patted its head, then shoveled a few spoonfuls of milk and imitation chocolate into his mouth. “Looks like it’s just you and me for a while, Kevin.” The robot swept a few dusty spots, then rolled back down the hall.
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Mar 3, 2017 08:51
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Sitting Here posted:well i guess i gotta be in +250 words granted given completion of brawl judging.
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Mar 4, 2017 07:19
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Sign-ups are closed. Get to the punching.
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Mar 4, 2017 09:06
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*DING DING DING* Submissions closed! Now we go to the cards.
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Mar 6, 2017 09:44
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 JUDGMENTLadies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention, please. The scores are in. It was a strong field this week, with many deserving entrants. Every fight has a loser. We had a clear one, in Jay W. Frik's Single Bedroom. Two Residents. While there is an interesting concept underneath this one, the execution set the referee counting the knockout before it had even thrown a punch. A couple of fights threw a couple of punches, but quickly found themselves against the ropes, and then the canvas shortly thereafter. We have two dishonorable mentions. While Julias' Black and Blues showed us the true potential of drumsticks, it could not get the judges to care about it. Killer-of-Lawyers' Many Beasts, on the other, hand simply had too many different threads to be a cohesive story. There were, thank goodness, many more fights worth writing home about. Three fighters earned honorable mentions. Uranium Phoenix's Sacred delivered a heartwarming tale about parental love, both in man and beast. Okua's Asimov's Laws and the Apocalypse gave us a post-apocalyptic robot dust-up between old robot friends. And Erogenous Beef's Duke Guncock and the Golden Funnel came oh so close to a win. Teddy Brosevelt would be satified, I believe, even in it's close defeat. There can be only one winner, though, folks. For it's gritty noir tone, and tight action, your winner, by unanimous decision, the NEW CHAMPION OF THE BLOOD THRONE... The Cut of Your Jib, for Riley's Last Ride! BeefSupreme fucked around with this message at 12:58 on Mar 6, 2017 |
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Mar 6, 2017 11:39
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sebmojo posted:IT'S IS ONLY EVER SHORT FOR IT IS, MOTHERFUCKER I SAID I'D JUDGE NOT WRITE GOOD Pick the time and the place. I'm there.
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Mar 6, 2017 11:46
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I know a lot about things that are supreme like courts and stuff
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Mar 6, 2017 12:22
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A Court of Wizards! 1400 words “Does the boy know who I am?” “Not yet. He has my features. He’s never seen us together. He wouldn’t suspect.” “Good. Keep it that way. And make sure he never does anything like this again.” *** “All rise for the honorable Supreme Magister Arcanus Lord Leomund!” shouted the herald from the center of the floating marble platform. Around the platform was a crowd of wizards, each seated on a floating chair of their own devising, some upholstered in resplendent blue and silver, others fashioned in plain pine wood. They rose in unison, eyes fixed on the ornate wooden seat at one of the platform. In one moment, the seat was empty; in the next, the seat held a tall, brown-bearded figure, bedecked in shimmering purple. He doffed his peaked wizarding cap, and the gathered wizards took their seats. “Thank you all for being here on short notice,” Lord Leomund said in his soft, powerful voice. It carried to every seat in the room, as if each was just across a table from Leomund. “We are here to review the case of Junior Emotiomancer Cathal. We will review his crimes shortly. Herald, would you call the principles?” *** “Listen, stay calm in there.” Branwen put a hand on Cathal’s shoulder and looked him in the eyes. The two of them stood inside a circular room. Around the entire circumference of the room floated books of all sizes. There was no door. “Don’t be intimidated. There will be a lot of powerful wizards, but only one matters: Lord Leomund. He’s known to be a fair judge. We have the facts on our side. Don’t worry.” A shiver began at the base of Cathal’s spine, but he stifled it. He was an Emotiomancer (albeit an apprentice); controlling his emotions was part and parcel of his profession. He nodded to Branwen, his barrister. “Can we go over it one more time?” “Sure.” Branwen removed his hand from Cathal’s shoulder and pulled a piece of parchment from the air. “The charges are—“ A series of knocks resounded through the room. “No time. That’s our signal.” Branwen grabbed Cathal’s hand, and the two of them vanished from the room. *** Across from Lord Leomund’s polished wooden chair, a granite slab hung in the air above the platform. Two wooden chairs sat behind it. A moment after the herald’s call, Branwen and Cathal appeared in the seats. To the right, another, smaller slab hung, with one chair. In it appeared Mondain, the barrister for the prosecution. He was robed in black and wore a tight-lipped grin on his face. Branwen turned to Cathal. “Remember, calm.” Lord Leomund’s voice once again filled the chamber, at little more than a whisper. “The charges against Junior Emotiomancer Cathal: magical malpractice, specifically the misuse of emotiomancy both in conspiracy to incite violence in other students and to create the conflagration that destroyed a lecture hall and a store room for magical ingredients. The penalty is expulsion and magical sterilization.” The air turned electric as wizards muttered excitedly and sparks jumped from their finger tips. Misuse of emotiomancy, particularly in service of violence and destruction, was a serious crime, and conviction meant that you were stripped of your power and removed from all forms of wizarding school, permanently. It was not a crime that occurred often, given the protections put in place. Three booming thunderclaps shook the room. Lord Leomund’s hands were raised. “Order. Order.” The wizards stopped their conversations and turned back to the platform. “Junior Emotiomancer Cathal, what do you have to say for yourself?” Cathal stood, his face perfectly calm. He clasped his hands together in front of him. His voice came clear and confident. “I am not guilty, Supreme Magister Arcanus.” “That remains to be seen, young man. Barrister Mondain, will you present the case for the prosecution?” “Certainly, Lord Leomund.” Mondain rose, his grin still fixed on his face. “On the 5th day of Mared, Junior Emotiomancer Cathal left his dorm at the Merlinswood Academy at midnight. As you know, students are not allowed out of their dorms after midnight.” “Objection, Lord, Mondain has no evidence to support this,” Branwen said. “Overruled, barrister. I want to hear the case.” “Cathal went to the edge of campus, to the Tenser Lecture Hall. There, a group of students, also in violation of curfew, were playing harmless magic games—“ “Objection!” “Overruled.” “Catch the Sneat, Tumblefire, silly childhood games. Junior Emotiomancer Cathal, an advanced and promising student at the academy, arrives on the edge of the circle, and begins to use his training to manipulate the emotions of those in the group. This includes Junior Pyromancer Allanon. This is important, because Allanon and Cathal had had several run-ins earlier that year.” Cathal felt eyes on him. He looked up into the crowd, and there, behind Lord Leomund, sat a fair-skinned, blond-haired boy. Allanon. He was smirking, ever so slightly. Next to him sat his mother, equally blonde, equally smug. Cathal’s face twitched with rage, just for a moment. Mondain went on. “Soon, Cathal’s manipulation took effect—“ “Objection! Allegations of emotiomantic manipulation are very serious, and require significant evidence, Lord!” “Overruled, barrister. I would advise you to remain quiet from here on.” A whisper ran through the assembled crowd. Mondain’s grin grew wider. “As I was saying, Cathal’s magical manipulation took effect, and the games went from harmless to dangerous. Soon, real fire was being bandied about. Several duels began in earnest. Cathal’s strongest manipulation, however, he saved for young Allanon. Soon, Allanon, under the power of Cathal’s magic, turned to the lecture hall and began to work his pyromancy. Why Tenser Hall, we don’t know. Perhaps it was a source of shame for Cathal. Perhaps he had failed a class there. Whatever the case, soon the building and its attached store room were in ashes.” Branwen seethed. Cathal remained impassive. He had heard the case before. Allanon had told him exactly what would happen. And now it was happening. None of those facts were true, of course. Cathal had not left his dorm, had never misused his magic. He knew how to do what they said, of course; he was indeed an advanced Emotiomancy students at the school, and a powerful one at that. His professors had often remarked at his potential. He had never set foot in Tenser Hall, of course. It was, as everyone knew, the Pyromancy building. “I think I’ve heard all I need to. I’m ready to deliver my verdict,” Lord Leomund rose from his chair. “Lord Leomund, this is highly unusual!” Branwen leaped from his seat, his voice loud and urgent. “You have not heard the defendant’s case!” “I do not believe I need to, barrister, certainly not from an emotiomancer, and certainly not one willing to manipulate others for personal gain. His testimony cannot be trusted.” Electricity sparked through the air once again, and wizards began chattering loudly. This was highly unusual. Cathal remained a vision of calm throughout. “The verdict is guilty of magical malpractice. The sentence is expulsion and sterilization. Restrain the defendant.” The room erupted. Wizards shouted now. Cathal remained straight-faced, though his face now took on an aura of focus. Branwen was shouting now, but his words were drowned out in the din all around them. The tension grew. Sparks turned into arcs of lightning, the shimmer of fire turned into gouts of flame, as wizards all around struggled to control their emotion. Cathal’s eyes were closed now. Thunderclaps shook every chair, over and over, as Leomund shouted. “Order! Order!” But the wizards were beyond his control now. Cathal’s breathing became rapid. The shouts from wizards turned angry, harsh. CRACK CRACK CRACK CRACK Tremendous bolts of lightning raced across the room, four of them in quick succession. The thunderclaps that accompanied them did not come from Lord Leomund. The smell of ozone filled the air as the lightning ripped molecules apart. The room began to settle. Wizards began to look around, blinking, wide-eyed, their rage sated. In the ornate chair on the platform, a purple robed body slumped, smoking. Across from him, a black robed figure lay splayed on the slab, a grin still on his face. Behind him, two blonde heads sunk forward in their seats. At the other table, Branwen stood, gawking at the scene in front of him. Next to him was an empty chair.
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Mar 13, 2017 22:18
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Chili posted:So Sebmojo takes this one down. I bow before this line: sebmojo posted:“Are you me,” asked Reinhart. He leaned forward. “Are you or have you ever been me.” And this line only. Nice work mojo
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Mar 15, 2017 08:31
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FIGHT NIGHT CRITS — PART 1 All stories were read in judgemode. For each story, I first summarize it and analyze any themes present. Hopefully this helps you see if your story read the way you intended, and whether certain things were clear or not. Then I give you my comments, all of which are after a second read. Lastly, and most importantly, I’ve carefully selected a youtube clip that your story reminded me of. I spent most of my time looking for youtube clips to be honest so watch those please If anybody has questions, or wants to further discuss their story, I am more than happy to do so on IRC. Also, if you notice any errors in the crits please let me know and I'll fix it The Cut of Your Jib’s Riley’s Last Ride Summary: Riley, a PI, sits in his rust bucket snapping pics of a dirty councilman in a dirty back alley. Apparently, this councilman is keeping 103rd just the way it is because that’s where his mistress is. Riley isn’t paying close enough attention, though, and gets ambushed by a bodyguard, Billygoat, an old acquaintance. Billygoat drags Riley into a basement, and gets set to bust up Riley pretty good. They share one last drink together, then Riley shoots Billygoat--or would have, but the gun doesn’t work. Then he slams shot glass into Billygoat’s eye. I guess he got shot after all… Sorry. Anyway, they tussle for a while, but it’s pretty hard to overcome a shot glass lodged in your eye, and Riley wins out in the end. He returns to the street; the councilman is gone but his camera isn’t. He decides this last job will be a good way to retire. Riley’s story is about old dogs, and how they don’t fit in this new, or changing, world. Riley is an old PI, and is out chasing a mark for dirt, yet again. The man he’s chasing is preventing the gentrification of this particular neighborhood. Riley is against gentrification, which makes sense--he makes his living in the dark alleys of the world. Apparently 103rd is in need of some urban renewal, though, even with the distaste for gentrification. Anyway. The world around Riley is changing--even the people in it that he knew, like Billygoat, are different. The world is not reliable anymore. Billygoat is big time, now, and Riley wasn’t ready for a fight. Even Riley brought a gun, against his usual pattern. It doesn’t seem like violence is his habit, either. Anyway, in the end, he makes the decision to change lives, to let the redevelopment go forward by taking down the councilman--which means his own world changes even more. So he gets out. Old dogs don’t learn new tricks. Comments: Hell yes. This story is good. I buy the noir shtick, but I also love classic noir, so I get how some wouldn’t be into that (as other critiques have mentioned). To me, though, this story was stylish as hell. The action descriptions are visceral. The recurring clicks, the 103rd street wordplay, all good. This story is also lived in; Riley has a past, Billygoat has a past, we can feel it, but we don’t need to know all of the details. We can fill in the blanks, because these characters inhabit a familiar world. Like most good stories, there aren’t many wasted words in here. Even throwaway lines tell us something about this world, like this one does: “The alleys and dive bars are simple; up in the shining towers across the river, somebody’s grudge can bring half the city down with them.” It’s a pretty tightly written story. Everything is telling us about the characters, the world, or creating atmosphere in some way. The story isn’t particularly original. That doesn’t bother me, but it limits the potential, to be sure. It just happens to be good genre fiction, and the judges happened to like this particular genre and this particular fiction. This reminded me of: This scene from John Wick. Sort of. Whatever I like the movie alright Killer-of-Lawyers’ Many Beasts Summary: A Sorceress watches as ‘her’ Knight gets trounced by some beast, and ruminates on how much the Beast does not scare her. Then she fights the Beast, all the while remarking on the philosophical implications of this particular fight. Does the beast know what is happening? Can anyone understand me? She and the Beast battle some more. She does most of the damage, but the Beast does manage to get a blow in here and there, causes some bleeding… Which is like sulfuric acid blood? Alien™ blood? Anyway, they keep fighting, and then she… Burns it to death? Chokes it to death? Unclear, but it is dead, that is clear. Then the Sorceress heals all her wounds, and then the Knight’s wounds, though she pretends to use some mint water as some sort of salve to continue to hide her powers. Then she thinks about telling the Knight that she loves him, but she doesn’t in the end. There are a lot of ideas in this story. Most of it is told to us by the Sorceress. First she talks about the nature of the term Beast, and whether she, the most fearsome hunter (though secretly) is the true beast. It also begs the question: why the killing? The beast’s reasoning is simple, or so it seems, and the Sorceress is not even angry at the beast for injuring her knight, because the beast is a mindless creature, all instinct. Then the story turns to a discussion of societal roles, and who can wield power and who cannot. The Sorceress cannot, for some reason; she must hide her power, and pretend that the Knight felled the Beast. It also talks about forbidden love, I think, because for some reason the Sorceress cannot tell the Knight that she loves him. Then it turns out that the truth is the true beast, and apparently cannot even be tested in battle. Comments: There is just too much drat stuff going on in this story. So much that apparently her alcoholism is a throwaway detail. You are an ideas man, KoL, that much I know, and this story has ideas. Too many of them. There are some interesting things here, but the story doesn’t give any of them particularly thorough treatment. I would like this story much better if it chose one or two ideas and went deep. I generally think that’s a good idea in stories this short. Some of my dislike for this story almost certainly stems from my bias against fantasy fiction. I don’t dislike fantasy when it is done well, but it is so rarely done well. Fantasy almost always feels unoriginal, and this story is no exception. These are pretty stock characters--in fact, since you don’t give them names, I immediately thought of Gauntlet, not a game known for its narrative depth. You aren’t doing anything particularly noteworthy in terms of style; if you were aping the best of fantasy writing, that would be fine, but this is pretty boilerplate. Others have mentioned this already, and I’ll echo it: you undercut the tension of your story by telling us that she has literally no fear of this beast, and that she will defeat it. Okay, so why should I care about this fight, then? Especially since that is exactly what happens. If you are going to set the fight up that way, you either need to make it so compelling that it doesn’t matter that I know the ending (your action descriptions are not strong enough to do that, though, and your blocking is only okay), or subvert my expectations. Maybe it turns out the Beast is more dangerous than she thought. Alas, it is not, and even the damage the beast did do is immediately wiped away, as she heals herself. I get the sense that you don’t necessarily care about the fight, though--the fight, I believe, is really there to serve your ideas. Which is fine. But don’t make it a lackluster fight scene. I also have questions. Why can’t this Sorceress reveal her powers? Is it illegal or against the societal norms or something for a woman to be powerful in this world? She is called Sorceress; why wouldn’t she want people to know that she has badass sorcery? Why does she have to maintain the illusion that this Knight is anything but a useless lump? Why does she love him, aside from the fact that he is smokin hot apparently? Why is it important that she drinks heavily??? Where did that come from? Why can’t she tell the Knight that she loves him? Is she scared to do so? Is it a forbidden love? Too many questions. Too many ideas in this story, not enough execution. If this story were a bush, it would need to be pruned heavily, so the flowers can show through. That’s a bad analogy but whatever This reminded me of: The mobile home raid from True Lies. The quality is bad but so is your story I’m sorry that was mean Fuschia tude’s Piss and Vinegar Summary: Young Zach has a bit of money and is lookin for trouble. He drinks some, talks to some ladies, then heads outside. He isn’t paying attention to his surroundings, though, and gets ambushed by a couple of dudes. Turns out, he talked to the wrong girl, so they tussle for a while. He eventually recognizes the two guys, boys he knows from school. They keep fighting, the attackers using weapons, and Zach with his bare hands. Something pops in Zach’s shoulder at one point. Then, a man comes outside and shoos the boys off with a shotgun. Zach sits there for a second, then the man runs him off, too, saying (in more vulgar language) he doesn’t want any black people bleeding by his shop. Zach runs off, then the druggist goes back inside and talks to someone who asks if everything is okay and he says no but they are gonna keep on keepin on. I think this is social commentary on today’s American society. Or at least that’s how I’m reading it because I’m an American. We get neither a specific location or a specific time period, so it remains generalizable. As is, the overall theme might be: everything is messed up, but we gotta keep moving forward. Since this ends with the words of the druggist, that’s what I’m thinking. Of course, Zach might also be a stand-in for the modern day liberal, young, high on life, and unaware of the stinking underbelly of hatred within our country. Just as many liberals were suckerpunched by the election results, so to was Zach by these young thugs. Perhaps Zach thought times had changed, that things were alright now, but it turns out, no, they aren’t. Not sure what the druggist represents in that analogy. There is also just the straightforward story of a black man unaware of the racial dynamics in wherever he is, and in that sense this is a story of naiveté. He doesn’t understand the way the world works, and the druggist is the foil to that. The druggist knows everything sucks, and tries his best to break it up and to at least preserve some sense of order. Comments: This is a perfectly fine story. It’s not groundbreaking, particularly, but it does well enough with what it intends. I have some questions about those intentions, because I think a revision would tighten up some of the themes and make it more obvious what exactly you are trying to say. The action is OK, not exceptional. I don’t quite get who your title is supposed to be referring to. Piss and vinegar as a phrase usually carries bitterness and anger, and I guess Jay and Dodger are? Zach certainly isn’t, though. He seems pretty happy, when this story starts. I can see why you might not include any sort of reference to time period, if you want your story to draw a comparison between multiple times in American society. Same with location. Unfortunately, I have a hard time believing that an 18-year-old black man would be unaware of how to boys he knows of from school would feel about him talking to a white woman, unless I were to know that he was from somewhere decidedly more racially tolerant and for some reason now was in the deep south. I don’t think making the boys known to Zach helps the story much, other than I guess you had to have characters that Zach knew but didn’t understand in order to fit your flash rule. I definitely need more on Zach. The fact that he’s 18 and has no idea how racial dynamics work in this town that he lives in is stuck in my craw. It would be one thing if he were a Navy and were stationed somewhere unfamiliar to him, but he lives here and even knows these boys that are fighting him. Maybe he is just exceptionally naive, who knows. I don’t. I need more. This reminded me of: Remember the Titans. What else could it be? Julias’ Black and Blues Summary: Legendary rock band Jealousy returns to the stage after a hiatus under mysterious circumstances. Turns out, lead singer Lizzie is sick, pretty seriously so. They get through their set, though, then Lizzie heads backstage. Samantha follows her. They argue for a while--Sam wants Lizzie to go back to the hospital, get treatment, Lizzie tells her to gently caress off, basically. Then they start fighting, Lizzie on the offensive, Sam on the defensive. It pretty much stays that way, and they use a variety of instruments (including a trash can lid shout out to my man Doug Funny) until Lizzie accidentally (?) stabs Samantha in the throat with a drumstick. The Lizzie runs away and passes out, basically. This story is about… Like, not telling people what to do? Hell, I don’t know. Trust your friends, and don’t stab them in the neck? I’m really not sure, and there is definitely nothing obvious here. Sorry if I’m missing something. Comments: You had me. As soon as I figured out this was headed toward band in-fighting, I was in. I was looking forward to guitars being smashed over people’s heads, people throwing drums, using microphone cords to choke people, drumsticks… Well, in retrospect, the drumsticks were a bad idea. Unfortunately, this story does so much wrong with that premise. First and foremost, there is not an ounce of fun in this story. I mean, it’s a story about people beating each other with instruments, for goodness sake! Instead, this thing is dark. Lizzie has cancer or something and refuses to take care of herself, instead choosing to go out like a rock star (which is metal I guess) (the sickness angle could use some more exploration here, though). Then she stabs her best friend and passes out in a park (and probably dies?). If a story is going to be this dark, it better be about something important. It better try to have an idea of some kind. From a mood perspective, you don’t do enough to establish the disparity between the band’s aura and Lizzie’s, and its effect on the crowd. You say Lizzie darkens the mood, but mostly it seems like the show goes just fine. I also think your opening is fairly weak. quote:The stage set aflare; Sparklers and light beams blasted the majestic stage, as the spectators roared with anticipation. After 8 months, the legendary band Jealousy finally broke off their sudden hiatus, and announced a new concert. It was taking place at the newly constructed concert stadium, The World’s Stage, in the heart of Boston, Massachusetts. On a technical level, your story is fine. Your blocking is fine. A few things I might quibble with. Some things I don’t like, like this: quote:Lizzie lifted her knee up Lots of problems. I see the foundation for an interesting story. This isn’t it, though. Also, I’m not sure you’ve ever been to a real concert based on your opening. But that’s neither here nor there. This reminded me of: Strangely, the only fight scene I could find involving musical instruments. Except Scott Pilgrim kind of. Okua’s Asimov's Laws and the Apocalypse Summary: Two robots, Delta-four and Rho, stand looking out at a barren wasteland. Robots do stuff out in the distance. Our two protagonists engage in small talk. Rho experiences some pain, and Delta-four, a diagnostician at one point, tells him what it is--a storage component, the one housing his higher functions, is deteriorating. They are machines, after all, they break down. Rho experiences some existential rage, then turns on Delta, and they start fighting. Delta is slower than Rho. Delta wants to know why he is turning to violence, why he has resurrected this foul piece of humanity. Rho says it is to protect his existence. He aims for the component, like his own, that houses Delta’s higher functions. Delta knocks Rho down, and then, Rho sneaks a hand up Delta’s side. He finds the component, rips it out, and Delta is returned to mere automaton status. The theme here is that ignorance is bliss. Rho says that he “must protect my own existence.” This is after Delta has called attention to Rho’s lack of humanity. Perhaps Rho had forgotten he was a robot, had convinced his ‘mind’ that he was human. Perhaps that was something necessary to his own survival, in the face of infinite, “Sisyphean” tasks. In order to remain sane and functional, even in the face of his own potential decline (his deteriorating part), he must believe that he has humanity. In order to retain that facade, Rho realizes he has to destroy his only friend, Delta, who calls it like it is. It used to be his job, after all. In the end, Delta is returned to complete ignorance, and is blissfully unaware of any concerns of deterioration, isolation, or what have you. This also, indirectly, comments on the meaning of humanity. Both robots possess higher functions, things that appear human--conversation, independent thought, human gestures, etc.--and yet, by Delta’s declaration, are not human. Delta’s neutral “Why?” in the face of Rho’s violence illustrates his eternal robotic existence. They share some characteristics with humans--they break down, they become obsolete, etc--but ultimately, they are missing something that makes someone human--perhaps it is biology, perhaps it is some concept of soul. Robots ain’t got it, whatever it is. Comments: At first. I was a little mad at Rho. He effectively kills Delta! But perhaps it is merciful, to remove his consciousness of their circumstances. I don’t think Rho views it that way, though; as he says, he must protect his existence. I wonder how killing Delta’s consciousness will affect Rho, or whether his “higher functions” are truly just a facade for imitating humanity, not reproducing it. This is a good story. The Laws of Robotics are well employed here, though I could have used a reminder of what specifically they are, especially since his entire justification for killing Delta is based on laws 1 and 3, specifically. I could have used more old friendship stuff between them before they start fighting. Would make the turn to life-and-death struggle more impactful. More details about their relationship, and, really, about them, would help to build some connection with Rho, our protagonist and the winner of the fight. I think I am mad at Rho for killing Delta. His motivation is rooted in rage, not just adherence to the laws, now that I think about it. Maybe I am mad at him because I am thinking of him as human. Not sure. Anyway, good story, not quite stylish enough or impactful enough for a win, but a solid HM in my book. This reminded me of: This ‘fight’ scene from Moonlight. I guess it’s kind of a spoiler if you haven’t seen it and care about that sort of thing GenJoe’s Pink Collars Summary: An exceptionally tall cabbie--so tall that apparently he can’t move the seat back far enough to accomodate his knees--stops his cab to avoid hitting a man with a pink collar. He then tells us about all the different kinds of drunks that he knows. Then he picks up a fare, a guy and a girl, and starts them on their way. The guy turns out to be a real rear end in a top hat, but this is no surprise to the cabbie. He talks trash, tells the girl repeatedly to shut up, she gets as far away from him as possible. Then the girl starts talking about the guy’s infidelities. The cabbie steps on it, and soon reaches the destination. The passengers get out, she hits him on the shoulder, he hits her much harder, in the face. The cabbie gets out and delivers some swift retribution, knocking the guy unconscious. He offers to take the girl away, but she stays. The cabbie leaves. The moral of this story is that relationships are complicated, and even when the guy cheats and hits the girl, she’s still gotta stay and figure it out. And the cabbie gets to wash his hands of it. On that note, it might be about how there’s a lot of messed up crap going on in the city, and the best you can do is try not to get involved. Gotta avoid hitting those pink collars, you know? I am actually not really sure what to make of the pink collars. There is obviously supposed to be some symbolism there, but I’m not picking it up, I guess. Comments: Key to the success of any fight scene are the stakes. There are, in my mind, two ways this can work. The first way is that the fight leaves open a multitude of possible outcomes: the protagonist can win, or lose, or win and lose, or something else entirely. Uncertainty is great for tension. If the outcome is certain, though, as it often is in action movies, then the story needs to make the outcome so satisfying that it doesn’t matter that I know how it ends. Your story, unfortunately, does neither. I was pretty confident as soon as I figured out the scenario that the giant veteran cabbie was not going to lose to the piece-of-poo poo drunk. And, obviously, I did not find the ending exceptionally satisfying. To make that happen, the cabbie would have to be much more interesting. The douchebag is very obviously a douchebag, though he’s mostly just an rear end in a top hat and a drunk until he hits the girl. But the cabbie mostly just sits and does nothing, then jumps into action for one hot second, then he’s out again. I need some snappy dialogue or something. Sidenote, there is a suggestion that drunks are dudes, or at least the rear end in a top hat ones are, based on the following line: quote:You can spot these guys the second they get in the back seat. This story needed some more style. You are almost to noir, here. It would be better served by going all the way (usually the case). Or to like some sort of weird Taxi Driver psychosis. The dialogue isn’t sharp enough to carry this thing, and there really isn’t much action. So it’s gotta be spicy. Fine story. Right in the middle. This reminded me of: Wendell “Bud” White. Metrofreak’s Rise of the Rebel King, or: How I lost my hand. Summary: Tormik and Avatanno stand on a floating platform, having some small talk. Avatanno is Crown Prince and High Commander of Thravvin, a large, imperialistic, aristocratic, wealthy, and militaristic nation. Tormik is ‘king’ of a rebellious subgroup of the empire, former prisoners (I think? At least, he is, and they use a prison boat), who have been warring for independence, I believe. They have set up a duel between heads of state (though Avatanno is standing in for his father, who is sick), and the fight will determine… The war, I assume. If Tormik loses, they go back, if Tormik wins, Thravvin leaves them alone. Anyway, they start fighting, and they are well matched, and they cut each other, and Tormik has multiple revelations where he thinks Avatanno will be filled with fury but mostly he just grins. Then, after they are both bloodied, Avatanno makes a last desperate attempt, but Tormik sacrifices his arm to strike the final blow. Avatanno closes with some words of respect. This story is how about the empire really isn’t all that bad, after all. Though I imagine that’s not what you were going for. Tormik repeatedly expects Avatanno to be a total jerk, but he’s actually really honorable, never badmouths Tormik, and even dies well. In fact, that the nation of Thravvin agreed to this duel speaks even more to their honor. This story might also be about how victory among equals comes to whoever is willing to sacrifice more. So sayeth the great Al Pacino. The more I read it the less sure I am about what this story intends me to walk away with. Comments: Two problems I see with this story: 1) pacing; 2) characterization. The prose in this story is mostly fine, though there are some grammar things I don’t like. For one, you’ve got comma splices all over the place. Pay attention to your clauses! Also quote:It made this ridiculous duel plausible in Thravvin’s eyes There is also a subtle tone to some of the narrator’s descriptions that I am having a hard time describing… Sometimes he’s sarcastic, sometimes he’s bitter, sometimes he’s somewhere in between. Maybe that’s the truth of it--the narrator has many mixed feelings. Unfortunately, it’s totally indistinct. If you were to edit this, I would tell you to turn up the volume on Tormik’s voice. If he’s bitter, be full-throated in his bitterness. Etc. Problem #1: Pacing. This story takes a long time to get to the fight, and all the words in the first half are not particularly exciting. I understand that you have to set the stage for the fight, in terms of stakes, combatants, etc. But you’ve got to find a way to be more interesting in doing so. You’ve chosen to have a narrator tell this story, so you can do whatever you want with the format. Someone telling this story in real life would mess with the structure. A few blows of the sword, an aside about Thravvin military history. A few more blows, an account of the fans for each side. And so on. I think you could have committed more fully to the storyteller structure. I also think this story could just be leaner, flat out. Cut 5-10%, see what you have. Or, use a classic fight scene technique: have your characters tell us the stakes. Fight monologues are great. Problem #2: Characterization. Tormik feels a little half-baked. I’m not sure what he’s supposed to be, and I don’t know if the story is sure, either. He’s the plucky, underdog protagonist (not sure if he’s the hero, but he survived, that’s for sure). He’s good with a sword. He’s jumped up way above his station. He’s got some minor characteristics, none of which shine through (I mentioned them above, regarding tone). Worse than that, though, is your characterization of the Thravvinians. Based on action, it is very clear that they are honorable. They are known for it, and their actions back it up, as far as what’s in this story. They don’t intentionally cut off the Alven Isles (landlocked is the opposite of what you mean), they agree to a duel, they don’t rush in and save their prince, and their Crown Prince fights and dies honorably. Yet Tormik is continually surprised by this. He also tries to say that they are bound by their honor, but given their pattern of honorable actions, should I not believe them to actually be honorable? In which case, I believe that rushing in to save their prince would not be something they would even consider; in fact, that action would be repulsive to them. So would sinking the Alven ship. Since their honor appears to be real, it’s not concern for reputation that causes them to be that way--unless the reputation were false, a construct. If that’s the case, then we need to see some evidence that they have done anything dishonourable, but have hid it. This is an okay story that could have been much better. This reminded me of: This swordfight from Rob Roy. In a lot of ways, actually. Kaishai’s Guardian Summary: The story begins immediately in the midst of action, with the unnamed protagonist being struck by branches, perhaps because he is falling through a tree. He has in his arms a child, though, as we soon find out, not his. He is immediately transported to a new scene, a car crash, where he absorbs the blow for the driver. Then he chills for a bit in the grey, and he does a little existential wondering. Then he ends up in a room, with a bottle slamming into him. This time, though, he remains in the world, and fights the man with the bottle, who is apparently trying to beat a child. They fight, and during the fight the man, drunk and high (?), recognizes our protagonist, Trevor, and this revelation prompts a rush of memory for Trevor: who he is, some nasty memories of his dad, living with his aunt, his own death. Then he resumes fighting with Johnny, his brother, and urges him not to be his father. Johnny relents, or passes out, one of the two, and then Trevor goes and invisi-consoles the boy. I don’t know if this story is optimistic or not. I’m of two minds. On the one hand, we have the example of Johnny, who is the living embodiment of the sins of the father. He has, effectively, become the father, right down to his use of the bottle. Trevor, on the other hand, hasn’t--though that may only because of his presumably early death. Who knows whether he would have become his father in life. I think maybe it is optimistic. Trevor gets Johnny to relent, if ever so slightly, and maybe only for a night. Though I don’t know that Trevor will be able to protect the kid, because up to now he has shown no ability to determine his own missions. The other theme I see is something about our past informing our future. As Johnny tries his damndest to become his father, it is the ghost of his dead brother, whose efforts to save him he ignored for so long, who steps in and prevents him from taking an irrevocable action. Perhaps it’s about how we must not forget our past? The good and the bad? Comments: That’s the longest section I’ve done on themes yet, which means there is plenty of meat to this story. It’s got all of this familial stuff baked into it, so that provides easily relatable ideas. Of course, there is also a bit of vagueness that leaves questions to be discussed. I don’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing. I think a bit of both. This story was slightly divisive, but on the high side. One judge had it as an HM, the other a firm NM, and I had it on the line. The more I think about the story, the better I feel about it. On my first read, there were a couple of moments (mostly in the last third) that tripped me up and made me not react as strongly to it as it probably deserves. For instance, at one point, Johnny starts screaming “I’ll kill him!” I could not figure out what he meant. Was he speaking of the child, as if Trevor were holding him back from this terrible deed? Was he speaking of Trevor? Was he speaking of his dead dad? I still don’t really know. It’s a minor thing, but it broke my concentration. In that section in general, I had a hard time following the action. I went back and reread it a few times, and I could not figure out why. It didn’t seem like anything was out of place, or missing. And then I found it: quote:Their father's rage was still in his eyes when he looked at Trevor. Anyway, that’s a lot of analysis, but I think this story got less credit from me than it deserves because of a couple of moments that wrenched me out of it. On rereads, I like it more. I don’t know that I need to know more about the grey; I think ambiguity is just fine there. I figured out pretty quickly what was going on with that (at least as much as the story needs you to know) without much exposition at all. The little details that draw out the theme--the use of the bottle, the father-son relationship, the drunkenness--are well painted. It’s a good story. This reminds me of: The Galleria fight from T2. Yes, I am serious, and I will defend this, if you’d like.
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Mar 15, 2017 22:17
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FIGHT NIGHT CRITS — PART 2 Thranguy’s Secret of the Silent Fist Summary: A young man enters a store, clerked by an old man who he believes to be the Silent Fist, a famous warrior. The old man plays coy, but the boy is sure it is him. A gang of thugs comes in, looking for our young protagonist, and looking to cause trouble. The young man fights, and fights well, but there are many. The old man steps in to help! The young man keeps asking for Silent Fist’s secret technique, which he doesn’t reveal, but he does give him a tip--anything can be used as a weapon. The young man heeds his advice, and uses a volleyball net, and ultimately, they subdue the bad guys. Then, the young man reveals that his mother is Sue Li-Quan, who, as it turns out, is Silent Fist’s daughter. Silent Fist takes him on, and reveals a secret: his secret healing mantra is not about healing, but about using your pain. I don’t see much of a grand theme here, really. There are clear bad guys and good guys, their is no ambiguity in the fight itself, and there is a nice little family reunion. The only real message is perhaps what Silent Fist delivers at the end: use your pain as motivation, or energy, or something. Comments: This is a good story. The more I read it, the more I like it. One judge did not particularly care for it, another had it as an HM, I at first had it as an above average No Mention. I think, now, I might argue for an HM were we to re-judge this week. Of all the stories this week, this one is among the most straightforward classic fight scenes. This could literally be straight out of a Jackie Chan movie--which, hey, nice job using your classic fight as inspiration. (Also, nice job with that flash rule. Pretty creative use of a volleyball net.) It has, like I said in the summary, clear motivations, obvious heroes, and it hits some of the major tropes. To me, none of that is a bad thing (I made a prompt about fight scenes, after all, which aren’t typically noted for their moral ambiguity). In a second draft, I would like to see just a tad more detail on the motivations of the bad guys. In a more complete story, the vagueness is fine; in a complete story, as this is supposed to be, I need to know what the stakes are here. Why are they willing to kill this kid? What did his mom do? Perhaps a gradual reveal of his mother’s identity would help--as part of the mid-fight convo between Silent Fist and Andy, maybe Andy reveals a few details here and there. I’m thinking like this scene from the most recent Creed movie. As it is, the dialogue at the end is a little clunky. It’s a subtle line, between obvious exposition and realistic dialogue. I don’t like this line, in particular: quote:“Sure,” I said. “But I wanted to earn this. And haven’t I earned the secret of your healing mantra?” Overall, though, like I said, I like this story. This reminded me of: 3 Ninjas! Bad Seafood’s One Last Job Summary: Two nameless protagonists wait at the train station for four men to disembark. Those men have a case, and the two protags plan to steal it. They’ll shoot two, beat up the others, and grab the case. The male (?) poses as a preacher, then starts a fight, and proceeds two take on all four. We never hear any gunshots. Even so, the male makes it out, with the case, and hops on the train, and their getaway is complete. Then he says she shouldn’t name the kid after him. It’s not his kid? Not clear on that. The biggest, and really only theme I see here is one of faith: how faith can will things into existence. In two instances, the story effectively credits the female protagonist’s faith as being responsible for the outcome--first, the success of the robbery, and second, the survival of the male protagonist. There is also maybe something about morality? The man remarks on the familiarity of the taste for blood, hinting at a dark past, perhaps, and asks that she not name her kid after him. The woman does not shoot the men she was supposed to, seemingly out of a desire not to create a commotion, or maybe out of a desire not to kill. So there is something here about wrongdoing tainting a person, making them unworthy, akin to the concept of sin. Though she is certainly happy to have wrongdoing done on her account. Hmmm. Seafood let’s talk about this. Comments: This is a fine little story. The action is pretty tight, the descriptions are fine, not spectacular but fine, and the characters are okay. Ultimately, it’s just not a particularly meaty story. There isn’t much plot, and there isn’t a ton of detail. It does have a few problems--and I know you were pressed for time, so I think they can mostly be tied to that. The biggest problem (a recurring one, this week, as I feared) is one of characterization. The audience gets precious little about these two, other than that there is a kid involved, and they need this briefcase for some reason. I’m not saying we need 200 words of character exposition, but a few sentences, maybe a paragraph, would have been nice. Also, names aren’t bad--even the nickname variety, like you give your antagonists. If I’m going to root for these people to succeed in their criminal endeavor against these men just minding their business, I need some more details. I could also use a line or two of specifics on our bad guys--where did he meet these guys? That could go toward establishing our protag’s bad boy credentials, too. There are also some vague things that bothered me. I don’t know why she says ["Six shots," she said, "Minus four."] Does she only have two bullets? Unclear. I’m not sure what he understands when she says that he didn’t die, and he won’t. That her faith is magic? Also, is the kid his? There are clues both ways, but I can’t really think of a reason for the ambiguity--or at least for the ambiguity to last through the story. Like I said, small things. A fine story, right in the middle. There was a lot more room in the word count, and if you’d have had more time, I’m curious where you would have taken this story. This reminds me of: The elevator scene from Drive. Sort of? Anyway I like that scene. It’s intense. Chairchucker’s You Fight Like a Girl (Spoilers the Girl is Chun Li and is Very Good at Fighting and Will Totally Kick You in the Face) Summary: This is the story of Jimmy and Eddie, brothers, fighting over which character one should use in Street Fighter II, which is tremendously stupid, thus perfect. The one keeps trying to force the other to play Guile (there’s your They Live connection), then they get in a real fight and crash about the room wildly. This pisses off mom, who comes downstairs, then proceeds to pin the two boys, and the dad busts in and calls the fight, KO to Mom. The boys then go retrieve the belt for her. I don’t see much in terms of a theme? Except for don’t piss off your parents because they’re bigger and can still kick your rear end? Comments: At the outset of this story, it is very hard to keep track of Eddie and Jimmy. There is nothing really to distinguish them, other than this vague desire for one to try Guile and the other’s desire not to. You have a lot of dialogue right at the beginning, and a fair amount of it unattributed, which means I’ve got to pay close attention. Maybe some more differentiation in names would help, or a bit of exposition, or something. Ultimately, I’m guessing you don’t care whether I know who Eddie and Jimmy are, though, other than that they are brothers fighting, because it’s all setup for your gag. It’s clever. You set up the reader to expect typical mom anger, nagging about cleaning up, etc., then turns out she’s the real badass here. The bit with the belt is good, too. Unfortunately, there just isn’t much meat here. It’s a good little story, but not much more than that. I liked it, but in the way that I like that SNL skit about the Californians yes I think that skit is funny don’t @ me This reminded me of: uhhh Steven Universe I guess Erogenous Beef’s Duke Guncock and the Golden Funnel Summary: This is the story of Duke Guncock, hero of the people, seeking to defeat Chasun. After his recent defeat, he seeks the help of Teddy Brosevelt, who teaches him how to grow stronger, but also to discern why he is fighting. He trains with Teddy, and ultimately learns how to… set a trap? When a bear attacks while he’s gardening. To be honest, I’m not 100 on what he learned here. But, he uses that knowledge to defeat Chasun and restore order to the world, and in doing so teaches everyone a lesson: it’s about friendship, not materialism or glory. Comments:This is commitment. Every detail serves this absurd world you’ve written, and I won’t lie, I found it joyous. The action is fine, even good in spots, and I like your characters. I won’t go so far as to call this stirring, but I appreciate the motivations of your Duke Guncock (a TD reference I’ve only just become familiar with). Your world has a good sense of humor, and pokes fun at bro-culture without demeaning it. I like Brosevelt, I like Lenin and Doc Freedom. I can see Chong-Li in this, without a doubt. Chasun fits the bill, and provides a solid bad for Duke Guncock to battle against--not just a physical opponent, but an ideological one. Most of your jokes land; I actually laughed while reading. Your punchline works. Good story. This HM’d because I found this to be tremendously fun. It is not a meaningful piece in the long run, because ultimately it’s a gimmick entry, and the commitment to brodaciousness could be grating to many. But I don’t think you care about those things, in this story, and I think you accomplished exactly what you set out to do. (If seb posts crits, I’m sure he’ll tell you this in more detail, but he found the final line to be problematic within the internal logic of the story. I am undecided in that regard, but I found the line funny so it didn’t bother me.) This reminded me of: KUNG FURY Sitting Here’s Radical Self-Careless Summary: Maggie is staring at herself in the mirror and talking to herself, making quite clear that she loathes herself. She then starts to fight herself--or rather, the two halves of her start to fight. At first, the half that loves her (?), Righty, goes limp, and Lefty does a whole lot of damage. But then, in the moment of greatest need, Righty comes to the rescue and subdues Lefty. She then calls 911 and buys herself a momentary reprieve. This speaks to a deep internal conflict that can exist within our conception of self—we can, on the one hand  , so totally hate ourself as to want to die, and on the other hand, love ourself so deeply that we would fight desperately for survival even in the absence of any reason to do so (in our own perverted, fallacious logic). It also speaks about the need for help in this fight, hence the 911 call.Comments: I was curious if anyone would go for the “literally fighting yourself” idea. It’s a hard concept to pull off, and I only really know of one example: Edward Norton in Fight Club. That fight, of course, is played for laughs. This is not. (Gollum also fits here as an example.) I pretty quickly know the stakes, as Maggie screams at herself in the mirror. The action is well executed—I know what is happening, where Maggie is, what her limbs are doing. Chili took issue with the realism of this story, but I don’t have experience as a therapist so I wasn’t bothered by that. To me, the biggest issue is one of characterization. I know what is happening, and the battle that is taking place inside Maggie, but I don’t know why. Why does Maggie hate herself so? We get a little bit about her lack of hygiene and her low self-esteem, but we get nothing about how she arrived at this point. I don’t need anything in particular to believe she shouldn’t die, but I need something to help me care for her. Some clues about her positive characters might help? I don’t know. I’m not sure what the solution is, but I needed a little something more. This story was divisive. I had it on the line between NM and HM. I gave it points for degree of difficulty, but I would say it didn’t quite stick the landing. This reminded me of: This really really intense scene from Lethal Weapon. Uranium Phoenix’s Sacred Summary: Sir Ingram, hunter extraordinaire, is hunting a fairy lady (why is answered much later in the story, sort of? He kind of just wants to hang out?), when a messenger tells him to call it off because a local has been taken by a drake. He is resistant, thinking to chase the drake would be futile. He is then informed of the boy’s name, and realizes it is his son, and so takes off at a gallop. His horse takes a tumble, so he continues on foot, finds his son with two baby drakes, and maybe or maybe not alive. Then mama drake arrives and they battle it out. At the critical moment in the fight, Ingram slashes the drake’s nose, the drake starts to fly away, Ingram grabs his son, then all three of them tumble, and Ingram’s ankle busts up pretty good. Then the drake and Ingram have a staredown, and the drake relents, now out of the nest and reminded of its young. Ingram encounters the fairy he’d been hunting, but turns away to focus on his son. This story is about parents and their need to protect their young, and also about priorities---Ingram feels bad after being reminded how long he has been away, and in the end even the potential fulfillment of his quest cannot tear him away from his son. Comments: I liked this story as I reread it. It’s got decent prose, nothing extraordinary but very readable in my opinion. It’s clear. It’s got obvious stakes and motivations. It has a few missteps that hold it back, but I was perfectly comfortable with an HM for this story. A few (small) problems stuck out to me. The first: I could use some sort of information on the aos sí he’s hunting. We find out at the end that he wants to go back to her world? I’m imagining Kvothe in The Wise Man’s Fear. One or two sentences would have helped to clarify a) what he wants with the aos sí, b) why it’s a big deal, c) and why he is reticent to call of the hunt. Secondly, why does the drake fall when they fight? I wasn’t clear on that. It seems it is trying to fly; is Ingram too heavy? To my knowledge, Ingram struck a blow to the drake’s nose, not its wings. Thirdly, given the severity of the ankle injury you describe, I don’t buy that Ingram can stand. If he can maybe feel bone touching boot, he’s not standing on that leg. A fracture, a horrible sprain, something like that, sure, but to the point that bone is sticking out of flesh, no way. The fourth small thing I’ll mention is that it seems a little strange that the messenger wouldn’t know that the kid was his son, given that apparently Ingram is a known figure in the realm. Maybe the messenger didn’t get the memo. I don’t know. Seemed just slightly strange on rereading. Overall, though, this story does way more right than wrong. The way you introduce Ingram quickly and efficiently tells the reader that he is good at his job. The way the drake transforms from obvious villain of this story to compassionate parent is good. The way that Ingram reconsiders his priorities and then acts on them is good. This reminded me of: The final fight from Aliens. Deltasquid’s The Disciple Summary: Adriatus meets Lysander in the courtyard. Adriatus, a senior enchanter at the Arcane Academy, doesn’t recognize Lysander, a fact that incenses Lysander; Adriatus then mistakes the badges on Lysander’s sleeve to mean that he is a recent graduate, an incorrect assumption. We are then informed that Lysander failed Adriatus’ class once upon a time. Then they start throwin’ spells at each other, lighting and fire and paralysis spells. We find out through the course of the fight that Lysander failed at the Arcane Academy, it seems, primarily because of a lack of intellectual appreciation for magic. He doesn’t think magic, he feels it, an approach that was nurtured at the Imperial War College. This is why Lysander is here--to have it out over magical philosophies. Eventually, they end up in melee range, because they both “implicitly agreed that any ranged spells would merely be deflected” (that’s a terrible line, my man), and Adriatus, pushed to desperation, uses all of him will to blast a water jet through Lysander. This story is about resentment, and about a need for differentiation in teaching methodology and pedagogy. Also, you can’t think your way through a fight, you have to leverage your will to access true power. I don’t know, I’m not really sure what the big picture message is. Comments: I need more motivation setup from Adriatus. We get not much at all, other than that he doesn’t remember this student, and I guess his body is untrained for war. Everything else we get about him comes from Lysander. Lysander wins this fight, even in dying (or at least being critically wounded), if it’s about magical approaches--Adriatus has to resort to the style of magic favored at the War Academy in order to defeat Lysander. I think Lysander is supposed to be a bad guy? Especially after he torches a lecture hall, presumably with students in it. But I mostly feel for him, because I understand him so much better. And if I’m not supposed to take Lysander’s side, at least philosophically, I need to know why. Ostensibly, it’s bad that Adriatus kills Lysander---maybe the Academy has rules about the use of magic in battle, and Adriatus has crossed a line. Otherwise, it seems that Lysander is right, to a degree. Heart magic is more powerful. (Also: if they are at a wizarding academy, and fighting on the grounds, where are all the other people? Especially after Lysander torches a building, I imagine some other wizards would show.) There is a good story here, and I wanted to like it more than I did. You have this battle of philosophy, which is a good setup for a fight. But we don’t get enough actual information, whether through exposition, through dialogue, or anything really, to draw any meaningful conclusions or to feel any empathy either way. Your action is pretty good! It’s very clear, it moves, all that. I could use some more imagery, but that’s window dressing. It needs more character. This reminded me of: Use your aggressive feelings, boy. flerp’s This is Canonically a Part of the Star Wars™ Expanded Universe Summary: This story is difficult to summarize. It’s a series of reminiscences about events between Justin, about to go to college, and his brother Bobby, 3 years his junior. We first hear about a (plastic) lightsaber duel between brothers, and learn that Justin is a little too aggressive, and Bobby gets butthurt. Then the story jumps to the present, and Justin finds the lightsaber and takes it over to Bobby, and smacks him, and Bobby is none too pleased by this. Justin kind of messes around and then Bobby punches him hard. Then Justin remembers the time he got Bobby high after his first high school swim meet, and how he felt like a good brother sort of. Then he takes the lightsaber back to Bobby in the present tense, and gives it to him as a memento, and apologizes sort of. Then later he sneaks in and takes his brother’s lightsaber as his own memento. This story is about sibling relationships, and memories, and brotherly love, after a fashion. What, to Bobby, was clearly bullying, to Justin was expression of fondness (even if it is pretty clearly bullying). Justin has these memories of them fighting, and of him showing his brother how to smoke, and these things that to him are fun older brother things. To Bobby, he’s a dickhead and a bad older brother. But in the end he takes the lightsaber as a memento, and sticks it in his memory box, so I guess Bobby valued those memories too? Comments: This story was divisive. At first, I really didn’t like it. I didn’t like the ‘fighting’, I didn’t like the characters, and the tenses bothered me (you need to use more past perfect to denote these remembered moments). My first comments were: “Justin is a dick and there is no real fight.” But, one of my fellow judges talked me out of DM’ing this. I think, at first, I didn’t like the slightly unconventional take on the prompt, but there is fighting, and it tries hard to set up relatable characters. And, that much it does--I know plenty of brothers who fit these molds. I still hold that Justin is a dick, though, and that to me is a failing. The story is from his perspective, and he gives us precious little in terms of likability. It’s fine to show it from his perspective; in fact, I even think a story from the bully’s perspective is interesting. But, it’s got to give me something to empathize with him about, other than losing his victim. The only instantly relatable character in this story is Bobby, and he is only on screen when Justin is there. Ultimately, I think this story desperately needs a second draft. The prose needs to be spiced up, and the tenses need work. I think a revision sharpens the characters’ traits and motivations, and clarifies the themes. Declaring it unfinished. This reminded me of: Wierd Science. RIP Bill Paxton. Jay W. Frik’s Single Bedroom. Two Residents Summary: Lucille and Morris take their divorce to court, only it’s a trial by combat! Morris chooses the weapons, Lucille chooses the environment, and the host brandishes a taser…? Not sure why. That’s his gavel, I guess? Anyway, we have a couple of flashbacks to each of them thinking about/preparing for the upcoming court proceedings, and fantasizing about life without the other, and all the space they’ll have. Then we get the fight. Lucille basically outsmarts Morris, and gets her victory. Then she explains her victory to the host. I’m not sure what this is about. Maybe it’s about how divorce is a violent occurrence, and is like metaphorically killing another person? Maybe it’s about voyeurism, and how every detail of a person’s life gets leveraged for entertainment and money. Comments: The formatting didn’t lose you this week, but it certainly didn’t help. I’m also not sure why you punctuated your title the way you did. A comma would have worked better, in my opinion. I can’t seem to find any rhyme or reason why you formatted it this way, and there are enough mistakes to lead me to think that you copy and pasted this and either didn’t bother to check it, didn’t have time to, or somehow didn’t see that it was messed up. It makes the story hard to read. (I went back and glanced at some of your past stories, and this is not the first time formatting has been a problem. So either it’s displaying differently, or you don’t know what you are doing wrong. I don’t know. But this problem will always make it harder for you to succeed, and easier to lose, in particular.) You clearly have an idea here, one that’s actually moderately interesting. I don’t love the name ‘Visceral Court’, but it is an interesting concept. There are a few things that sink this story, for me. The first is a lack of world-building detail. You have this world where people who want to get divorced end up on a TV show in which they play out the ‘death do us part’ bit of their vows, but we don’t know anything else about this world. That’s pretty extreme, but aside from this TV show, the world seems pretty normal. This ties into my second point: you have a tone problem. On the one hand, your characters are about to fight to the death over divorce. On the other, the world seems normal, and the winner gives a very clinical description of how she won, and hardly bats an eye. No matter how badly someone wants a divorce, I just don’t buy that reaction, and that’s without the murder. I don’t buy that this would be accepted. You’ve got to sell me on a world where this is the norm, or make it much more emotionally wrenching. The biggest problem, in my eyes, is a lack of character development. We know next to nothing about Lucille or Morris, and so I have literally zero emotional interest in this fight, except for that Morris seems kind of like a dick? Am I supposed to be rooting for Lucille to commit murder? Why? Why do they want to get divorced so badly that they’d kill the other? Just for space in the apartment? We don’t know any of that. We also don’t know anything about the audience. Is there a live studio audience going nuts? Or is nobody watching, and this is all a failed TV show? This was a disappointing story to me, and I haven’t read Chili’s crits, but I know it was to him, too. There is an idea here, but it just all falls flat. This reminded me of: The Running Man BeefSupreme fucked around with this message at 03:47 on Mar 16, 2017 |
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Mar 15, 2017 22:19
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thank you for the crits rhino and also jitzu
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Mar 20, 2017 08:03
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Julias posted:Also If BeefSupreme is reading this, I'll gladly take any recommendations he has for awesome action movies and scenes. Beef Recommends -- Hong Kong Edition! One of the most fertile regions for action movies during the 80s and 90s was Hong Kong. The industry over there pumped out entertaining action classics. If you're looking to learn what makes an engaging fight sequence, from blocking, to camera work, to interesting characters and stakes, Hong Kong is a great place to start. Here are a few exemplars for you. Hard Boiled, from classic gun fu guru John Woo. All the argument you ever need that reloading is overrated. Legend of the Drunken Master, perhaps Jackie Chan's greatest achievement. A masterclass in fight choreography as well as in how to shoot a fight! Hero, as my personal favorite wuxia film. It's ravishingly beautiful and interweaves themes effortlessly into its fights. Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon is the more well known, and it's no slouch. But Hero is better. Of course, no discussion of Hong Kong action cinema would be complete without mention of the coolest martial artist of all time, Bruce Lee. Dude had swagger.
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Mar 21, 2017 09:59
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Critique: Mrenda's "Who Suffers Their Penance" Summary: A young woman (named Aoife as we will find out later) returns to the town she grew up in. She's at a combination bar/gas station; she orders a coffee, and her accent is noticeably American, since she has been gone for three decades. She is in Ireland, based on her name, the mention of the Gardaí, and the Christian Brothers. She reveals to the reader that she killed her brother here as a child, and her godparents then buried him in a shallow grave. Her godparents made her hit her (younger) brother as his punishment (though never the reverse). This was a common practice among believers of the Christian Brothers, apparently. An old man starts asking her questions, since I'm guessing this little town gets few visitors. Why does she need petrol, he asks? Why indeed (gonna burn something, I'd say). They start going back and forth, we sort of figure out that she's staying at her godparents' house, the man brings up the missing child, gives us the town's perspective on what happened. An accident, unfortunate isn't it? Aoife goes into the woods, and starts digging. Can't find the body of her brother. Somebody comes up to the house, says Father Mulryan wants her to visit, and she doesn't need to change, because apparently he knows what she is doing. She goes and visits. Mulryan is not dressed sharply in his priestly garb as he would usually be. He is normally an imposing figure, mostly due to his presence, but not so today, or at least not to Aoife. They talk. She says she's there to right wrongs, he says what will burning down a house do, digging up a grave do? Also his body isn't there anymore. She decides he's right, and that she should burn him instead. She douses the house in Analysis: There are a couple of big strands here. There appears to be a very specific diatribe against the Christian Brothers faith, and its willingness to excuse tremendous sins, but also its willingness to perpetrate specific draconian disciplinary measures against youth. Perhaps this is about hypocrisy, considering she is never punished for killing her brother, yet her brother was constantly punished (and, presumably, that punishment led to his death) for likely lesser sins. Perhaps its about gender disparity, since she is not punished, yet her brother was constantly punished. Whatever the case, this story does not have a positive view of the Congregation of Christian Brothers. There is also a strong whiff of Crime and Punishment here. Aoife cannot forgive herself for her actions, and cannot forgive Mulryan for absolving her of her sin. Just as Raskolnikov seeks punishment as absolution to his crime, so does Aoife. She wants to pay for her sin, so she is going to turn herself in to the police. She is also going to try to right the other wrong done to her brother, and give him a proper burial as opposed to the shallow grave he was given as a child. This again, though, is presumably for her, and her need to give her brother dignity. She is ultimately unfulfilled in her quest for sanctification, though, as the body has been moved, she doesn't burn down her godparents' house, and neither Mulryan nor the younger father gives her any punishment beyond a few Hail Marys. Speaking of that younger father, it appears he may be the son of Father Mulryan? Since he apparently lives with Mulryan. There are several possible interpretations of that situation, but the most sensible based on the story is that they are father and son. That's another theme this story wants to tell: in small towns, abhorrent (according to this story) beliefs are codified when they are passed down generation to generation. The Christian Brothers taught her godparents, her godparents visited those beliefs on Aoife and her brother, Mulryan helped and now his son is doing the same. The townspeople all buy into the specific beliefs of this story, as well, as they all apparently are either willing to excuse the sin or willingly believe in Father Mulryan's story, or whatever. Comments: I summarize the stories because it helps me get the details straight for analysis, make me sure I'm understanding the story as best as I can. Goddamn, your stories are a pain in the rear end to summarize. The last few stories I've read have been very convoluted in terms of plot details, but also in the telling. For a short story, there is so much different crap going on in here... It's not necessarily a bad thing, because I think there is a fair amount of meat here. There is a lot of thematic stuff to analyze. But your storytelling makes it challenging to get through, and not in the good way. It feels as if you care much more about the details of your story than in how that story is told. You need both. Overall, this story is fine. I find the subject matter interesting (see the analysis section above). I find your style insufferable, though. My biggest complaint is that you withhold or give information haphazardly. For example, you tell us early that she intends to turn herself in, and she has this note which details the whole crime. You also withhold the bit about her wanting to burn the house down, though I figured that out the minute I realized she was there for penance. Part of the problem is that little of it is done with any drama (except for the scene when she's pouring gas on Mulryan, that scene has some verve). Sometimes, you tell us details like these: quote:She knew her voice held no excitement over a holiday. Another problem with this story: it's mostly exposition, even in the dialogue. Sometimes that's okay, if it's like David Fincher-style exposition, where characters are learning important, revelatory details, things that alter the plot and the themes. I think you're going for that here, but you don't quite get there. Some of that is because sometimes the dialogue doesn't make much sense. A couple of times, Aoife says things that seem exceptionally out of context: quote:“It’s a tragedy what happened. That young lad who went missing.” Your story is so full of details (it's almost 3000 words because it probably has to be), but I'm not sure you always choose the most interesting ones to actually show us. There is a lot left unsaid between the lines, some of which seems more interesting than what we do see. Why is she coming back now? What happened with her godparents? What was she actually doing in America? You don't have to answer everything, but a few missing details feel like they could have helped to flesh out the story. This story really reminds me of Manchester by the Sea. If you haven't seen that movie, I recommend it; it does a lot of similar things but does them better. That's not a knock on you--you are not an Oscar-winning screenplay writer. *SPOILER* This scene in particular feels like the emotion that you don't quite hit. A good thing: specificity. Your story feels more realistic because of the details that tie it to Ireland, and that tie it to this specific branch of faith. It definitely carries an acerbic tone, as I mentioned in my analysis section, which I'm not sure if you are going for or not. EDIT: I forgot to mention that your story is chock full of comma splices, both inside dialogue and out. Like these two: quote:She wanted to close her eyes, instead she rested her arm against the bar to try and steady her hand. Overall, your story is fine. There is a lot here to work with. It's not a good story right now, though, because of style and because of the pacing of information revelation. Those are the two biggest things in my mind. If the prose in this story had more life, I would like it more. The themes here are very interesting, and hit on some stuff that has come up in timeless literature and in recent, very good movies (also Spotlight, for another pretty close tie). Another couple of drafts and this is a much better story. If you want to discuss this crit, I am often available in IRC. BeefSupreme fucked around with this message at 20:40 on Mar 24, 2017 |
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Mar 24, 2017 20:06
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I leave my fate IN the hands of the blood throne
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Mar 28, 2017 07:09
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Love Me Back 1200 words As Declan approached Los Brillantes Tritones (the finest bar in Ensenada, Mexico, at least as according to he and Bodhi), the sound of a classical guitar radiated out into the night. Francisco’s voice followed the guitar. Declan smiled, and remembered that Francisco owed him a beer from last time. Francisco was good, but had a penchant for accidentally changing key on the fly—even with a wager on the line. The horizon over the ocean was cut in half: below, a rich vermilion sunset, above, the leading edge of an oncoming storm. Bodhi was sitting at a table in the corner of the restaurant, two beers and a laptop in front of him. Declan nodded to Francisco, then walked over, grabbed one of beers, and plopped down next to Bodhi. “Rosa hooked us up. They just finished a new hut, out on the end of the beach. She saved it for us. We can walk right out into the surf from our front door.” “Right on,” Bodhi said, and raised his bottle. His eyes stayed fix on the screen in front of him. “Francisco’s rippin’ it tonight. Must not have used up his free tequila yet,” Declan said. Bodhi didn’t reply. Declan canted his head to the side and watched his friend through squinted eyes. “Anyway, storm looks to be comin’ in, so we’ll have to hole up for a day or so, but the surf should be pretty gnarly by midweek.” “We’ve gotta go to LA.” Bodhi looked up from his screen for the first time, his face dead neutral. “OK…?” Declan shrugged. Bodhi’s face didn’t change. “Sure, when we get back, we can drive up there.” “No, I mean now. It’s my sister. Her boyfriend Chad—“ Bodhi snarled. “My sis just emailed me. We’ve gotta go ASAP. It’ll only take a few days. Sail up, chase off Chad, we’ll come back down.” “What? No way. We just got here. We took the whole month off. We’re headed south from here, not north. Puerto Escondido awaits. Your sister can take care of herself.” Bodhi shook his head. “No way, man. It’s my sister. Family comes first.” “Look, yeah, gently caress Chad.” Declan threw his hands up and nodded. “But Josie… I love your sister as much as anybody, but she can be a real bitch.” Bodhi’s eyes narrowed. “Watch your goddamned mouth, Deck. Just because she turned you down doesn’t mean you get to talk about her like that.” “Oh, come on. That’s not fair.” Declan looked away. Declan wanted to bring up the other times that Josie had used Bodhi, that she’d abused their relationship, made a mockery of the word family. Francisco crooned from the stage in the corner: Cruzare los montes/ los ríos, los valles/ por irte a encontrar. He had remained on key, so far tonight. Declan turned back to Bodhi. “Look, we’ve got to wait the storm out anyway, so let’s stay, surf the storm waves, then we can head back up.” “If we leave tonight, we can beat the storm.” Declan’s eyes popped. “Holy poo poo, man. You know I’ve got your back, but that’s crazy.” Declan stared at Bodhi. Bodhi didn’t flinch. “poo poo, you’re serious, huh? Alright. Pay for the beers. I’ll meet you at the boat.” ~~~~~~ The last vestiges of the sunset hung above the horizon. Bodhi stood at the helm, and Declan raced around the deck adjusting ropes. The continually rising wind blasted them from the southwest, tilting the aptly Full Tilt Boogie ominously onto its starboard side, but pushing the boat invariably forward. “We can’t stay out in this, man!” Declan shouted into the wind. Bodhi’s eyes stayed forward; he hadn’t heard him. Declan untied a line, moved the boom a foot to port, then secured it again. He turned back to his friend. “Bodhi!” The howling wind drowned his cries, though, and Bodhi stayed fixed on the course. The first droplets of rain began to spatter against the deck. Declan raced back to the helm. “We’ve gotta reduce mainsail, Bodhi!” Declan said once he stood next to his friend. “The boat can’t take it!” Behind them, the sky was completely dark, as the storm engulfed the sky. There was a full moon, but it was completely invisible. Bodhi didn’t respond at first, but nodded tersely after a few seconds. Declan wasted no time. He leaped up to the base of the mast and began working the lines. The wind whipped them taut, then loose, then taut as he worked to shorten the sail. A sudden gust ripped the line from his hand. The loose end flailed around like a downed power line, and just as dangerous. Declan leaped to the base of the line and grabbed the slippery rope; the tail snapped against his side. “gently caress!” He held on, though, and secured the line. A series of thunderclaps ripped through the sky. A few seconds later, another boom followed—directly above them, high in the mainmast. Declan whipped his eyes up. That was the kind of thundercrack you might not survive. Declan prayed for the first time in his life. ~~~~~~ Declan gripped the wheel with one hand, His rib with the other. Next to him, Bodhi held his phone to his ear. They’d arrived 12 hours after they’d planned. The boat had taken on several inches of water as the storm chased them, and the wind had wreaked havoc on their navigation, even as they were under power. Even still, they had survived. Neither of them had slept. “poo poo, no answer,” Bodhi said. He looked at his phone, as if the screen held some answer as to why his sister wasn’t picking up her phone. “Just drive to her place. She’ll be home.” They arrived at Bodhi’s sister’s house after about 20 minutes. Bodhi jumped out of the car and jogged to the door. He knocked heavily. Declan walked up behind him. Nobody answered after a minute. Bodhi rang the doorbell a few times. Another minute. He knocked again. Then, a muffled voice yelled out behind the door. The lock turned, and the door swung open. Josie stood there in a bathrobe. “Bodhi?” Her eyes went wide. Her hair was clumped together, and her cheeks sunk into her face. “Hey, wasn’t expecting you.” “What do you mean?” Bodhi looked past Josie. “I got your email. Where’s that’s dickhead Chad?” “My email…?” Josie’s eyes unfocused for a few seconds, then refocused on Bodhi’s face. “Oh, right! Don’t worry about that guy. He skipped town yesterday.” She wrapped the robe tighter around her. “But… Can I borrow a grand?” Bodhi’s eyes snapped to his sister’s. “What do you mean…” His sister tilted her face down, looking up at him like a puppydog—a sick puppydog. “gently caress, I should have known.” He turned and walked back toward the car. Declan stared at Josie. She gave him the same puppydog look. “How about you, big guy?” she said, a slight grin showing on her gaunt face. Declan flipped her off and followed Bodhi. He threw his arm around his friend’s shoulder and grimaced as his side howled in pain. He stifled a moan. “Come on, let’s go fix the boat.”
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Apr 3, 2017 06:16
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i'm new here so maybe you have already covered this but what makes something good judging
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Apr 4, 2017 00:00
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Chili posted:Start with .095 and subtract hms divided by dms. Divide that product by .04. To gain 2.375 in percentage of dq's, a judgewould have to go the entire week without a erro. Add the sum of 1-4, multiply by 100 and divide by 6. i got 47.56666(repeating)e^-2 whatd you get
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Apr 4, 2017 05:00
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I am here to pass judgment on all you mentally unstable people
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Apr 5, 2017 05:56
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Critique of All the Future Behind You, by Sitting Here Sorry this took me so long to get out. I spent a good bit of time wrestling with this story. I followed my (now) usual pattern of summary, analysis, then comments. If you have any questions or want to discuss deeper or tell me your intentions or any of that, obviously you'll see me on IRC at some point. Summary: The story, narrated in first person by the protagonist, is a string of thoughts from the narrator as he dances in the middle of a park by himself. He casts aspersions on those who watch him dance by himself (or, as he says, with the ghost of his dead wife). He slowly reveals the story of how he ended up a widower (wife died in the fire that consumed their house), as well as some backstory on them as a couple: emigrated from Germany, where they had been "the fire at the heart of Berlin". He works, she shops. He misses her fine things, and so now he steals laundry from strangers. He wears all of that laundry at once, and dances in it, in a sort of strange attempt to feel his wife again. At the end of the story, he continues to dance as a young couple gets closer, and he revels in their public display of affection. Analysis: I'm not 100% certain what this story's major theme is. The biggest, I guess, is the strange ways that grief manifests in us. This old man longs so desperately to feel the presence of his wife that he tries to manufacture the sensation by wearing things she might have worn, and dancing in the type of place they might have danced (or once upon a time did dance), feeling his own body as he would hers. He is cognizant of the strangeness of it, as people gawk at him, but seems pretty over it. Or maybe he actually likes it, just a bit? There is a bitterness in the way he addresses them in his inner monologue: "Your world, young gawkers. We watched ascension of the devices that you now use to mock me." "Are you recording now, little spies? Are you laughing at an old man’s pathetic crooning?" "Watch from your cowardly shadows as I rest my head on the ghost of my wife’s shoulder. Pah!" In the end, he actually seems to settle on a measure of happiness, watching the young couple have the sort of moment he might have had with his wife. Or perhaps their encounter reminds him viscerally, in a way that his stolen-laundry-dance can't, of his own night in the park. It actually ends on a hopeful note, as love persists beyond the man's own circumstances. The existence of this young couple turns him to hope. The story is very sympathetic to the narrator, and attempts to impress on the reader the impossibility of understanding the emotional state of another. What to nearly everyone would appear to be socially unacceptable behavior is to the man a desperate attempt to soothe his broken heart. How could they know, asks the story, and if they did, could they even understand? The man accepts this, and is shameless as a result. He calls out everything they are doing--filming, taking pictures, making little comments... And this makes me think that he's actually not only okay with it, but even enjoying it? The title is All the Future Behind You. About two thirds of the way into the story, the man hearkens back to "that night in Berlin, when my whole future was still in front of me." The man is effectively saying that he has no more future. His whole future has passed, along with his wife. And so, he looks back on his future, behind him, and is attempting to put himself back in that place and time. Comments: I think your story works, mostly. It's not perfect. I think the timing of information revelation is critical to this story: when we find out what, and in what order, and all that. I am (once again, as in Mrenda's story) reminded of Manchester by the Sea, which I think nailed this reveal. I am reminded of (massive spoilers, obviously)this scene, in particular. I don't think you nail the info reveal. I think we know too early that his house burned down and his wife with it; I think the longer we think him weird, the more powerful that reveal. We could know earlier that he's a laundry thief. The perspective is a super important choice, and I'm not positive what the right one is. I think first person probably works. But, again, I think it gives us maybe a little too much information. As I told Chili as I pre-crit his story (sorry, Kaishai!), I think sometimes ambiguity can be tremendously helpful in getting the reader inside the head of a character dealing with chaotic emotions. Of course, I'm a big faulkner nerd, so I'm used to that sort of writing. I think there is a version of this story as told by a knowing outsider that works better. Or perhaps some restructuring of information makes this thing stronger. Sorry I can't give you a definitive answer. I've thought a fair bit about it, but don't have much more concrete to say in that regard. The level of detail in the relationship is good. It feels like a real couple, with real lives. I can imagine this exact couple. I think if you want it to hit harder, though, the wife needs to be more fully realized. Hard to do, when she's only a ghost (oh yeah your story reminds me of Ghost, duh, which in this regard had the benefit of Patrick Swayze playing the deceased loved one). All I really know about her is that she liked to shop, and buy nice things, and also they danced in parks. I know a good bit about them as a couple, but not about her, or, actually, him, either. It's a hard story to critique. It is in no way a bad story--that is, there is no obvious "fix this" element. Everything is fine. It's in the subtle shading that this thing ultimately falls short of making me feel the weight of the narrator's loss. Some of that is tone, I think. The switch from slightly bitter, shameless old man to hopeful encourager of young love is a little abrupt. He's a little too wild-eyed to feel the deep sadness he is obviously feeling. Of course the counter-argument to all of this is that how could his tone be consistent in the face of his wildly chaotic emotions? Deep sadness, longing, anger, hope... I don't know. You need a better writing coach than me, I think, to polish this one.
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Apr 7, 2017 05:59
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Yeah come on judges fjgj
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Apr 10, 2017 08:39
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alright i'm in. I've always wanted to be a unique snowflake but I don't want any of your free extra words
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Apr 15, 2017 04:59
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The Ideal Husband 1189 Words Dani stood at the back window, admiring the view: her man, Johnathan, shirtless, toned and muscular, glistening in the afternoon sun, pushing a lawnmower around their backyard. The rhythmic chop of the mower blades conjured images of white-picket living in her mind. They didn’t have the fence, but they had almost everything else. She turned and looked over the kitchen and living room. Both were spotless, marred by neither an ounce of dust nor a single misplaced item. 12 fresh-cut roses, vibrant green and deep crimson, sat in a vase on the table. “Welcome home, Danielle.” She hadn’t noticed the mower stop, nor heard the door open behind her. She turned to see Johnathan standing just inside the doorway. She cringed. “I hate it when you call me that.” Johnathan tilted his head and stared at Dani, nonplussed. “I’m sorry. You’ve never mentioned it before. What would you prefer I call you?” Dani closed her eyes. “Call me… It doesn’t matter. That’s not the point.” She took a deep breath, shrugged her shoulders, and fixed a smile on her face. Johnathan remained blank-faced. Her smile turned to a smirk. “Once you’re done with the yard, clean-up and meet me in the bedroom.” This request, Johnathan understood. He returned her smirk and flashed his eyes at her. “Sure.” ---------- Dani panted with exertion as she rested astride Johnathan. She ran her fingers over chest. His body had nary a blemish—no scars, no tattoos, no birthmarks. He was smiling up at her, his mouth filled with two rows of pearly whites straighter than piano keys. “Let’s make a baby.” The words hung in the air, held aloft for just a moment, weightless, as if neither of them could yet provide the words with gravity. That ended when Johnathan spoke. “You know we can’t.” He settled his hands atop hers. He gave her a soft smile. “You know I can’t. Not yet. Perhaps in a few years, after they make some more technological advancements.” Her words and his now crashed over Dani like a rogue wave. Her shoulders slumped, her eyes dropped. Her hands trailed down his torso in one last search for some defect, and found none. She had found his fault, of course, but she would have preferred a visible one. She rolled off Johnathan. “Just hold me, please.” Johnathan complied without hesitation. “Of course.” ---------- The next morning, a soft whistling filtered through the open bedroom door. Dani’s eyelids fluttered open gently. She could smell fresh coffee percolating. She rose and slipped into her robe, hung over the door. Her clothes for the day were set out for her, as well. Johnathan was meticulous. “Good morning,” she said as she entered the kitchen. Johnathan stood by the stove, showered, dressed, and well put together. His hand gripped a skillet, and as she watched he flipped an omelet: up, over, down, perfect. “Good morning,” he replied. “I made your favorite this morning. Egg whites, spinach, tomato, feta cheese. It will be ready in two minutes.” He smiled at her, a wide, earnest smile. Dani grabbed her phone from the counter and sat down at the table. One new message: her mother. Only her mother left voicemails anymore. It was five minutes long. She tuned out after the first. Once it ended, she huffed and rolled her eyes. “Something wrong?” Johnathan asked from the kitchen. “Just my mother.” She set her phone down and went to stand next to Johnathan, who was plating the omelet and pouring coffee. “She has some guy she wants me to meet up with. Still, doesn’t approve of… You. Of us. She’s upset I haven’t given her the wedding she’s wanted since I was a little child. Sad I haven’t given her…” Dani’s hands went to her belly, then dropped back to her side. “Sad you haven’t given her what?” “Nothing. Don’t worry about her.” “I still haven’t met her.” He set the food down on the counter and turned to Dani. “We’ve been together for over a year, now. I would like to meet her, to get to know your family, if you think it would be alright.” “I don’t.” She turned away. “Okay. Whatever you think is best, Danielle. Come on; breakfast is ready.” She flinched. “I told you…” She stopped, knowing it was pointless to press on something he couldn’t understand. She shook her head. “Don’t you ever get upset? Mad?” Her voice rose steadily like the wind before a storm. “Doesn’t anything ever bother you? Don’t you have any preferences? Don’t you ever make any mistakes?” “Would you like me to make mistakes? It’s not in my nature, but I can try.” “gently caress!” she howled, her voice the full-throated roar of a tornado. It touched down only for a moment, though, then her calm returned. She turned to Johnathan. “Put the coffee in my mug and fix me a bagel. I’ll eat on the way to work.” ---------- Dani stood in the doorway to the kitchen, perfectly still. She had arrived home from work a few minutes early and had entered the house silently, wanting to watch Johnathan unnoticed. She made no noise, no movements. He noticed her anyway. Standing at the sink washing vegetables, he half-turned, and said, “Danielle, could you bring me a knife? I’ve got something great planned for dinner.” Dani moved only slightly, mere fractions of inches, and yet there was a noticeable shift in her demeanor, in her posture, in the set of her face. Her eyes faded from clear blue sky to roiling ocean depths. Her hair became a blazing corona of golden fire. Her shoulders tightened, and her fingers curled into fists. “Of course, dear.” She floated to the knife rack and unsheathed the large chef’s knife. She turned it over in her hands, admiring the polished finish, the perfect balance, the sharpened edge (Johnathan’s handiwork). The edge nicked her palm. Blood welled slowly from the tiny cut. Dani stared at it blankly, then grabbed the knife handle in her bloody palm. She turned and slid up behind Johnathan. He turned to face her. She thrust the knife into the flesh below his right pectoral. She watched as a translucent blue fluid poured from the gash. She thrust the knife again. A flap of shirt and skin fell open, revealing wires and ceramic bones and more blue fluid. Johnathan stared down at the open wound in his chest. His faced remained neutral. “This will take time to repair.” Dani’s hand snaked out and picked up the skillet Johnathan had set out. She swung it hard and connected with Johnathan’s head. He staggered. She swung again. His eyes began to twitch. She swung again. He dropped to the floor. She swung again. He stopped moving. Dani stood over his body. She took out her phone and dialed a number. After a few moments, a voice answered. “Hello. I need a new model. My current one had an accident.” Dani said. She looked down at Johnathan. Blue fluid continued to trickle out of his wounds. “I’ll need to make a few adjustments to the order, first.”
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Apr 17, 2017 07:02
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Sitting Here posted:Mostly, i just want a totally different story Mrenda posted:Good words hiding an emptiness oh tgod i dont have to worry about winning thanks for taking that burden off my shoulders phew
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Apr 18, 2017 03:08
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I could have sworn I heard something about fjgj but I guess not
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Apr 18, 2017 07:10
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in me a goal
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Apr 19, 2017 06:04
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Angels in the Outfield 1159 words THWAP. “Steeerike.” Several thousand eyes turned to the scoreboard, to the blank spot next to the name ’Eggels’, the name of a hot young pitching prospect for the Los Angeles Angels. A heartbeat later, 101 filled that void, and several thousand voices gasped softly. THWAP. “Strike two.” 100. Another gasp. Perched atop the bleachers in left field, Abezethibou yawned and flicked his finger as Eggels threw his next pitch. 103. Abezethibou made a face. “Oops,” he said to nobody, and nobody heard him. He didn’t want to arouse too much suspicion too quickly. The big boss thought he could squeeze more out of this kid. Down below, Eggels was pumping his fist, and the batter he’d just struck out was staring at Eggels as if he’d just sprout horns. Not yet, Abezethibou thought, and chuckled. Two more batters strode to the plate, and two more batters turned right back around, confounded, and curious where this kid had found 10 miles per hour on his fastball since the end of last season. Several innings passed this way. A batter here and there would start to time up Eggels’ fastball, the THWAP of leather on leather became the crack of leather on wood, and so Abezethibou started mixing in a little sideways flick here and there. Now the symphony of thwaps was joined by a chorus of broken bats, as Abezethibou turned an explosive fastball into a nasty cutter. “Hello, Abe,” a honey-sweet voice said to Abezethibou’s left. He shuddered involuntarily, and turned to his left to see the source of this monstrosity of a sound. There sat a woman, radiant, glowing, haloed in brilliant gold and clothed in pure white. Her skin was flawless, her iridescent hair fluttered in the warm Anaheim air. Abezethibou thought her hideous, and gagged at the sight of her. He looked away. “Eremiel.” He shivered at the sound of the name leaving his mouth. “What are you doing here?” “Can’t an angel drop in on an old friend?” “Sure. You and me, friends.” Eggels had taken the mound again, and Abezethibou now had to split his attention between his job and the unimaginable nightmare seated next to him. “Last time we spoke, I’m pretty sure you told me that I had ‘wrath beyond measure’ awaiting me. I wouldn’t exactly call that a ‘see you later’.” He flicked his finger a little too hard, and the ball dipped sharply and scooted past the catcher. Abezethibou grimaced. “God is a God of redemption and forgiveness, Abe. Or have you forgotten the scriptures?” Eremiel flapped her wings, filling the stadium with a gentle, benevolent breeze. Shoulders drooped in relaxation all around the seats below. Abezethibou continued his task. After a few minutes, even he began to enjoy the breeze—and the hint of lily-of-the-valley it carried with it. His nose flinched when he recognized the scent, and remembered its source. Eremiel smiled as she watched him. What’s your boss want with this kid?” Eremiel asked. “Same as always. His soul. What else is Lucifer interested in?” “Fair point. It is pretty clever, a Los Angeles Angel making a deal with the devil. How’s your boss treating you these days, anyway?” Eremiel asked, a smile full of pity on her face. She reached out a hand and gently touched the bare stump of Abezethibou’s former left wing. The fallen angel screeched at her touch and recoiled in horror. “Don’t touch me, you foul being!” Abezethibou screamed. A few heads seated below looked around the stadium, confused and mildly frightened. A new sound exploded out of the batter’s box: a loud crack, the kind that presaged a long home run. The confused fans forgot what had frightened them, turned to watch it and groaned in disappointment. “poo poo.” Abezethibou turned and looked at Eremiel. Memories long forgotten, long buried, raced to the surface. Memories of friendship, of kinship. He growled. “You’re going to get me in serious trouble, Eremiel.” “You’re a demon, now, Abe. You live in hell. How much more trouble could you get in?” “You angels don’t know poo poo about hell, do you?” Eremiel shrugged. “Good point. Don’t really have much interest in it, to be honest.” She turned to look at the field. With Abezethibou’s help taking an unplanned break, Eggels had managed to get himself deep in a bases-loaded jam, with only one out. A double play would solve his problem, but his control had gone mysteriously absent. “Why are you here, Eremiel? Just to mess with me?” “I’m here for this next pitch, actually. Doing my job. You remember? Guardian angel? Anyway, this guy’s going to foul it off, and it’s going to drill that little girl down the line, right in the head.” Eremiel extended a graceful finger and pointed to a young girl, no older than 5 years, hair in pigtails and wearing pink overalls. “Or, at least, it would, if I weren’t here. But I can let you take this one…?” The question hung there like a ripe, golden apple, juicy and bewitching. Abezethibou took a deep breath, and his nostrils flooded once again with the scent of lily-of-the-valley. This time, he didn’t cringe, and he didn’t gag. He looked around the stadium. It had taken on a glorious golden color as the sun faded toward the horizon, and it reminded him of the light of heaven—a sight he had not seen in millennia. The pitch flew from Eggels’ fingertips and raced toward the plate. The batter’s hips began his swing, dragging his bat through the strike zone. Bat and ball met with a crack, and the ball sped down the line toward a five-year-old girl in pink overalls. Abezethibou cringed. He wasn’t sure which outcome he feared more: the ball hitting the girl, or the ball not hitting the girl. He closed his eyes. Then he flicked his finger. Groans once again filled the stadium. The ball had landed fair, and the batter was on his way to second. “Nice job,” Eremiel said, real happiness in her voice. “Call on me,” she said, then vanished. Abezethibou exhaled his relief, and reveled in the strange feeling coursing through him. It was a feeling long dormant, but one he knew well—joy. “Abezethibou.” The feeling evaporated instantaneously. Abezethibou trembled violently. He knew that voice well. Like Eremiel’s voice, this one was sweeter than sugar, only this was sweet like rotten fruit. He did not have to look to know that this was the voice of Lucifer. And he did not have to ask to know that he was not bringing praise. “I was… Studying the art of temptation?” He cringed at the stupidity of his own words. He felt Lucifer’s presence come up behind him, and for the second time, a hand caressed the stump on his back. “You always were weak-willed, Abezethibou.” Lucifer moved his hand to Abezethibou’s other wing, this one full, healthy, beautiful. “poo poo. I’ve always hated goddamned Angels, anyway.”
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Apr 24, 2017 06:58
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SkaAndScreenplays posted:You're not wrong but about my failure rate but extenuating circumstances are a hill I'm willing to die on... Sitting Here posted:maybe after you submit your words for this week I will judge this forthcoming brawl. I love fights, so you better not let me down ska
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Apr 28, 2017 01:50
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Thranguy posted:And signups are now closed. I stand ready to preside over these lawless criminals.
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Apr 29, 2017 09:05
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SkaAndScreenplays posted:Didn't fail so let's go... BRAWL: SKA vs SH A lovable, persistent loser challenges an established heavyweight. Any kind of contest will do: a fight, a game of chance, a battle of wills, a pissing match, whatever. Feel free to ask for flash rules  1250 words. Due at 12 Noon PST on 5/8/17. or go home to your mama
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Week 247 Crits I was listening to the soundtracks from the Ocean's movies while I read your stories, and it helped a few of you, and it really did not help others. Although I blame the stories for that, not Danny Ocean. Stories were scored 1 to 10. Not read in judgemode. A couple of broad stroke criticisms: nobody knows how to establish stakes. These are crime stories, people. If I'm going to care about the crime, the heist, the whatever, I gotta know what the stakes are. What do these people want? Why do they want it? What are they willing to do to get it? What happens if they don't? I mean, come on, have any of you even seen a heist movie before? Secondly, tone. Very few stories this week had any sense of fun and adventure. Or, you could go the film noir direction, go dark. Of course, that requires a strong voice. Few had that, either. Where is your sense of style, people???? Free Offer: I will do a full critique for three stories from this week. First come, first serve. Fleta Mcgurn - Journey to Zion Lotta names in the first two paragraphs. Lotta names in general. This story... I mean, there is a crime here, sure. And I guess there are some semi-elaborate machinations to make it happen? Not really, actually. Okay, here is my judgment: this story is boring, and bad. There are interesting elements. The justifications a person has to accept for these kinds of actions, the rioting emotions of the various participants, the collaboration of a range of people to keep it secret. I wouldn't say you really delve into any of them, though. You made 2400 words seem really long. Nothing exciting happens. There is almost no tension in this story. I think part of the problem is that you tell this story from Father Frank's perspective, and I don't like him. I don't empathize with him. I don't feel anything positive toward him. I do feel for Dora, but we get nothing approaching a satisfying ending for her, OR, alternatively, a deeply impactful tragic ending. There is a version of this story from Dora's perspective that hits way harder, probably. Or, maybe there is some elaborately planned escape, with the collaboration of the mothers, to flee the clutches of Frank's zealous hands. THAT is a story I would read. 2/10 ThirdEmperor - Sea Shanties I have some problems with your prose, particularly your descriptions. See me after class. Your blocking in the action sequences is not great. Makes it hard to follow the action. I have some problems with this story, too. The tone is weird. It's very serious? Except it's a story about sailors stealing the Siren's Song. Where's the magic in this story? Where's the adventure? Problem two: you take way too long to reveal what it is these guys are doing. I guess if you're really sharp, you could piece it together simply from the fact that they plug their ears with wax, and they're in the middle of the sea. But I can't think of a good reason to withhold that information. This is a heist, and usually heist stories set up the stakes early. Come to think of it, I have no idea WHY these guys want the Siren's Song. The ending is fine. I don't think it's bad, but I also don't think it's good. It's fine. It makes sense. I wouldn't call it satisfying. I guess part of that is I have no clue what the stakes are, as I mentioned above. I also have no clue what sort of reaction his crewmates might have to the loss of both the song and to these men. Also, does the song reach the surface? A better sense of some of these things would make this a stronger story. 5/10 SurreptitiousMuffin - Radio silence Your words are good, as usual. This story starts off like a fun caper, and ends like any of a number of alien horror stories. Actually, it reminds me of an Erogenous Beef story, about some weird psycho-killer plant in space. Anyway, This story is pretty decent, has some solid tension, a few decent WTF moments, but ultimately I have a hard time calling this a crime caper. I also don't think you developed the characters nearly enough to make me care. Marco, in particular, is only really established in the rearview mirror. 6/10 Kaishai - Rose Gold An actual crime caper! And a halfway decent one at that. Good prose, clear stakes, competent construction. Rare things, this week. I think the characters aren't particularly deep, though they do have relatively clear motivations. I'm not sure if the ending is supposed to be a twist, but I think it's telegraphed a little too heavily. Of course these assholes aren't going to get the gold they came for, not in a city that has supernatural roses in it. And the girl is a bit too pure to be an interesting character. Also, I think the rose imagery is a bit heavy. Anyway, decent story. I liked it just a hair more than the other judges. 7/10 SkaAndScreenplays - The Bulldog and the Barman Come on, man. This isn't a short story. I know the prompt doesn't say no screenplays, but should it have to? Perhaps you had this idea already working in your mind, and so it came out this way... But it doesn't make the story better to read. Screenplays are designed to be translated to the screen; prose isn't written in this format for a reason. It's not the best format for reading a story. Other than that obvious problem, this isn't a bad story. It's obfuscated by the formatting, and it takes waaaaay longer than it needs to, but there is a tidy little con job in here, with stakes and established relationships and whatnot. Too bad about the other stuff. 3/10 flerp - The Memory Thief So, a short little riff on Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Okay. Except it's not particularly interesting. He says 'no names', keeps it simpler... And this story is simple. But not to its benefit. We really just don't have enough information to make this story worth anything. No stakes (which you even actively minimize, through the condition of her cancer--when you say that it doesn't really matter if he screws up because she's going to die soon anyway), nothing about our protagonist, nothing really about Marleen other than that she gets annoyed by her husband of 47 years. We never find out what he wants from the deal. I think this story is bad. 3/10 Jay W. Friks - The Blue Colby ""That" referring to his rear end." This is bad, and now I don't like your story. Not a good start. Story needs more description, especially early. I need to establishing shot, here. Where are they, what's it like, why can't the man call the police? Anyway, I'm glad to see your formatting has improved, dramatically. This story has waaaay too much exposition, though. Also, it's way too long. And it's convoluted as hell, which is fine, but it's not convoluted in the fun way. There are so many different things going on, but none of them deepen the characters in any appreciable way--they mostly just move the story forward. It's also another story that ends supernaturally, but I can't really find a reason for it. The all-consuming sapphire doesn't have any symbolic nature, nor does the house it came from, it appears. If it did, I might buy it more, but it doesn't. Not to my reading. You've clearly got an inventive mind, Jay, but it often seems as if it's all just spur of the moment, rather than well designed. 2/10 Djeser - Why I didn't submit this week Some good reasons imo DQ Uranium Phoenix - Even the Gods Get Lost Here Finally, something with some adventure! Good prose, actual tone, interesting characters and character motivations (and interactions), fun action, a solid story. It is pulpy, and as one of the other judges mentioned, a bit brainless, but it is fun. And I am susceptible to pulp. One of the few stories that made me feel like the reader had even a passing knowledge of crime fiction, or heist movies, or anything of that ilk. 10/10 Flesnolk - Mohave Evenings The sheriff can just casually recognize a Bugatti Veyron? Also, your prose is purple. Trying a little too hard with the descriptions. Holy hell get to the gotdamn point. This story is boring as poo poo. You had an unlimited word count, and you spend all of having dudes talk around this thing they're maybe going to do? Come on. And if you're going to hold hostage the story of the village, at least make it interesting. At least make it important. Also, Christ, all that, then they just get ambushed? Like, what? This story has no stakes, no tension, mostly because you waste all this time trying to characterize these dudes through half-baked dialogue rather than establishing just what the hell is going on. The only remotely interesting thing that happens in this story is when dudes with assault rifles bust down the door. Start your story where it's interesting. 4/10 Sitting Here - Sickly Sweet You are correct, way too many words. This is pretty good. There is a crime! And a complex effort to pull off the crime! Of course, I think one of the limitations of the story is that we don't get a sense of what's actually going on--we get the street level view, but we never see the man behind the curtain. Who is actually extorting Silva? What are they doing it for? Did they mostly want him to stop getting his meds? Lots of questions. I'm pretty sure that's not what you're interested in, though, but I still think it's a limitation. This is about addiction, I think. Cassie/Mica replaces a chemical addiction with an emotional one, founded in con jobs. Malik is addicted to feeling important, I think. I like the work you do to establish character motivations; that's the strongest part of the story, I'd say. You have some distracting typographical errors, particularly toward the end of the story, which I'm assuming is a time thing more than anything. I didn't really dig the supernatural element of this story. It sort of comes out of nowhere, and I don't really understand why? I was digging the characters, the setup, all that, but then, this weird bog shows up and starts swallowing people. A better ending and I think this takes the cake. 8/10 The Cut of Your Jib - Love We Can't Jump Over Wait, is this a story about Diamond Dave, Bay Area musician/DJ/pop artist? Ah, drat. Not actually. Anyway, this story is decent. I think the voice you're trying to establish gets in the way of the required exposition of plot details. And the plot itself doesn't make a whole lot of sense to me. Nevertheless, this story establishes well a lived-in relationship between these two characters, even if it fails to really establish the stakes for Dave's heist. Why marriage is so important to him, and why he needs McClusky's rings. But, yeah. Good character work saves this one. This has a bit of a Travis McGee feel. The voice you establish, which I maintain gets in the way of story details, makes for a charming lead and one of the few stories with any emotional attachment this week. 7/10
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May 1, 2017 22:19
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