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Post by fearandloathing on Jul 7, 2008 1:25:36 GMT
Are we still on for this idea? How many people would commit to it/how much of a response has there been in terms of prompts?
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Post by Pen Against Sword on Jul 7, 2008 4:09:46 GMT
It's still happening, Fear. We need more prompts definitely since we only have about three right now, but we've got plenty of time, and I'm sure the whole process won't start off completely hunky dory.
Also, this doesn't actually kick off until August, and even then, we won't be posting the responses until September, so there's a good window of opportunity left.
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Post by marilena on Jul 7, 2008 6:18:02 GMT
Yep, that's right. We're in no hurry yet, but we could certainly use a few more ideas from everyone. *nudge*
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Post by Neophyte Ronin on Aug 19, 2008 22:10:01 GMT
Regarding the current challenge due on the 25th, it's not too late to devise something comical, written in a horrific fashion, or something horrific that's written in comedic fashion. Maybe people aren't too clear on the idea, or that devising something under short notice has everybody frazzled. Well, in a conscious effort to help my friend out here, I've decided to offer two examples:
Comedic in Horrific Fashion:
Denzel just knew it. He just knew this would happen! I mean come on, he thought. What's the first rule of escape? You don't settle for the corner.
Somehow, he managed to trap himself. That's just it. He trapped himself. To say nothing of the sly, grinning creature stomping after him... yeah, all his fault. He started it. He didn't need to know how. All that mattered was who ends it, and it would not end well.
Only the hallway's light poured in, but then the gigantic shadow made itself a picture frame to surround Denzel, quivering and sullen. Nothing less than being painless would the child tolerate anything from his long-haired assailant. But he knew the whole idea behind this farcical malevolence was to gauge the reaction from one undergoing such extreme, unsettling sensations as to cry out.
But Denzel knew how to act, and acting sullen and quivering gave him the edge, or rather a perceived one. He could outwit this overzealous menace, lull it into a false sense of triumph... right before scooting around its predictable lunge for his gizzard, and racing through the door. While extending their stalemate, Denzel needed to buy time before an authority could arrive. Denzel knew how to act.
He did not, however, know patience.
Stepping just to his right cued the aggressor in, closing the deal well before desired. One false move and one fatal lunge, and Denzel was pinned down, cold fingers gripping his abdomen. The contents of his lungs flew out in one last shriek.
"Gotcha!" cried Tifa, kneading the dough to her heart's content, "Ha! ...No kid 'round here escapes my grips!"
And the laughter did not cease... well, not for three minutes and maybe an eternity somewhere around there....
Okay, that's a shot at a twist ending paired with writing a funny moment of fluff in the third-person view with Denzel's take on the proceedings. He didn't consider them all too funny, see.
Now, this is probably going to be an early excerpt from one of my takes on the challenge. Seeing how I'm receiving occasional "Favorites" and reviews for two of my decent stories, I've placed this one right into Reno's lap:
Most people typically shriek and scream and spew the contents of their innards at beholding this wretched display. For Reno: "another day, another death". Nothing but maybe someone's spleen protruding and pulsating right out of a constantly bleeding gut could hope to make him flinch. He put people on a rack like this before, incidentally... where was it? Corneo's BDSM lair, perhaps? But those places are staged to look creepy, although it's hard to imagine Mukki or Bukki or The Todd or Disco Cool whoever those pig-headed jerks were called... who really thought that stuff was hot, anyway? Then Reno suddenly remembered testing the theory on someone who helped build the damned room. Yeah, it was Kotch... or was that Scotch? Don't know, don't care--either of them deserved a bullet, but the company is cheap on ammo (a weapon manufacturer?) and writing reports really cramp his style.
So, barring his partner looking both ways before peering outside his shades for once (twice, maybe?) in their careers, Reno needed to step forward and examine this. It was the job, after all... but what a piece of work this place was. Someone not only cut this cadaver into pieces, but also skinned it completely, but not before draining all the blood, carefully bottled and shelved alongside the organs. The cultists were just in the process of boning this cadaver and hacking into the bone marrow, for the love of Gaia! They only stopped when they realized a raid was on... Reno's.
He had to step forward... but somehow, he checked his watch. Five-zero-one post-meridian... technically, should he be really legalese about it, ought to call it a day. Swallowing bile sort of supported this thinking. Constantly brushing perspiration from the forehead agreed as well. So, Reno crept his eyes toward the now Adonis mug of his associate.
"Hey Rude--"
"--Mine says four forty-five," Rude cried, cutting him off, "move."
Damn him. Damn him and his exact time! Why wouldn't he just switch his clock fifteen minutes ahead like the rest of the sane people on this world? Oh, wait... no. He probably heard this Earfyl guy, this occult leader and prophet guy... yeah, he probably switches his clock ahead too. Why is everyone in a rush to end the d**n world, anyway?
Adjusting his tie (ha-ha, definite sign of discomfort right there, Reno), he crept forward. At least the floor had no booby traps. They even sterilized the atmosphere in the room to prevent infections. Nobody could say murder two now, because they had enough foresight to sacrifice virgins with proper medical procedures. They would not booby trap the floor in a clean room; people worked in here! They are working people. They have to be sane if they are working people with medical degrees... right?
But Reno kept staring at the floor. He felt no compulsion to look up at those bottles... since their contents moved... pulsated, really... without external force of their own. Now, the intestines or pancreas or the kidneys and livers never seemed to budge, but one jar with one lung, the other jar with another lung... they inhaled and exhaled rather slowly... like a calm person would. Between them was the heart, and that beat slowly too, about once per second. Reno felt better prone to vomit if he looked straight down to all the blood on the cement floor, anyway. Worst of all, Reno looked upon the cadaver's pelvis, and realized it appeared capable of installing a womb... this was a woman's pelvis!
Then her hand clutched his arm.
How's that for "Break Time is over!"?
There are other methods if you know brainstorming. You only need 2,500 words to pull this off, so be sure you have a nice, simple concept and go from there. The two above were put together at the last minute by reflecting upon my horror and dread of tickling sessions, while the other was inspired by the idea of raiding a perverse murder cult and trying to maintain a detached eye--something only Reno could do.
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