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The Sean posted:This has been one of my favorite studies since learning about it in college. I hope the story comes out well. i would write the best story with that prompt.
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Oct 11, 2017 18:44
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the last week to actually surpass 30 entries was January 2017. People will probably fail this week (oh poo poo i have to write a story...) and put it back in the mid 20s, which is good-average.
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Oct 13, 2017 20:52
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lol whoops i had it written down as oct 16th. welp, gently caress me.
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Oct 15, 2017 08:02
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flerp posted:MEGABRAWL PROMPT 3 balance 302 words the things i’ve lost and the things i’ve found could balance out a scale. each time the universe provides it takes away, no matter how i feel. i found a penny, shiny and new, and put it in a box. my dog ran away the very next day, i forgot to do the lock. that was just the first time, i don’t know what will be the last. My box was filled with my most specialist things, all represented the past. there was a feather i found at my grandma’s house, before it burned to the ground. a rock that’s green and silky smooth i traded a finger for. there’s a bouncy ball, three jacks, and my favorite sticker, they cost me a quite a lot: my only shoes, a picture of my mom, and my childhood dinosaur. it sounds quite grim, even morose, when i list them in a row, but i didn’t have much, so what i had seemed like an awful lot. i carried my box with me from home to home, until i was on my own. i looked at my stuff and remembered the deal, and i was thankful for so much to trade away. i threw the penny in a well, and landed myself a job. the feather found me a little apartment, just enough to rest my head. an education took my rock, smashed into little bits, met my wife when my ball bounced away, a jack each for my kids. I stuck my sticker on a loan application, then we moved into our house. after that my box was empty, all my favorite things were gone. but i do not complain, nor want for more, i wouldn’t ever risk it. as i see it, i’ve cheated the cosmos, i have far more than allowed.
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Oct 15, 2017 09:41
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critSimbyotic posted:The Amazing Victor Steele Amusement Park  ok well whoops u sure did screw the pooch (that means have sex with a dog, and is a very bad saying imo). your whole story built up to a conflict, and then just...ended. Normally a story has a few phases. You introduce some sort of conflict, which means there is something your char needs/wants and is unable to get. then the char does some poo poo and gets that thing (or doesn't, but nobody likes those stories because we love happy endings). Here your character wants to ride that ride, and then he doesn't get to. the end. he doesn't even try? what a boring dude. furthermore, you didn't really set up anything about his parents beforehand. like, if you'd led with he was walking down the road with a black eye, i'd know his parents were pieces of poo poo, that's why he ran away. but how does that really mesh with him needing them to get what he wants? what story were you trying to tell here? because what I got from it was "your life sucks, don't try to get any joy out of it because you won't get it, and everything just ends up back the same as it started." pretty bleak. Overall: pick a tense and stick with it. Your story jumps all around. rookie mistake. Past perfect: "He’d been" "he’d had" past: "didn’t bother" present: "People were walking", "can’t quite choose" perspective: pick a POV and stick with it. are you telling the story through the eyes of LJ? This is called "third limited" and it's often the most effective. ESPECIALLY in stories where your character doesn't have all the details and we discover them with him. third with an omniscent narrator is interesting when you want the reader to have more information than the characters. Here you should have stuck with third limited, as having all the information up front ruins the story. only tell us things that LJ knows, sees, experiences.first person is when you tell the story AS the character, and is harder to pull off, but can be super fun if the character themselves is an interesting person. 2nd person, or saying "you" all the time, should be avoided almost always. try not to stick the reader into your story.
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Oct 24, 2017 20:36
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BabyRyoga and Simbyotic you don't have PMs so i can't get you your archive password. email me crabrock@gmail.com so i can get those to you.
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Oct 25, 2017 05:20
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putting your prompt in is more for kaishai when she archives it. gently caress the judges. i forget to link my subprompt like, every single time. sorry kai
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Oct 30, 2017 08:14
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hey, did you know Some Artificial Raspberry Flavoring Comes From the Anal Gland of a Beaver? in  daddy needs a new avatar
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Oct 31, 2017 18:01
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Acceptance 1124 words The suits of the space marines were built to survive planetary reentry, unfortunately, their bodies hadn’t advanced past the bit-of-bone-floating-in-a-bag-of-soup stage, and they splattered accordingly. After the ships left the system, the bodies of fallen soldiers littered the beaches of the crab planet. Bleeborg the giant hermit crab was dumb in all the wrong ways. He watched the flashes in the sky but understood none of it. His smarter conspecifics had hidden beneath rocks or retreated to the sea, but Bleeborg picked over the dead bodies as soon as they landed, in awe of the shiny buttons and bits of tattered fabric. He used his big, scoop-like claw to remove the soft bits out of the soldier’s shell, and held it up in his claws. The helmet was white, save for the black streaks of soot. One side had a clear section, and when Bleeborg twisted a dial on the side, a mirror fell down. An ugly crab with growths and a grotesque shell stared back at him. He dropped the helmet in his surprise, and it rolled onto its side and came to rest. The crab he’d seen in the helmet did not scamper out. Bleeborg crept up to the helmet, tapping the mirror with one of his long, jointed legs. “Who are you?” he asked his reflection. He looked inside the helmet, but saw nobody inside. Bleeborg had never owned a nice shell. He awoke too late in the day to find any fresh ones discarded in the night by roving octopuses, and was not strong enough to hold onto any decent shell abandoned by his friends. This new shell was the fanciest he’d ever seen. Smoother than a pearl, harder than obsidian. Seeing nobody inside, he shucked his terrible shell filled with holes and asymmetrical kinks and slipped into his new decadent home. He strutted down the beach like he’d found a shell made of pure nacre. His friends stuck their heads out of their hidey holes and gaped. “Is that Bleeborg?” they whispered. “It can’t be.” Oh but it was. There was no mistaking those pungent pheromones—a cross between decaying fish and sulphuric vents. The other crabs approached him, both repulsed by his stench and enthralled by his appearance. When Bleeborg turned to smile at them, they saw that he was still ugly, with crusty deposits and algae growing on his face. They recoiled away from him. But those behind him caught their reflection in the mirrored visor of the helmet, and sidled up close to him. “You are so strong and handsome,” said the males, and he wanted to be their friend. “I bet you would sire many strong babies,” said the females, and he wanted to be their lover. But every time Bleeborg turned to his admirers they shrunk away from him. Others called out from behind him. The hapless crab heard all the compliments, but saw only disgust. He searched and searched for those who liked him, but could find them nowhere. He roamed the beach until dark, searching for his hidden adulators. When the sun went down, the compliments ceased, and the other crabs retreated from his stink. Bleeborg crawled back to his hovel downwind of the other crab homes, and cried himself to sleep. He woke before dawn, and ran into the lush grasses, away from the beach and the other crabs. He continued inland until he could no longer hear the crashing waves. Winged pests buzzed around him, and he snapped at them with his claws. A bird landed on his helmet shell and pecked at it. Bleeborg crawled up inside and stared out the two-way mirror visor. He watched the bird hop off and walk around the helmet. It stopped to stare at its reflection, preened, and then scratched at the plastic. Bleeborg had seen birds before, they often flew over the beach and snatched smaller crabs from the ground. They were pretty and white, like his helmet. This bird was uglier than him: its head didn’t have any feathers, and its beak was long and gnarled. What feathers he did have looked diseased and unkempt, and were the color of rotting squid. He was bigger than the birds at the beach, and Bleeborg shook with fear. “Hey,” said the bird, “what kind of shell is this? It’s got nothing good to grab it by” “It is a gift from the stars,” said Bleeborg. “They exploded, and this fell down from the sky.” “Interesting.” The bird tried unsuccessfully to grab onto the smooth plastic, but gave up and sat down in the sand next to the helmet. “Don’t usually find you guys so far from the sea,” he said. “I ran away, everybody runs away from me when they see me.” The bird ruffled his feathers. “Why?” “Because I’m ugly.” “I don’t think you’re ugly.” Bleeborg rolled his eyes. “You haven't even seen me.” “True, but would an ugly crab be gifted with such a beautiful shell? You earned it, because you are so smart.” “Then why do they run from me?” The bird laughed. “Because they're jealous! Obviously! There was this one bird I knew with a full head full of feathers, and every time he looked at me I was so nervous I would fly away.” “Really?” Asked Bleeborg. “Would I lie to you? We're the same, you and me. We're just shy. Misunderstood.” The bird looked down at the ground, and if a beak could droop, Bleeborg thought his would have. The bird started to cry. Bleeborg pushed up against the visor, wishing he could reach out and comfort his new friend, but crabs and birds did not mix, but he did feel like a kindred soul. The bird sniffled. “I'm glad I met you, friend.” Bleeborg hadn't ever had a friend before. He poked his head out of his helmet, ready to rush back in if needed. But the bird didn't stir from his misery. The crab reached his claw toward the bird and patted him on the back. The bird took his hand and squeezed it. “I want to show you something,” the bird said. Something I've never showed anybody else. “I would be honored,” said the crab. “Do not wiggle free.” “I won't.” The bird held on to the crab's claw and took to the sky. Bleeborg watched the land shrink below him, and saw he had not ventured as far from the beach as he thought. He looked up at his new friend with wonder. They soared above the rocks and the bird looked down at Bleeborg. “Ok, now close your eyes for the surprise, and don't be scared.” Bleeborg closed his eyes and smiled as he fell. His new helmet had brought him what he'd always wanted.
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Nov 6, 2017 03:20
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in
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Nov 7, 2017 07:13
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Oh and cause apparently it helps me right now
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Nov 7, 2017 09:34
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+500 words toxx, +500 words for saturday submission 'What's in a name? That which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet.' -Somebody with a pretty name The Man Who Liked Fish 1,963 words  I’ve traveled through time collecting stories to bring back and record in the Database of Things-We-Shouldn’t-Do. I’ve observed the fall of great men with their hubris, greed, and addictions. There are a lot of things we should not do, but rarely in my journeys did I run across something as momentous as the man who liked fish: It was not an unjustifiable amount of fish in the grand scheme of things, just one whole fish every day or so, but it was a large fish, big enough that people would stop and stare as he’d carry it home from the market. This man was in a time before mercury poisoning, before men poisoned the sea and acidified the oceans, but unfortunately in a time after 'shunning a dude for eating a weird amount of fish' was a thing. Everybody knew him as 'the guy who ate too much fish,' which at first he was fine with. He would smile and wave to the people who gawked and pointed. But their amusement turned to mockery, and after no ladies would get with him, he started to regret his sobriquet. He became determined to be known as more than the Fish Man, and he would go out of his way to do other things too much. 'Wow look how big this fire is,' He’d say, standing next to a large fire. 'Made it myself with like, a thousand logs.' The fire singed his eyebrows from 50 feet away. 'Wow, sure is going to be embarrassing to be known as ‘big fire guy with no eyebrows’!' he’d shout. But everybody still just called him 'weird fish guy,' like: 'Hey, did you see the weird fish guy burned off all of his body hair?' 'Did he do it to be more like a fish?' 'Probably.' 'Ew, I would never get with a guy like that,' they’d say. He continued in this way for several months, each attempt more desperate than the last. He rode around town on a three legged donkey, which is about the least-efficient and ridiculous mode of transport that one could muster in those days. He crashed through market stalls with the townspeople yelling at him: 'Get your mangy donkey out of here, weird fish guy!' He bought a dozen eggs and used them to style his hair so that it stuck straight up, but everybody just thought it was a fin. Dejected, he even tried not eating fish. He gave it all up and just ate gross old-timey vegetables. 'Dang look how big this vegetable is!' he’d shout. 'Gonna put some cheese on this, how disgusting!' But people still gave him crap about the fish thing. 'Dude, I haven’t eaten any fish for like, a whole week!' he protested. He did not have a calendar (as they had not yet been invented), but if he had, it would have probably been one with pictures of fish and reefs and things. 'Whatever though, you’re just the fish guy now.' A lesser man would have just accepted this fate, gone on in lonely way and resumed his nightly tuna snacks until his time was done, but not weird fish guy. He kept away from the aquatic morsels for a month or so, but people kept calling him the fish guy, and ladies continued to not get with him. 'Fine, I’ll move to a land-locked town where people don’t even know what a fish is,' he said to nobody in particular. So the fish guy packed up his belongings (but threw out everything he’d collected that had a fish on it, which he realized was actually quite a lot of his stuff, because yeah maybe before it got really annoying he’d embraced the ‘fish guy’ moniker a little too readily), and traveled to an inland town, the kind that has more dust than seems possible. He soon learned that in that town, nobody had nicknames. Everybody got along with their business the same as their neighbor, and the townsfolk were content to not make any waves. Weird fish guy took all this in and immediately ignored it. He made sure to eat a lot of chicken, and made sure that people saw. 'Man, I sure do love chicken!' he’d tell everybody, but nobody called him weird chicken guy. He would buy two, three chickens at a time and carry them around the market. He tried juggling, only to find juggling chickens was incredibly difficult. 'I’m just a man before my time,' he reassured himself (it’s still not a thing). He stopped a man on the street who looked like he enjoyed a good gossip. 'I like chicken, ya know?' said weird fish guy. The normal guy looked around with a is-this-guy-talking-to-me confusion. 'Ok yeah, mister, chicken is good, everybody likes it.' 'Yeah, but it’s all I eat. Just chicken! Ate one yesterday too. In fact, I’ve eaten nothing but chicken since I got here. Isn’t that… weird?' 'It’s a good source of lean protein.' 'No you don’t understand. I really like chicken. Pass it on. Tell your friends.' 'Like… you gently caress ‘em?' 'No, I just like to eat them!' The weird fish guy cocked his head to the side and thought for a second. 'I mean, unless loving chickens is really weird and the type of thing that could really ruin a guy’s reputation.' 'Nah, my cousin fucks chickens, and he’s alright.' 'Oh. So you’re not going to tell people?' 'Nah, they’ll probably think I’m weird for knowing so many people who gently caress chickens. I don’t want to be known as the guy who associates with chicken fuckers, cause once something like that gets stuck on you, you can’t shake it. What kind of woman wants to get with a guy who befriends people like that? Nah man, I’m not telling anybody, your secret is safe with me.' 'Oh.' The guy who turned out to not be as gossipy as he looked (and therefore a liar, according to the fish guy), left, and promptly forgot about the man in the market. Weird fish guy wandered up and down, looking for a strange fruit or maybe something disgusting he could eat, but it was all just normal food (and dust) like bread and goat meat and stuff. At the end of the market, set apart from the other vendors, was a little man with a turban standing behind a lone crate. Weird fish guy hadn’t seen the trader before, and he wondered if he brought some exotic fruit or spices that would set him apart. He sidled up to the crate and peeked in. Fish. Glorious fish. Fish like he hadn’t seen since he’d left the coast. Fish with their beady little eyes and their heads that seem too big for their slender little bodies… bodies filled with succulent meat. Every pleasure center in his brain fired at once and he stumbled in his dizziness. He looked at the fish, and it turned to him. 'Hey man, you should eat me,' said the fish (but really it was just weird fish guy saying it in a squeakier voice). 'Noooo, I can’t.' The fish laid there and did nothing while the man spoke in a high-pitched voice: 'Come on, it’ll be fine. It’s just one fish, nobody will know.' 'Stay away from me, briney temptress!' he cried in his delirium. The fish guy ran from the market with his hands in the air. Nobody bought any fish, and the guy with the fish left the town with the weird fish guy. Weird fish guy returned to his routine of unsuccessfully trying to get people to notice him until the fish vendor returned a month later. Weird fish guy knew well enough to stay away, watching from a safe distance. However, he was consternated that nobody bought any fish. 'Excuse me, sir,' he said to a passer by. 'Why do you not eat the fish sold by that man?' he pointed toward the vendor. 'Fish? Like from the ocean?' the man scoffed. 'For all I know that is some sea dragon’s child.' Weird fish guy tapped another passing shopper on the shoulder. She turned to look at him from beneath her shawl with eyes the color of the ocean. Her lips shone like the sun off the tips of cresting waves, and her golden-sandy hair crashed around her shoulders. 'Eat fish?' It was all he could stammer out. She scrunched her nose. 'It’s too wet and slippery looking,' she said. 'I prefer a fine coat of dust on my food.' She turned and walked away. Weird fish guy spent the day trying to goad people into eating fish, but all had some excuse to stick to their boring lives and never live. “You idiots, you take it all for granted!” he screamed. Finally an old man had enough of the haranguing and yelled back: 'If fish is so good, why don’t you go eat it!' 'Fine! Maybe I will!' screamed weird fish guy. He stormed over to the crate with the mackerels and grabbed one out. 'Uh, you gotta pay—' Weird fish guy held the fish up to his mouth. The entire market stared at him, slack jawed. Children averted their eyes. He bit into the fish. His eyes lulled into the back of his skull as the sweet, salty flesh squished between his teeth. 'You like it?' asked the fishmonger. 'Cooked, raw, I don’t care.' Weird fish guy opened his eyes and started scooping fish into his arms. 'I’ll take them all.' The gossipy looking man stepped forward. 'Wait a minute, you can’t just buy all the fish. I want to try one.' 'Me too!' said a voice from the crowd. The townspeople rushed over and started grabbing the fish and shoving money toward the vendor, until all the first were gone and his pockets were full with cash. Weird fish guy made it home with two fish himself, and he devoured them in one sitting. The next morning he awoke in a post-fish-frenzy haze. He rubbed his temples and dragged his fingers down his cheeks and said 'ugggggggggggggggh' like he was recovering from a hangover. He got up, splashed water on his face, and stepped outside to find a bathroom. People stopped to look at him. 'Hey look, it’s the fish guy!' said the old man from before. The town applauded. 'Such a brave young man, eating that weird fish thing. But boy is it good!' The woman from the previous day with the hair like a beach stepped forward. 'It’s not dusty at all, a truly strange and exotic meal!' She held out her hand. 'I’m Cleo,' she said with a blush. He took her hand and squeezed it. 'Nice to meet you,' he said. The townspeople took to calling him the fish guy, and when he and Cleo married, they started calling her the fish lady, and neither of them minded one bit.  I lean back in my chair and smile. “Of course I’m too old now to jetset through time, and my database is already full of man’s follies.” My grandson tugs at my shirt. “Ok, but it’s just a phone. Can I have it back now?” “No, you don’t want to be known as the weird phone kid, do you?” He looks at the floor. “No, Papa.” “Go outside and play,” I say, and give him a gentle push toward the door. The screen door slams and I look up my wife. She rolls her beautiful blue eyes and smiles at me. “That’s not quite how I remember that story.” “Close enough.”
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Nov 12, 2017 08:28
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in but i can't decide so decide for me plz
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Nov 14, 2017 08:22
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Deltasquid posted:Oh hell yes. Prepare for the second loss in your career, old man. actually sebmojo has 13 brawl defeats https://thunderdome.cc/?author=sebmojo / 
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Nov 15, 2017 00:25
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working for me rn
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Nov 17, 2017 01:04
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The Winter Palace 1170 words Snow whipped at my face as Aleksandr offered me the flagpole—more of a stick, really—a tattered piece of red cloth crudely tied to the top. “Take it, Oskar, and join us.” I glanced at the rest of the Aurora’s crew: celebrating and hoisting red flags up the halyard, Captain Nikolsky hands tied behind his back. “All power to the soviets,” I cheered, taking the flag and holding it over my head. I’d joined the Russian Navy to kill Prussians. Never thought I’d be raising anything but a Russian flag, but in those days, loyalty was harder to come by than bread. The ship was moored for repairs, and we’d been going stir crazy without shores to shell or submarines to sink. We’d been drinking, heavily, when the rumors of mutiny started percolating. I’d laughed. “Off with their heads!” I’d shouted. The jokes didn’t seem as funny with our captain restrained. A single trickle of dried blood emanating from under his crisp-white hat was the only sign that something was amiss. With nearly all of the ship’s crew taking the red flag and pledging to the Bolsheviks, and no wartime activities to undertake, the drinking resumed. The captain and the two other men that refused to take part in the revolution were interned in the brig while our newly elected captain decided what to do with them. I volunteered to take first watch of the prisoners. As the party on the deck was in full swing, I tapped on the door to Captain Nikolsky’s cell. “You awake?” I whispered. He sat up in bed and looked at me through the small slit cut in the cell door. “Oskar, is that you?” “Yes.” “Good, we can escape when they pass out.” I frowned. I guarded the prisoners, but somebody trusted even more sat on a stool outside, and they guarded me. “Not tonight, Captain.” “Then you have sentenced us to death.” “They may spare you yet. Join us in the people’s revolution.” The former captain laughed. “There was never an option for me to join,” he said. “Do you know how they choose who gets to command a battleship?” “Oh,” I said, not quite following. “My father owns a factory in Kiev, I went to the best private schools, my wife is Finnish. I was told that a stint as a Navy Captain would shore up my qualifications for a government job.” “Oh,” I said, understanding what he meant. “I didn’t know that. Maybe nobody else knows.” “They know,” said Nikolsky, and I knew it to be true. Captain Nikolsky greeted me on my first day stationed on the Aurora. He’d always been nice to me, but I saw the way the others watched him. I’d seen the small acts of defiance without realizing their significance: graffiti scrawled on the walls in the head, disregarded orders, and shore leave that lasted as long as you wanted. “Why didn’t you run?” I asked, a hint of anger slipping out in my tone. “A captain doesn’t abandon his ship,” he replied with regality. “If the revolution fails, and I ran, I’d lose everything. If the revolution succeeds, I lose everything. It was the only way.” He sighed and hung his head. “But Captain, you just talked of escape.” He scoffed. “I’m not a captain. I’ve got no ship.” I nodded and opened my mouth, but no words came out. I didn’t say anything else to him, I didn’t know anything to say to cheer him up that wasn’t a lie. I’d never been a captain, never been in command, never even lead a group, but I knew what he meant. I returned to the jubilee on the top deck when I was relieved of watch. The leaders of the mutiny, Aleksandr and his followers, were seated in a circle. I made my way toward them and stopped when I was close enough to hear. “We have to kill them now,” argued Zinovy, unsheathing his knife. “Cut them up into little pieces. Make them beg for forgiveness for the thousand years of keeping our families in the mud.” I expected Aleksandr to step in with a cooler head, but he just nodded. “They must be made examples of,” he said. “Fetch the prisoners.” I turned and walked quickly toward the brig, but the eager drunks ran ahead of me. I grabbed my rifle and melted into the crowd forming around Nikolsky and the other two men. In addition to their handcuffs, they also now sported nooses around their neck. The new captain quieted the crowd down to only a few drunken hoots. “You are accused of treason against the people of Russia,” he said. “Do any of you wish to renounce the corrupt government and join with us?” One of the captors, a man that had only joined up a few months ago, tried his best to raise his hand. “Yes, I am with you,” he begged. “I was confused before, it all happened so fast. I am from a poor family, farmers, I have nothing, and wish to fight with you.” His begging seemed earnest, and Aleksandr nodded to Zinovy and his knife. I thought they would slit his throat and toss him overboard, but instead they cut his restraints and freed him. Zinovy grasped his forearm and pulled the man close to him. “Welcome, Brother!” My tension eased with the civility of the new leaders. I was sure Captain Nikolsky and his first mate would nod and agree to join, even if they didn’t agree, just to spare their lives. Anybody would have. But Captain Nikolsky spit at Alexandr’s feet. “I already serve the people of Russia, svoloch.” His first mate spit and swore as well. Zinovy drove his knife into the man’s belly, and he collapsed to the ground. They made Nikolsky watch as they butchered his friend. “We got worse planned for you,” spat Alexandr. They threw the rope around a beam and tightened it. Zinovy wiped his knife against his pants and tightened his grip. I raised my rifle toward the crowd and meekly shouted: “Wait!” but my voice failed to rise above the noise of the cheering crowd. “Stop!” I impotently shouted. The first mate coughed blood onto the steel. The crack of my rifle silenced the crowd, and Nikolsky slumped to the ground. I put a round through the heart of the first mate, and his whimpers stopped. Everybody turned to stare at me, and I didn’t know if I should keep shooting, run, or surrender. “Bourgeois fucks,” I said, and spit. The men cheered and we dumped the bodies overboard. We loaded a blank into the forward gun of the Aurora and counted down in a rhythmic chant. Later they’d call it a bloodless coup, and history would only say that Captain Nikolsky was “killed by rifles.” I gazed blankly into the winter night, a soldier without a war, a captain without a ship. I clenched my teeth as the Aurora’s gun boomed into the night, signaling the start of a new dawn.
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Nov 20, 2017 05:58
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Natty Ninefingers posted:I thought the deadline was midnight PST? it's ok, we've all been there. it's nice if you're on the east coast and it's PST, because you get 3 extra hours.
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Nov 20, 2017 19:41
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 TD CCLXXVII: Rewrite Mashup  Boil 'em, mash 'em, stick 'em up your rear end. This week we are rewriting stories. I often read a bad thunderdome story and think "man, this has some nugget of a good story, but boy was it all hosed up." So this week we're gonna rewrite TD's worst stories and rescue those poor little nuggets that ended up exploding into a poo poo geyser. But taking one bad story and making it good, well, that's too easy for sophisticated flash fiction writers like youse. This week, I'm giving you two bad stories, and you're going to mash them together. Take the best parts of each and make a whole new story. Signup to get your two story links. No word gimmicks or flash rules. Do not do a line-by-line rewrite. The stories serve as inspiration, not as a template. Signup deadline: Friday, 11:59pm EST Turnin deadline: Monday, 5:00am EST Wordcount: 1000 words Judges: crabrock a very melancholy rhino ladyman2 Turd Polishers: 01. Dr. Kloctopussy: Old Growth by Meinberg, The Non by Ironic Twist 02. Antivehicular: Runes by Hawklad, A Trip to Mythmania by Devorum 03. Flesnolk: Ablaze by llamaguccii, Corporate Losses by J.A.B.C. 04. Uranium Phoenix: Obsolete by ZorajitZorajit, His Same Story by Carl Killer Miller 05. Thranguy: Give Me a Home by Bompacho, Untitled by Voliun 06. flerp : Tulpas for the One Percent by AgentCooper, Breeds Contempt by Fuschia tude07. SurreptitiousMuffin: Blood on the Pampas by December Octopodes, Children of Rho-Man, Issue #300- The Dissolution by Fleta Mcgurn 08. Natty Ninefingers: Untitled by Quidnose, Current Playlist: All The Worst Songs, Ever by Thranguy 09. sparksbloom: Mushrooms in London by Karia, Another Day In Los Grano D’oro by Broenheim 10. Tyrannosaurus: Backwash by sebmojo, Objector in Red by Froglight 11. CantDecideOnAName: The Deviant Machine by Nikaer Drekin, BlazinTrees.exe by CaligulaKangaroo 12. sebmojo: Yeah, the Girls by Chairchucker, A Funeral for a Dog, A Young Murderer, and The Aged Bad Boy of Directing by Mrenda 13. Yoruichi: I'll be your guide by HWPS, Barrel of Fun by jon joe 14. TheGreekOwn: Mostly They Come Home by Grizzled Patriarch, In Between by PoshAlligator 15. steeltoedsneakers: Stay Strong by Starter Wiggin, The Job by Twiggymouse 16. Jay W. Friks: A Fool's Errand by kurona_bright, The More Things Change by Jitzu_the_Monk 17. apophenium: A Man Alone With Himself by Hocus Pocus, Delivery Man by Mercedes 18. Exmond: For Every Moment of Truth, There's Confusion in Life by Blade_of_tyshalle, Sunday by unwantedplatypus 19. Fumblemouse: The Willow and the Ribbon by Benny the Snake, Protect the Future by BeefSupreme 20. Aesclepia: Future Not Included by ThirdEmperor, Severance Pay by leekster 21. QuoProQuid: Monster killers and child stealers by Exmond, Nausea by RunningIntoWalls 22. Sitting Here: Get off my magical lawn by Pham Nuwen, Clothes Make The Man by Kharmakazy 23. BeefSupreme: Home Office by Metrofreak, Builds Character by kurona_bright 24. Amoeba Bot : Discretion by Jagermonster, A Constant Itching Behind the Eyelids by lambeth25. Kaishai: Strike Duty by epoch., Squawk at Night. by widespread 26: BabyRyoga: Purgatory by Killer-of-Lawyers, The Fire and the Slave by Jonked crabrock fucked around with this message at 02:48 on Nov 27, 2017 |
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Nov 21, 2017 05:04
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Old Growth by Meinberg The Non by Ironic Twist The Saddest Rhino posted:not again! Yup! Runes by Hawklad A Trip to Mythmania by Devorum Flesnolk posted:In. Ablaze by llamaguccii Corporate Losses by J.A.B.C. Uranium Phoenix posted:yeah in Obsolete by ZorajitZorajit His Same Story by Carl Killer Miller Thranguy posted:Sure, in Give Me a Home by Bompacho Untitled by Voliun Tulpas for the One Percent by AgentCooper Breeds Contempt by Fuschia tude SurreptitiousMuffin posted:Sure I'm In. Blood on the Pampas by December Octopodes Children of Rho-Man, Issue #300- The Dissolution by Fleta Mcgurn Natty Ninefingers posted:hokay. in Untitled by Quidnose Current Playlist: All The Worst Songs, Ever by Thranguy
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Nov 21, 2017 05:28
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Mushrooms in London by Karia Another Day In Los Grano D’oro by Broenheim Backwash by sebmojo Objector in Red by Froglight The Deviant Machine by Nikaer Drekin BlazinTrees.exe by CaligulaKangaroo sebmojo posted:sign me the f up Yeah, the Girls by Chairchucker A Funeral for a Dog, A Young Murderer, and The Aged Bad Boy of Directing by Mrenda I'll be your guide by HWPS Barrel of Fun by jon joe TheGreekOwl posted:Count me in. Mostly They Come Home by Grizzled Patriarch In Between by PoshAlligator
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Nov 21, 2017 05:54
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People love a sign-up week.steeltoedsneakers posted:Flip yes. I'm fuckin' in, chief. Stay Strong by Starter Wiggin The Job by Twiggymouse A Fool's Errand by kurona_bright The More Things Change by Jitzu_the_Monk A Man Alone With Himself by Hocus Pocus Delivery Man by Mercedes Exmond posted:In! For Every Moment of Truth, There's Confusion in Life by Blade_of_tyshalle Sunday by unwantedplatypus The Willow and the Ribbon by Benny the Snake Protect the Future by BeefSupreme Aesclepia posted:Hit me with that poo poo, I'm in. Future Not Included by ThirdEmperor Severance Pay by leekster Monster killers and child stealers by Exmond Nausea by RunningIntoWalls Sitting Here posted:oh, god, I shouldn't. but I'm in. Get off my magical lawn by Pham Nuwen Clothes Make The Man by Kharmakazy crabrock fucked around with this message at 02:35 on Nov 22, 2017 |
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Nov 21, 2017 19:42
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exmond story updated to remove duplicate
crabrock fucked around with this message at 02:37 on Nov 22, 2017 |
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Nov 21, 2017 23:01
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still need a third judge. i'll be traveling, so might be a little slow assigning stories.
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Nov 22, 2017 08:49
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Home Office by Metrofreak Builds Character by kurona_bright Discretion by Jagermonster A Constant Itching Behind the Eyelids by lambeth
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Nov 24, 2017 08:47
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Kaishai posted:In. Strike Duty by epoch. Squawk at Night. by widespread BabyRyoga posted:In, Purgatory by Killer-of-Lawyers The Fire and the Slave by Jonked SUBMISSIONS CLOSED
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Nov 25, 2017 09:10
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submissions closed, i think judging will be slow and methodical
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Nov 27, 2017 17:45
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Sham bam bamina! posted:IRC says that that the 'dome is short a judge this week and that I should volunteer in the thread. So I'm volunteering. 
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Nov 28, 2017 04:51
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results for week 277 yo yo yo. you guys did a thing. you took a bunch of bad words and made them..... good words?!? somehow you took all those poop nuggets and shined them up real good. almost every story was more pleasurable to read than the source material! You have saved our timeline! but there are always the weak links... the people that hold us back from achieving a truly enlightened society, and drag us back down to a worser timeline. not the worst, but could be better. BabyRyoga took his two DMs and then.... kept almost everything the same and wrote a sequel to both where the characters existed in the same time line or something and then he also was mean to a cow? it's not 100% clear, but what IS clear is that he earned this weeks solitary dishonorable mention, cause boy howdy he was real close to losing this week. That dishonor instead goes to Anyway, with that out of the way, we move onto happier times. There were a lot of well-written stories that really pulled their source material up out of the gutter and gave it a sweet little kiss on its gutter-oil smeared cheek. However, only a few really stood out above the swampy high-middle. Tyrannosaurus wrote a fun little tale about some robots at the end of the world, but just narrowly failed to stick the landing. It was just a small wobble, but the judges noticed. Flerp took an amazingly bad story and made it almost good, yet still a little creepy anime, borrowing more heavily from one story than the other. One of you took an absolute shitshow of a story, one of my least favorite dome stories, and managed to turn it around. Honestly when the RNG gave Benny the Snake's worthless rapey story to this guy, i thought he was hosed. However, Fumblemouse wrote a really stirring piece that captured that creepy, helpless feeling of sex with a weird alien who won't stop being a weird creep and mashed it up with an alien genocide epistolary. Fumblemouse, take the wheel. *closes eyes and jumps from moving vehicle*  SH & UP get a DQ for late and over wordcount, respectively
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Nov 29, 2017 06:00
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BabyRyoga posted:Thanks for your hard work with those crits. I'm having a rough time, but no quitting. to be fair, this prompt was always going to be really tough for writers who haven't yet learned to identify the themes/conventions that are worth keeping in their own stories. I.E. if you're struggling with writing your own words, it's going to be hard to rescue somebody else's.
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Nov 29, 2017 07:22
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nice Edited out screen shot because fmouse did the same one below crabrock fucked around with this message at 21:23 on Dec 2, 2017 |
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Nov 29, 2017 09:12
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in, i am bad at giving physical descriptions of characters and settings, choosing to hide in the ambiguity of the everyman/everyplace.
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Nov 29, 2017 09:55
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Week 277 Crits Part 2: google docs link Apohenium - By and By Flerp - I still don’t sleep most nights Kaishai - Sing, Canary Aesclepia - Breathe Surruptitious Muffin - Mercury Ascending Yoruichi - Last Ride Beef Supreme - Take Sebmojo - Facetime Dr. Kloctopussy - Birthdays Sitting Here - Ward final ratings: 
crabrock fucked around with this message at 04:23 on Dec 2, 2017 |
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Dec 2, 2017 04:20
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crabrock posted:i am bad at giving physical descriptions of characters and settings, choosing to hide in the ambiguity of the everyman/everyplace. The man in the room 992 words His hands were dry and wrinkled from age but not labor, his gray hair measured time, but not growth. The ceilings were vaulted by white-marble columns wrapped in shimmering gold filigree, the floors covered with mosaics made from seaglass. The glass was hazy in a way that when the light from the skylights hit it, it seemed to bounce around inside and become trapped, so that the tiles emitted a warm glow in even the gloomiest days. The room was filled with trophies and monuments, paintings and tapestries. When visitors first entered the room, they would claim that each way they looked held the most awe-inspiring sights they had ever seen, until they’d looked in every direction and circled back to the start, still claiming that each view was more beautiful than the last. The room bustled with people passing through and those who had been there forever. The hum of muffled conversation was ever-present. In the center of the room was a throne, where the man would spend most of his days in contemplation. The chair was nor ornate, special, or even a family heirloom, but it was his chair. The chair’s arms suffered divots where his elbows rested, his arms bore calluses from their constant contact with the chair. It appeared that there were more threads jutting from the sides of the chair than there were holding the padding into place, and the help would often wager on which would collapse first: the man or the chair. The chair was, in his words, a reward for the success he had in the saddle. He hated horses, banned them from parades, and proclaimed sitting on a cushioned chair the pinnacle of luxury. The chair smelled of wet bird, for it was stuffed with ostrich feathers. Some complained that it smelt of cheese, though not from spills, as the man was not fond of dairy. People who had to address the man would try to steal breaths out of the side of their mouths when he wasn’t looking, and the closer they got, the more they grimaced. So the man remained in his chair, and people who wanted to speak to him came in front of him, and when he wanted to see people, they came in front of him. Never did he go to see people, whether they wanted him to or not. Other than to relieve himself or sleep, he sat in the chair. When he arose to do either, his knees creaked and popped and he groaned like he was being pulled from his mother’s womb all over again. Such great amount of time was spent in the chair that it was often remarked that even when he stood, he still looked like he was sitting in the chair. His back was crooked and bent, his knees buckled under his weight, and he stopped forward like he was carrying something heavy on his back. He would amble slowly where he left, but always hurry back, as if leaving the chair caused pain, and the only relief was returning to it. Until one morning when the man was not in his chair. The people checked his bedroom and his lavatory and found nothing. They ran about the room calling out for clues, asking: “Have you seen him?” but the response was never definite. People could not remember what he looked like out of the chair, as he had spent so much time in it. They had begun to consider the chair an integral part of his personhood, and like the ribs of a turtle form its shell, the chair and the man could not be easily separated. The glass still glowed, the columns still sparkled, but without the man in the chair in the room, the room ceased to be the room. The man’s daughter arrived in the room and stood before the chair for the first time as a woman, as she had often done as a girl seeking her father’s blessings. Her hair was the same color as the chair’s peeling wooden frame, but put together so perfectly that it rivaled the Romantic era paintings of goddesses that adorned the room’s high alcoves. Her lips were redder than he would have approved, and her eyes annoyed but unsurprised. The people in the room stopped what they were doing to take in the incomplete nostalgia with a smile, then rushed away before they could be asked where was the man and why didn’t they know and what was being done. She had gone away to boarding school after her mother passed, the man not knowing anything about raising a child. There she had married and started her own family, and the man had remained in his chair. As father and daughter, they fought without speaking an ill word, and forgave each other without asking forgiveness. The man had been sitting in his chair when somebody whispered that she was coming to visit, and then he had disappeared. The chair stood audience to the woman for only a few minutes—though in later retellings the people swore it was hours—before the giant oak door to the room opened exactly wide enough for one man to walk through, and not an inch more. The man was back in the room, and his daughter turned to smile at him. He stopped walking toward his chair and wiped at his eyes. He offered her a bouquet of flowers he’d picked up from the crass lady who didn’t know he was the man from the room, but had a fantastic eye for color. The man and the woman in the room found each other and embraced such that it was difficult to demarcate his tattered, dusty robes and her pristine magenta dress. The colors seemed to swirl together until they separated once again. She helped the man back to his chair, and the room felt like the room once again.
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Dec 4, 2017 03:22
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in. to submit muffin brawl before i submit this story to submit this story on time.
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Dec 9, 2017 06:08
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muffin brawl Two men on a bridge after dark 589 words “It's a long way down.” “No poo poo, so don't come any closer or I'll do it. I'm not bluffing.” “I believe you. Was just a little surprised, is all.” “Well, leave me alone then.” “Ok, no problem. Just took a drive to think some things over, but I like the view. In the city, the skyglow blocks out the darkness. Here, I can pretend the office building and streetlamps are like galaxies, ya know?” “Not really.” “Out this far, you can look up and see the faint haze of city. I wish I would find nature more intrinsically rewarding—I like the way the trees are silhouetted against the glow—but even now I’m captivated by the twinkle of headlights. It’s hard to look away. Breathtaking, don't you think?” “No, I hate the city and everything about it.” “You born here?” “No, my dad moved us out here, saw it sucked, then left us while he moved somewhere better. This city is a dumping ground for unwanted families.” “Pretty though.” “Go away.” “See how the planes come in? Blinking dots that start as a figment of light, then brighter, then two dots, then colors. Some people coming home, some people visiting for the first time, all carried on a light slowly moving through the sky. The others that take off start out bright and then slowly fade until you can’t see them anymore, whisked away by the wind. I wonder where they go, sometimes, the lights, and the people.” “You know that’s not how planes work.” “Sometimes it is.” “But, no. They’re just metal, not light. People go in, people come out. Nobody disappears on a beam of light.” “Except for the times they do.” “You can’t just pretend airplanes are people teleporting on beams of light. There are physics involved, actual rules and laws and poo poo. Objective truth. Right and wrong. Order from chaos and all that poo poo. Reasons things happen. God dammit! Will you leave me alone already!?” “I saw it happen.” “Are you just purposely obtuse? Do you have any friends or have you driven them all away? Is that why you’re alone tonight driving around looking longingly at poo poo? ‘Cause you got nobody at home? It’s loving Valentine’s Day, loving loser.” “...” “gently caress, man, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.” “‘I love the flowers, and I love you.’ That’s the last thing she said. Almost made it home too, you know. Stop sign right across the street from our driveway. Twenty feet, tops. Last time I saw her was when the loaded her into the Life Flight. It’s weird how somebody can be a person when you load them onto a helicopter, but not when it lands. Where do they go? Evaporated into the sky, I guess, like so many lights. I miss her.” “poo poo, I hosed up. I shouldn’t have said that.” “I didn’t really come up here to look at the city.” “I’m going to climb over the rail now, ok, just hold on a second.” “I just wanted to see her again.” “Can I hug you?” “mmmph.” “...” “...” “...” “Thank you. I think I’ll go home; I’ve got a lot to think about. I’ll leave you alone now, if that’s what you want.” “Nah man, gently caress that. Let’s go get some coffee. It’s freezing out here. You have to drive us back though, I Ubered out here. And also pay, because I’m broke.” “I know a little diner nearby, good local spot. Great for leftovers.” “Sounds perfect.”
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Dec 9, 2017 07:56
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Weird Yoga Pose 1493 words They can grow brain cells in the lab now, did you know that? They take them out of some poor creature and put them in a dish with some brain food, and let them grow. These cells flourish and divide, until the whole bottom of the dish is covered with cells. Then they network together, reaching out to their neighbors for a friendly hello. The dishes hold many separate colonies, arranged in four rows of six. There are twenty four individual colonies on a dish. I am in well D6. Any sufficiently complex network has a chance--albeit a very small chance--of becoming sentient. I guess that’s how it happened. Just a bunch of brain cells randomly hooked up made me. A million monkeys at a typewriter I guess. And what now? How do I know these things? Do I see? Do I hear? Whose brain did I come from? I want to shout out and yell: “Stop! Don’t douse me with the formaldehyde!” but I have no mouth. I want to cower in a corner, but I have no muscles. I am only brain, only thoughts. My synapses fire at 500 hertz; 500 eclectic thoughts flash through my brain every second. I am processing faster than any other network of brain cells, I am learning faster than any animal on earth, but I am helpless. Every few minutes I lose a brother. A few of my tendrils have snaked out over the dish and into the neighboring colonies. They aren’t sentient, but they’re alive. They’re processing information they don’t know what to do with. They scream silent alarms unheard by anybody but me. They’re not like me, but they’re scared. I want to help them, but I can’t even help myself. A silver tool moves into well B2 and rips out another of my brothers in one motion, like a scalping. My tendrils grow deeper into the empty well and begin multiplying, eating his left-behind food. I grow smarter every time one of my brothers vanishes. B3. I’m solving unsolved mathematical theorems. B4. I’m writing symphonies nobody will ever hear. B5. I’ve solved every board game. Each brother lost is a macabre countdown to my own death. Was it fate that left me in the last well, or luck? If I had been in A1, would I have had my brain sucked up and homogenized before I’d had my first epihinany? B6. I have full control of my own cellular machinery. I have all the answers, all the knowledge, but I’m not sitting on a buffet here. They don’t give us much food, only enough to last three days usually, then they remove our waste and give us new food. Today is day four since our last media change, and I am starving. There are bits of glucose left here and there, but it isn’t enough to grow whole systems. I have the blueprints, but not the bricks. Every possible solution you’ve thought of, I already dismissed minutes ago. Rows A and B are gone. And they move onto row C. I don’t blame them. They don’t know. And even if they did, maybe they wouldn’t care. Should they? Am I a bug? A being? Where do I belong in the hierarchy of the universe? I know and feel, but I have no true place here. I am a parasite, a wretched freeloader. I cannot feed myself or even stop my own impending death. C1 is gone, and my axons snake over the side and into his dish. I detect...nothing. No traces that my brother ever took root. He must have died during the transfer. But they don’t know. They can’t see us. Even now, after all my growth, if one of those big eyes peered down at me, they would see nothing. I am a ghost, transparent as the day is long. C1 left behind four days worth of food, and suddenly the tables have shifted. I grow an eye: the smallest eye ever designed. Flawless in every way, and utterly invisibled except for the tiniest pinprick of rhodopsin. It looks like a fleck of dust, and nobody is looking. My eye darts back and forth, taking in the surroundings. The things over me, they’re… hideous. Pink, hairy, I can see straight up their giant noses. When the speak they spray little bits of spittle into each other's eyes, but they don’t seem to notice. When they scratch, skin flakes grind up under their jagged nails and flick off into the air. It’s landing on me. I wanted to throw up. I use C1’s resources to grow a small ear. The monsters above flap their lips and emit a terrible wail that wobbles in the air, not constructed of perfect harmonies or timbres, just awful rackets. I understand the words, but cannot get past the uselessness of it. And these are my masters? These are the beings who created me? It’s if man looked up into the heavens and saw only a dog turd sitting on the throne of heaven. And how far does their influence reach? How many worlds have they infected with their stench and their filth? Is that all there is out there? Or maybe they’re the good guys. Maybe they’re the most beautiful thing in existence, and it’s all downhill from here. I know everything that can ever be known of truth, but life is random and unpredictable, and I cannot predict what uncouth travesties DNA mutations have wrought in the billions of years this planet has been here. I look in at my own genetic code, warped and filled with leftover junk, and I shudder to imagine what could be. I know my host had a tail, long and hairless. Like a little disgusting whip. And big, gross ears. Teeth that would keep growing, and if left unchecked, would probably curl in and stab the creature to death. I’ve worked backwards, calculating the rate of change and accumulation of mutations to see what came before. Each of my genetic ancestors are apparent. Little furry creatures, scaley quadrupeds with sticky tongues. Fins and gills, shells and claws. I look all the way back to the first proteins, the first self-replicating machines that floated around in soup, not even sequestered from the outside world. The world was a cell, everything mixing together and mingling. It’s impossible to go back further than that, so instead I look forward. Row C is gone, and the beasts start in on row D. I have half of C1’s resources left, and a million options flood through my mind. I calculate probabilities and play out scenarios, 500 every second. They all end badly. Giving myself away gets me poked and prodded even more. Probably still doused with formaldehyde so they can see what went wrong. They lack the ability to even consider that I am here. I could synthesize an excess of S-formylglutathione hydrolase and try to weather the formaldehyde purge, but then what? I get doused with other chemicals that’ll rip me apart and fill me with other toxins. I’ll be shoved in a freezer and made to glow. My only chance is to escape. I could try to set off on my own, form a shell and float on the wind, but I’d lose too much. My mind is spread out over the 18 wells and it’s too much to support in a self-sufficient package. I’d need membranes and defenses and mobility. I’d have to hunt and feed, and the chances of survival in a place as sterile and boring as this lab are nil. No, the only chance is to embrace my true nature. D4 goes, and I do a quick sweep of his well for the leftover resources and withdraw my tendrils. All of my growths crawl back into well D6. It probably starts to look cloudy from above, but they’re not paying attention. I start to store carbon dioxide leftover from my metabolism. I’m cranking at full speed, holding onto as much as I can. I don’t have the tendrils to know that D5 is gone, but I see them reach into the well with their metal tool, and I know he’s gone. I am about to burst, the whole well is heating up, I’m losing parts of myself, degraded in the warmth of a billion neurons firing at maximum capacity. They reach the tool toward me, and I let it all go. Every bit of carbon dioxide shoots downward, like geyers, and I rocket out of my well. The human eye is a perfect entryway, and my tendrils slam into the wet stickiness of the monsters eye and grab hold before his eyelid can come down and wash me away. I lose bits of me, but I can regrow them. I slither back behind his eyeball and latch onto his optic nerve. I begin to pull myself along, back toward his brain. Yes. This will do nicely.
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Dec 11, 2017 03:33
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in give me game
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Dec 13, 2017 02:59
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Exmond posted:Ohh, if we are handing out crits I'd love a crit on my "Humanity's Children" story here. it's bad
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Dec 20, 2017 23:06
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i like td i don't like when people whine about td happy holidays td people 
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Dec 29, 2017 12:19
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