|
In.
|
#
¿
Apr 9, 2022 03:55
|
|
|
|
| # ¿ May 16, 2024 07:37 |
|
|
Archived.
Uranium Phoenix fucked around with this message at 00:57 on Dec 24, 2022 |
|
#
¿
Apr 11, 2022 03:15
|
|
|
Tread softly because you tread on my squints oh yeah guys, we can walk all over these
|
|
#
¿
May 4, 2022 03:17
|
|
|
Archived.
Uranium Phoenix fucked around with this message at 00:14 on Dec 24, 2022 |
|
#
¿
May 8, 2022 21:02
|
|
|
The blood throne calls, and we all must answer. In.
|
|
#
¿
May 14, 2022 03:07
|
|
|
Up and Down Crits for Week #509 Albatrossy_Rodent - Gaby Baby: There’s several ways you might modify the story, and each would lead to a tonal shift. Keeping it as the kid-Gabe’s perspective keeps it a humor piece. In this case, I would play up the ridiculous things kids do and how they see the world. You have a pretty good handle on kid voice/behavior here already (like ““Sandy's not even a grown-up, she's like sixteen.””) and Gabe busting out despite time-Gabriel’s advice to tattle, though there’s places where the kid Gabe is voicing a bit too much metacognition (such as: ”I liked dinosaurs when I was in preschool, but in kindergarten I liked Batman…” and “…and it’s too much…”). The sudden swap to trying to stop 9/11 is the funniest part. The alternative is, as discussed previously, to swap the perspective to time-Gabriel, which would probably also shift the tone of the story to more of a horror story because we might get them speculating as to all the horrible changes that could occur because of the screwup, or how they’ll never be able to fix themselves, or whatever. Or, you could have a more poignant story with the shift of Babby Gabe to Teenage Gabe. That seems more in line with where your ending is trying to land, since time-Gabe leaves with “Don’t be ashamed. You’re a weird kid, you’re gonna do weird stuff, but the weirdness is what your real friends are going to love about you.” What parts of the story are important to that ending? A more meaningful conversation about Gabe’s weirdness and self can happen with a teen, but that leaves less room for the humor. Tars Tarkas - As I Went Down In The River...: It feels like a tense shift needs to happen in the first paragraph (”The river had been calm… The participants had hummed sweet hymns…”) to add clarity. I don’t really buy “Jackson hadn’t even noticed he was in the water until it was up to his waste.” It’s very hard to not notice you’re in water. Look also for typos (”he burired it in the backyard; that was eleven houses ago). I like the use of counting moves to count passed time, though I would like a better handle on his age. At first, the story seems to be about reclaiming a moment of faith from baptism. Then, we go full-weird with the alligator dragging him to a magical underwater dream-city. Why does the memory of the gator only surface when he sees it? Presumably, he remembers the underwater city and gator and that leads him to go back to the river, in which case, you can foreshadow this up in the first paragraph. As it is, the story has tonal whiplash. It starts with a somber memory, then goes absolutely nuts with fancy-staff men yelling “Come with us!” and ridiculous fakeouts (”Too late, kid! I hunger!…The alligator pulled a lunch bag out of its pocket…”) that are the written equivalent of a Duke’s of Hazard perspective fakeout (will the cars collide midair!?!? No, they’re like 20 feet apart if you rotate the camera to see that). The story also advances without any preparation. If the alligator has a pocket, then perhaps it needs to be wearing a suit when we meet it. If Jackson has really been to the river nine times, then the alligator and the priests are not going to be a surprise at all like they are presented. Otherwise, it feels like the story is not planned. Perhaps it isn’t, in which case a strong revising pass from the end backward is needed. If you’re trying more for dream-logic, where the world shifts, I would be more explicit about it. If the alligator has a pocket, but didn’t have one before, Jackson can think that to himself, the way when we wake up dreams don’t make as sense as they did. Another note: Exclamation marks should be used sparingly. You have way too many here. I also don’t get a sense of where things are. The gator drags him to and fro, but if they’re sitting on a park bench underwater I want some descriptions. The area can be dream-surreal, but I want to be able to visualize it. I also don’t know what kind of message the story is trying to leave us with. What does beating the poo poo out of an alligator with a puzzle-piece/cross then using it for shoes represent? If this is to be a meaningful dream that changes Jackson, we need some indication of what he learned. That he doesn’t want to die? Is that it? The ending is not satisfying. We learn Jackson was ‘too busy working and living his life.’ In what way? What changed? This is too vague, and the connection between anything he might have learned in his weird spiritual journey and his previous life is not apparent. In fact, we don’t really understand what brought him back to the river in the first place. Details about what his life is like before and after this experience are critical to making the story meaningful to both the protagonist and the reader. Perhaps there is too much focus on making the story a 1:1 recreation of T-Rex’s dream, but what we need here is a story, not simply an elaboration on T-Rex’s dream events.
|
|
#
¿
May 14, 2022 16:41
|
|
|
The Serene World 794 words They were stargazing when they saw the distant streak of light fall from the heavens. This far away, the falling star was silent, but Old Xia recognized the telltale streak of green angelfire. “That’d be one of the Seraphim,” he said. “They’ll be wantin’ a proper welcome.” His daughter, Tuin, could already tell he was committed, so she didn’t argue, just said, “It’s a long walk to the horizon.” She helped him pack the next evening, and then he was off before the dawn. She watched until his silhouette was distant. He turned and looked back at her, and even though neither could properly see, both of them knew the other was smiling. Xia could have skipped the waystations—he kept the ancient cybernetics in his legs under good repair—but he rested at each one, took his sip of wellwater, and sat under each candleberry tree. Along the winding dirt road, the traveler’s gardens kept him fed until they petered out into the snow-blanketed tundra, and the path vanished. It wasn’t hard to find the fallen Seraph. Their ship had cut a path through one of the valleys, and though snowdrifts had piled high next to it, the glint of its silver hull shone bright in the sunlight. Old Xia made his way down the rocky cliffs and found the pilot’s reliquary-nest. The Seraph was lying still, only a torso, head, and single arm left. Their wings had been stripped bare, the metallic feathers shorn. “You’ll be okay,” Xia murmured. Gently, he disconnected the Seraph from the tangles of wires and tubes of the cockpit, then lifted them up. He set them down next to the cliffside and covered them with his cloak. “Time and rest are the great healers,” he said, and set to work building a cabin. From time to time, Old Xia would sit, and his eyes would linger on the Seraph. Somewhere inside them, little nanites were working to repair the damage. The struggle above had not been kind to them. Scars upon scars were layered over their skin. Even now, in their hibernating state, their eyes twitched beneath the lids, and their jaw was clenched. Old Xia had brought along his ‘Netic tool, so the cabin only took a few days to build, and the roof another after that, his old hands deftly weaving the still living branches of vitapine. To get the fur for the bed, Xia played his pipes. After his song was done, the animals would let him groom them with the brush on his ‘Netic. When the bed was ready, Xia lifted the Seraph onto it and set a bowl of berry-paste by it. Eventually, the Seraph’s autotube found it and coiled into the bowl. Still, they hibernated. Old Xia set about crafting a hydroponic garden that would be watered with melt-snow. With winter approaching, Xia set out to find some emberbirds, coaxing them down from a high nest with a song his grandmother had taught him. They gifted him feathers, red like heated iron, and he set them in a stove by the Seraph’s bed. Soon enough, the dark clouds came over the valley. Old Xia shut the door tight, and watched out the window as the snows came down endless, drifting and swirling on the wind, while the emberfeathers crackled with warmth. While he waited, he passed the time making carvings of the animals whose gifts he had received. The tanglefruit plants came along nicely, and Xia got into a routine of little chores and care. Each evening, he sat another bowl by the bedside and smiled. At last, the Seraph stirred, and their eyes flickered open. “I must return,” they said. “I have… more battles to fight. The conflict….” “You can rest,” Old Xia said. “There’s no haste to your return.” He could see the Seraph struggling, trying to muster the energy to even move, though their fingers trembled with the effort. Exhaustion won out over resolve, and they went limp again. “They need me,” they muttered. “All those battles will be there when you return,” Old Xia said, voice soothing and low. “There were struggles when I was a boy, and I doubt they’ll be ending any time soon.” The Seraph went quiet for a time. They watched the emberfeathers crackle, then watched the snow fall silently across the valley. “How old are you?” they said at last. “Older than you,” Xia said. The Seraph looked up, and met Xia’s eyes. They could see the centuries of wear in them. “Rest,” said Xia. A serenity settled over the Seraph. Their jaw unclenched, and when their eyes closed at last, there was no movement in them. “Thank you,” they said, and slept, while Old Xia kept watch.
|
|
#
¿
May 14, 2022 21:45
|
|
|
GANG BRAWL Moby Corn!, or The Hunt for the Great White Corn in which Vengeance turns to Disaster, Chapters 43-45 (unabridged) ~500 words Chapter 43 As the captain raised his eye to the glass, the crew held their breath, and many a man made the sign of the cross, except for two of the crew who were sweatily wrestling by the bow. “White maize,” Ahabba breathed, grinding his jaw as he spoke. He needed say no more, the hellish gleam in his eyes told us our orders. “God help us all,” said Stellarbuck. “Don’t believe in God,” said Fedah. “God help most of us,” said Stellarbuck. Then, turning to the crew he cried, “trim the sails! Carry up the helm! Demast the topgallant jibsheet!” Like rats struck into motion by a lantern in the grainery, the crew scattered to their tasks, swabbing decks and backstaying turnbuckles as they tillered toward the great beast. I turned to Quinquay. “I’m really thankful for the life lessons you taught me earlier,” I said. “I feel that’s going to come in handy real soon.” Chapter 44 - How To Shuck Corn Part VII Each Shucker needs a steel hand drill to penetrate the thick husk of the corn. Four men, two standing tall, two kneeling, should drill into the outer husk simultaneously, so the great green chaff does fall off all at once. Then, each man must take his calipers and pry heartily at the inner layer, until that gruesome rind does peel off. The task is repeated for each cardinal direction, and thus the grim yellow kernels are revealed. Chapter 45 A tempest fast descended upon us as we chased, lighting striking like the tines of Posiden’s trident, only the thunder could not compare to the bellows of the stricken beast. The white maize could only be Moby Corn, its scaly hide riddled with the scars of a hundred corn skewers. “The skewer’s tangled!” called Quinquay. “This leviathan will be the doom of us all!” “Man is the real monster,” I muttered ominously. “No. Well, yes, but that’s not really the theme here,” he replied. But Ahabba would not let us stray our course. “Take us right upon it!” he cried. With a terrible splintering of wood, the bow sundered upon the creature. Here at last, the captain’s spell over the crew broke. They fled, but not Ahabba. “Towards thee I husk; from heck’s lung I stab at thee; for stalk’s sake I spit my breath in your general direction. Sink all the unpopped kernels, and drat thy silk! Thus I give up my corn skewer!” And as he called out his attack, the damned cob dove, a mess of ropes and shattered hull and men dragged down into the depths with it. Quinquay and I made hard for the rowboat, yet intact despite the groaning of ropes and men and roping men. From that small sanctuary, from the flashes of lightning through the dark veil of the storm, we saw the great beast rise again through the seas, Ahabba tangled in the skewers. “What’d we learn?” I asked Quinquay. “Not to do it again,” he said, gesturing.
|
|
#
¿
Jul 26, 2022 04:04
|
|
|
GANG BRAWL 2: INFINITY NIGHT Centuries of Night 498 words As Dr. Seil Senua speed away on his starship into the infinite night, his streaked engines gave a long, bright gently caress you to all the skeptics and cretins that had tormented him and his career. Technically, it was the university’s ship, and technically, he was hijacking it, but things like property rights and theft became moot when one was accelerating towards the speed of light. They could never catch him, because he would never return. Dr. Senua hit send on his manifesto. The document was, for Dr. Senua, uncommonly concise. It outlined two points, and a brief mathematical treatise on why he was right and the larger astrophysicist community wrong: The universe, actually, was not flat, but the reason that increasingly precise measurements of the cosmic microwave background radiation were near zero was that it was far larger than they were willing to admit. Stealing the ship to prove these points was both unconditionally egotistical and an altruistic sacrifice; a noble suicide dedicated to the greater humanity. The ship had a dedicated ten-human ecosystem, meaning it could turn the waste and exhalations of his one self back into food and oxygen indefinitely. The slipstream scoop-field would send stray hydrogen atoms and particles in the path of the ship to the rear, where the fully-stocked antimatter drive could annihilate it for speed. When he ran out of antimatter, it would switch to fusion mode. In this way, he would slow in acceleration, but not quite stop. Dr. Senua reckoned that with the medical bay’s standard stock of anti-aging therapies, he had about two-hundred and five years to travel. Time dilation would gradually increase, but he hoped the scientists who would receive his last broadcasts–some tens of thousands of years later–might be a bit more open minded. He would send them grand marvels: Galaxies impossible to see from their tiny corner of the universe. Pictures of stars on the other side of the Milky Way. Of course, by the time he could validate his theory, he’d be far too far away to send a mere tight-beam of radio waves that could be received. No, a signal strong enough to reach that far would need to be big. Real big. If the universe was curved–just ever so slightly!, he would curve his ship’s path to match, and somewhere distant in the cosmos, it would annihilate itself on a star. If it wasn’t, he’d stay the course, and annihilate the then-ghostly vessel on a star ahead. A deep sense of both melancholy and peace settled over him. Before him, the stars shifted ever so slightly to blue, the stars behind, a bit more red. He was sad; for him, there was no more chance of intimacy, or the joys of seeing loved ones grow. He was content; he would leave this world a little changed, a little more knowledgeable. As the hour became infinitely late, he accepted this irrevocable destination. At least it was a fate of his own.
|
|
#
¿
Jul 26, 2022 18:05
|
|
|
The blood throne demands sportsblood, and also regular blood. In.
|
|
#
¿
Jul 28, 2022 17:06
|
|
|
Archived.
Uranium Phoenix fucked around with this message at 00:58 on Dec 24, 2022 |
|
#
¿
Jul 28, 2022 17:09
|
|
|
GANG BRAWL CRITICAL ALERT: I like seeing all this BLOOD, also known as WORDS, but BLOOD is NOTHING without people STARING AT THE BLOOD and going "actually this could use some improvement." I DEMAND that all participants in the GANG BRAWL do a CRITIQUE of the STORY AFTER THEIRS (or first story, if they were the last of the round). If you do not do this, you are a SPACE COWARD, which is worse than a REGULAR COWARD. Noah posted:Gang Brawl 1 Sonny posted:Gang Brawl 2
|
|
#
¿
Jul 28, 2022 20:27
|
|
|
In with the OMEGA. Filling in my own prompt 1 with "An extradimensional graduate student agonizes over their hosed up thesis project" No mods, no masters, no wheels sempre posting
|
|
#
¿
Aug 1, 2022 20:21
|
|
|
Prompt #1: An extradimensional graduate student agonizes over their hosed up thesis project Thesis Retrospective: Results Analysis for Sub-Universe Generation Method for Obtaining Large Quantities of Iron (Final_Final_ActualFinal_2_Edited) 633 words The process for creating smaller universes with Natural laws in the hypersphere were created to bias toward matter. An error in baryon asymmetry did accidentally create some antimatter, but not in a way that interfered with the targeted process-goal <Comment 2: Please do not use passive voice merely to avoid taking responsibility for errors in your universe>. Adjustments in spatial expansion and of the fundamental forces led to large amounts of hydrogen being generated by the universe. By tweaking gravity parameters3, Most interestingly, though, not all matter around each star made it into the star itself. Fractional percentages of matter condensed into “planets,” which sat well outside the fusion zone of stars in stable orbits. Most of these planets were Our first attempts at contacting some of these intelligences did not go well5. The primitive organisms had only rudimentary systems for sensing the universe around them, and communication was hampered by emotional, cultural, and egotistical biases. However, this misinterpretation was fixed after only a few thousand years (relative), and we were able to dialogue with many organisms, learning about their subjective experience in this sub-universe. Trillions of universe-native cultures created rich arts, stories, and artifacts to express themselves. In the end, I felt a personal responsibility to these ephemeral forms of life, and did the best I could do enrich their existence with joy and meaning. More remarkable than In the end, anyone can find a way to produce iron, but the real wealth in experimentation is the accidental discoveries <Comment 5: This is really wonderful, but you may wish to consider switching degrees>. Novel forms of inefficiency may lead to further surprises in our pocket universes. I, for one, look forward to generating large quantities of iron again.
|
|
#
¿
Aug 1, 2022 20:25
|
|
|
In for OMEGA ROUND 2 and I demand a FLASH RULE and I will SPIN THE WHEEL... of your DOOM!!!!
Uranium Phoenix fucked around with this message at 15:50 on Aug 2, 2022 |
|
#
¿
Aug 2, 2022 15:31
|
|
|
Prompt #2. Rule: Create a world Archived. Uranium Phoenix fucked around with this message at 00:56 on Dec 24, 2022 |
|
#
¿
Aug 3, 2022 19:54
|
|
|
In for Prompt #3, and I will Spin The Wheel.
|
|
#
¿
Aug 3, 2022 19:54
|
|
|
Prompt #3: Wonder Monument 250 words Edit: Removed Uranium Phoenix fucked around with this message at 17:52 on Nov 27, 2022 |
|
#
¿
Aug 4, 2022 19:43
|
|
|
In for OMEGA PROMPT 4. I would like a little wizard. As a treat.
|
|
#
¿
Aug 4, 2022 19:44
|
|
|
Archived.
Uranium Phoenix fucked around with this message at 01:01 on Dec 24, 2022 |
|
#
¿
Aug 7, 2022 19:31
|
|
|
Once again, Thunderdome is replete with blood, but blood needs plasma. In this analogy, plasma is crits. Without crits (plasma), blood (stories) cannot flow (be as good). I don't know what bone marrow or macrophages are in this analogy, but the point is you should write crits. They make you a better writer, and they make the Everyone who entered this week should do at least 4 crits. Week #522: Some Crits 4 U derp - Untitled: In this story, a teenager does indeed agonize about the void and death and all that. The story is pretty clear it is lighthearted with the introduction of the name “Xillia Ravenweave Drake.” That said, the character is more a nihilist/goth stereotype than anything resembling a person. Xillia’s nihilism (or possibly her name is Jill, that’s thrown in there once) creates a conflict that hurts the relationship between her and her parents. This is resolved by her dad reacting in an unexpected way that reconciles that relationship. Little descriptions like “They go downstairs and there is a pile of dead, burnt flesh on the table that she is meant to eat, and decaying plant matter in little piles” are fun, and characterize both Xillia and the scene. There’s a shallowness and simplicity to the story; it is concise, but I also don’t know how to improve it. Perhaps deepening the characters and scene so the reaction is more unexpected? Staggy - Sleepwalking: The story starts off in a rough position, because since it’s about a person too tired to remember what the story is about, the reader doesn’t know what the story is about–presumably something about remembering why they’re avoiding sleep. This introduction reminds me of the “white room” start authors go to where they have a protagonist wake up in an unknown place and slowly start describing it, much in the same way their metacognitive process goes. There is still nothing the reader understands about the story other than “Andrew tired” and “has watch” (a vague sense of ‘when’ the story takes place) throughout most of the story. Eventually, ‘viking warrior’ and ‘bus stop’ are added, but damned if I can tell you what the story is about or why he smiles at the end. The story seemed to promise something might be remembered or achieved by the end, but nothing was. I guess, then, that this is a piece much more about establishing an atmosphere and feeling of that world we live in when we’re tired of daze and half-dream, in which case, it needs to make itself and its purpose more clear at the start, and needs work to properly establish that mood. If this is autobiographical, perhaps more can be said about the importance of this event? flerp - Let us choke on ash: This flash piece is quite clear. It’s about having the opposite emotional reaction you’re supposed to as the world collapses around us; joy instead of terror, action instead of apathy. It seems to be rooted in the real world, with references to the red sky seen during the huge wildfire season in the US a bit back. Polluted rivers and cars with radios figure in, but it’s the red-sky ash-falling world-over imagery it keeps repeating, and uses repetition to emphasize its message and visual. The commandment of joy over despair also seems to have themes of self-harm, with inhaling ash and drinking polluted water. More hope is seen in the end, with the idea of planting trees for shade for future generations. I like the idea behind this, but something about the implementation doesn’t land for me. There could be ways to refine this that involve focusing in more on the apocalyptic red-sky event, or by diversifying the apocalyptic descriptions by broadening references to include other parts of the environmental crisis (though that would be hard with the word count). I think some repetition of laughter (repeated early on and at the end) is a place to condense or cut if you need extra words. I might focus more on intensifying the imagery and descriptions. For a larger revision, perhaps there’s another way to show a rebellion against despair into hope. Beezus - Sstrizzr, King Lizzr: Okay first, to be clear, lizards aren’t dinosaurs. Just to be clear. Next, you have a story about people playing an MMORPG. This is a tough thing to do well, because most MMOs have poo poo stories, by the nature of ‘people playing a light game for entertainment’, the stakes in the story are low, and it’s hard to develop characters through chat about something asinine like video games (full disclosure: I play video games). The story attempts to alleviate this through humor (roleplay interrupted), and introducing conflict (we have to hurry because everyone here has IRL poo poo), and by making something go strange in the video game (roleplaying having combat effects). That roleplay starts as the butt of a joke but ends as the solution to the conflict is nice. However, low-stakes nature of the story probably works best when humor is most firmly emphasized. Perhaps make the lore more ridiculous? The dialogue more pithy? (Like, Clownworld Meatprison seriously needs funnier lines). The characters more distinct? It’s a hard kind of story to do well, so what it is doing needs a lot of polish to succeed on its own terms.
|
|
#
¿
Aug 8, 2022 03:35
|
|
|
In for 2k with "Omniscient Trees" Hit me with another phrase and an occult fact.
|
|
#
¿
Sep 20, 2022 14:24
|
|
|
Archived.
Uranium Phoenix fucked around with this message at 01:11 on Dec 24, 2022 |
|
#
¿
Sep 26, 2022 04:35
|
|
|
In
|
|
#
¿
Dec 17, 2022 03:57
|
|
|
Archived.
Uranium Phoenix fucked around with this message at 02:06 on Jan 4, 2023 |
|
#
¿
Dec 19, 2022 13:03
|
|
|
sebmojo posted:as is traditional, we will turn off such kayfabe as remains for the rest of the year - this is the opportunity to chitchat and carepost and just like talk regular. One of the reasons I sometimes don't bother to enter, even if I like a prompt, is that I figure there's a pretty good chance I only get a single crit. Maybe. And sometimes its weeks after I enter that I finally get one, or get a second one. A major attractor to me with Thunderdome was timely, honest crits, and several of them to cross-reference. I've always made sure to put the effort in when I'm judge to give good crits, and it's deeply frustrating to me when people sign up to judge and don't bother. Perhaps my perception of this overweighs how often it happens. Nevertheless, "do I get my crits" doesn't feel like it should be a roll of the dice, and that is what it feels like. I understand life gets in the way (that's the other reason I often don't enter, and I know that's often why crits are late or don't materialize or a week might be especially sparse), but as with any community, TD is going to take effort to maintain. And more than just a few core people putting in effort. Ultimately, that means people stepping up if they want TD to continue to exist.
|
|
#
¿
Dec 23, 2022 22:26
|
|
|
|
| # ¿ May 16, 2024 07:37 |
|
|
hard counter posted:i'll try to crit more going forward but until i shake a little more rust off, and get a better handle of this format, i know i won't be fully comfortable doing it regularly since it's the ~*outstanding, authentic, insightful*~ crits people want, not the sloppy, ignorant ones, and that kinda leap will take a bit more self-work on my end to achieve WindwardAway posted:But since I'm new, I don't really think my judging would be appreciated as I haven't participated enough to give a formal opinion. I don't mind giving informal crits, though, if that's of any help. Just be warned, I can give constructive feedback but I'm not so great at balancing the positive with the negative. Idle Amalgam posted:One thing personally that holds me back is I don't know if my criticisms are valid, or often I feel like they aren't, but also that I might not be able to articulate what I want to say in a way that is actually helpful. From a technical standpoint I feel underqualified to speak on how anyone is writing. The first batches of crits I gave out when I started TD were hot garbage. They were far more beneficial to me than anyone else, because the big secret of the universe is: If you want to get good at something, you have to practice it. It was good practice for me. With critting, you're often going to start from a place of "not great" but that's fine. What I do like about TD is all entries and crits are accepted; it's a safe place to practice. And it's only through practice that one improves. Something Else posted:IMO, nobody owes anybody anything in here in terms of crits or anything.
|
|
#
¿
Dec 24, 2022 17:29
|
|