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Total Votes:[ 94 ]

Writer Selbe
Wing McCallister


I'm not in the round 3 audio recording. Sadpanda. sad I actually moreso wanted that one for feedback and advice.
I have read this piece, and since the next recording is far away, I will write things... omg hell freezing.

I really liked what you did here. It had the power and grit that I like to see, and your flirting with animalistic tendencies and emotions was really spot on. It was a sprinkling to address the point and not overwhelming. This is an often used theme, but you managed to put your own spin on it that I frankly enjoyed. It was captivating and entertaining, which kept me moving through at a nice pace. The potential pitfalls of a piece like this were not here, which additionally helped the flow. In places... it is a bit 'listy' for my liking, and that led to some minor distractions. However, overall, I think you did a great job at taking a common subject and making it yours.

That being said, the scoring of this would not have been enough to reverse the decision of Round 3. However, that additional entry is enough for me to say that you have earned the wildcard spot in the playoffs. It's a prompt round, dear, and the deadline is the 8th.

Invisible Conversationalist

Wing McCallister


As for the characters and the dialogue, did you think that they were believable and genuine?

O.G. Elder

God damn, I'm not sure what to do with this prompt. I've been thinking it over for a few days now.

I'll come up with something, I'm sure, but it'll hurt. Character creation as a process is something I disagree with fundamentally as character only exists within the context of story and everything else anybody does is mostly useless bullshit.

And an essay on why I believe this to be true would be neither fun to write nor particularly entertaining to read, so that's out.

However, I WILL PREVAIL OVER THE PROMPT.
Writer Selbe
Wing McCallister


As for the characters and the dialogue, did you think that they were believable and genuine?
I thought it fit. I could see it play out. I imagine some individuals might view the dialogue in a negative light. Perhaps some will see it as coming across with too much flailing - or view the 'I'm going to end it' thing as on the cookie cutter side.

The thing here though is that your description carried the dialogue well. It wasn't just there fighting for itself.

Invisible Conversationalist

Wing McCallister


Mmkay. That's good. Do you know much about the Old Testament? I kind of want to do my prompt on a less-mentioned character.

Dangerous Enabler

Black Gabriel
And an essay on why I believe this to be true would be neither fun to write nor particularly entertaining to read, so that's out.
This right here is basically what I did, except it was a lot of fun to write, and contains one of my go-to recipes.
Writer Selbe
Wing McCallister


Mmkay. That's good. Do you know much about the Old Testament? I kind of want to do my prompt on a less-mentioned character.
Much? I know things... not many details.

Dangerous Darling

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The Science of Creation

You must start simply--
A pinch of personality, a dash of remorse, a small button nose, with freckles of course.
Simple brown eyes, a head of red hair, curls wild and free that haven't a care,
unlike the girl, who is stuck, waiting on you for life to begin there--

but the funny thing about her life, you will see,
is that every moment is a stroke of the key,
she lives in the words from a pen poised to strike,
to bring her small figure alive, to send her on an adventure,
to make her blood pressure spike with every dark hall she enters.

To feel the thrill of a door that should not be there,
in an old musty attic that, if life were fair,
she would have never encountered, but alas it is not,
and her aunt Gertrude's attic is where mysteries rot,
and poor little Babel—she must be named so,
after all she can't just be called girl, its not kosher, you know?--
will run into a lot more than she could have dreamed--
after all, she's not real, so her dreams can't be seen.
Or is she? Is she more?
Or
just words on a page?
Ink in the pen?
The light on the stage?

You know all about her loose middle tooth,
Her third cousin Simon who once jumped from the roof,
Her mother who bakes, her father who sews,
Her stillborn brother who had 13 toes.

You know every inch of her make believe world--
you know she'll grow up—or she won't if you choose--
and right now you know she has gone where she ought not,
and found terrible trouble that was best left forgot--
you know this because you wrote it out, see--
but then is she you?
Where does you part with me?

Does that make her a product or a part?
With every nuance you create a heart that beats for the readers,
so you must create well.

Know every nook, every scar, every single tell of her face,
how her brow wrinkles, the sound of her voice,
what she would do if faced with the choice of killing a lover to save a friend,
is niceness a pleasure or a means to an end?

It's Simple:
You need to know everything she will feel--
in short, my dear friend, you must make her real.

O.G. Elder

I don't know if there was an alternate chosen for the elimination rounds this year, but if there was I hope they're ready.

I've been ill and may not make the deadline. I'm working hard to finish typing up / editing my piece, which I wrote on paper in my bed (why don't I have a laptop?), and I'm not counting myself out yet, but I'm still sick and l'm not able to sit comfortably at my computer for a prolonged period.

Hopefully, I'll be able to submit on time but I feel it's important to give fair warning if there's a chance I won't make it and someone else can fill the slot if I don't.

O.G. Elder

K, so I made it. I'm not sure I've properly adhered to the prompt really, but this was the best I could do. I needed to think of which character I had was interesting enough to warrant any examination and the only way I could examine him would be to twist some of his stories into a new perspective. As I mentioned, I don't believe in "character creation" and I think the idea of a "character science" lends too much credence to what is mostly time-wasting bullshit among so-called writers who never get anything done.

So I spent a day digging through the old stories of an old friend of mine. A utility who I've used before here, and who I will no doubt use over and over in the future and compiled some brief observations from an outside perspective about him. Ultimately, I'm not sure how interesting it even is. Which is kind of my point, though. Character only matters in context and the context is everything.

Without further ado . . .

I told you he'd be back.


The Top Secret Dossier of Atom Bryant

From the desk of the Assistant Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
Priority: High.

The following documents have been compiled over the course of six years from the investigations of several different agencies. It has only recently come to light that the incidents these files relate to are connected by a single figure. As of yet, it would be difficult if not impossible to bring any legal action against him. It is, in fact, entirely possible that he has not committed any crime at all making this dossier of questionable legal nature.

What we do know is that this man is extraordinarily dangerous. All agents should exercise extreme caution in their dealings with the mad doctor Atom Bryant.


Adam Bryant first appears in government files as a material witness in an investigation by the Food and Drug Administration against a pharmaceutical company. Many details of the case, including names of witnesses and the company itself, are sealed and were unavailable for this file. From the documents we were able to obtain, we were able to piece together that Bryant was working as a post-graduate intern on a research team developing a new cancer treatment at the time of the investigation. Bryant was not implicated in any of the company's various infractions given his low-level access and brief involvement, however two details overlooked at the time bear mentioning in these reports in light of his more recent activities. The first was the death of a female test subject with whom Bryant was possibly involved romantically. Her identity is among the sealed files but various off-hand comments in witness testimony places them together. She succumbed to her disease during the course of treatment.

The second item was a singular comment made by Bryant himself during one interview. From the transcript:

Bryant, Adam: There is no doubt in my mind that the treatment we developed works.

At the time, such a remark made by a low-level intern was considered to have no bearing on the case when weighed against various experts involved in the investigation, but given Bryant's remarkable scientific mind and his following accomplishments it seems possible that he knew the truth of the matter and this casts the death of the unknown female subject, as well as other deaths during the study, into new light.

Following this case Bryant abandoned his involvement in pharmaceuticals and pursued his doctorate in pure biology. He graduated with highest honors, writing his thesis on the various regenerative properties of living matter. For a time he vanished into private research along these lines with a peculiar focus on rapidly regenerating plants.

When he next entered the public eye, he had adopted his current name and began sporting the peculiar shade of green hair that has become one of his most identifiable features. At this time, he publicly announced his intention to cure death with what he had learned. This proclamation was met with scorn by the scientific community and the mass media.

In the autumn of that year, Bryant came to an impasse with the Center for Disease Control over alleged use of several highly infectious viruses in his research. Each of the strains in question were lethal by nature and tightly controlled. The question of how he might have obtained samples of these was never properly settled and any criminal investigation was thwarted before it could begin. It is the belief of the Bureau at this juncture that he was capable of synthesizing these himself and very likely did so and while the connection is tenuous we have come to believe that this research was linked to the the so-called "undeath outbreak" that ran through retirement homes in the winter of that same year, leaving aged and has resulted in a remarkable increase of comatose patients of advanced age living well past their presumed expiration dates.

Bryant's next contender was the Department of Energy, who intervened when Bryant set up his private laboratory complex. The power requirements of his extremely secretive advanced research center were staggering and his proposal for a privately owned fission-based generator for his personal use was troubling. Bryant, however, had assistance within the government and despite the DoE's objections is now the owner and proprietor of the most powerful nuclear power plant in North America and all of this is, evidently, above-board and beyond reproach.

While all of this together is disconcerting, Dr. Bryant has never openly violated the law nor has he ever been anything but cooperative with law enforcement agencies. He has, in fact, often been of assistance in cases of what can only be described as 'scientific crimes.' Since the opening of his laboratories he has earned a staggering number of degrees in various fields from multiple institutions, has pioneered many advanced technologies primarily used in medical fields, and is considered an expert in everything from archaeology to zoology and most of the more obscure sciences of lengthy name in between the two.

He remains reclusive despite all of this and is generally an outcast of the scientific community for his continuously and increasingly radical ideas.

It is only the most recent development that brings us to the critical point of having to decide whether Doctor Atom Bryant is a criminal or even a terrorist.

Immigration and Customs enforcement has noted a number of highly sensitive shipments of what appears to be materials suitable for weapons of mass destruction to his laboratories from foreign senders, many of whom appear on Interpol, Department of Homeland Security and FBI watchlists.

The nature of Bryant's work leaves what many in the government consider reasonable doubt as to whether he intends any harm to the nation or whether these parts might be used for more benevolent purposes. Indeed, it seems unlikely that he would have any interest in conventional, nuclear, chemical or biological weapons of what he would call an "ordinary nature."

Still, the suspicious circumstances demand an answer to the question: what is Atom Bryant doing or building with these materials? What need does he have for such massive power? Most importantly, for all that we've learned about his past: does anybody really know who Dr. Atom Bryant is or what he is capable of?

I fear that we will soon find out.

Evil will rise in

The Mad, Bad Doctor
ATOM BRYANT

Roy Alexis's Queen

No Sex Symbol

18,800 Points
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gonk

EDIT: don't count me otu yet...i still got this...somehow.

Winter Warrior

9,475 Points
  • Rat Conqueror 500
  • Lightbulb 150
  • Winter Guardian 250
Edit: I didn't want to have to re-post this just because I forgot a title, so I hope you see this Wing.


Mirror, Mirror, On The Wall: Who's The Most Flawed Character Of All?
I see my Self differently in a mirror than I do in a camera. In both instances, I look at what is on the outside and compare it to what is on the inside. The difference is privacy, especially when considering nudity. Alone in my mirror, I am invisible to all but mine own eyes, but when I record myself, I am aware that other people will see that image. The only way to make it “ideal” would be to alter it into a lie.

When I study myself in a mirror, I only have my own thoughts to worry about. I don’t have to show anyone else that particular reflection if I don’t want to. I’m not saying I never share mirrors, but when I look in a mirror while another person is there, I am drawn to the other person’s image by natural curiosity. I then criticize their flaws in an attempt to make my own feel smaller. I have no idea if this is relatable.

In a mirror, I can tweak my brain to see what my heart desires with a few choice movements. It’s all about angles and lighting and lying to myself. I only have to change my own mind. I find flaws but I learn to love those flaws, or at least pretend to. I even begin to call them beautiful, with time. I learn to say I /am/ beautiful because –insert a trait I’ve learned to appreciate today–

But then I stand in front of a camera, even one that is not recording, and I really do gain ten pounds. I know that if I turn on that camera, someone else is going to see the image of me that appears. The person on the other end is going to see all the flaws that I have only just begun to love. My terror is an extra ten pounds of fat and rotten lighting, and that terrifies me.

I always wonder how a stranger can call me beautiful after having only known me for a short time. A lot of my self-appointed beauty comes from the fact that I believe true beauty lies in the heart. A stranger can’t possibly know my heart, can’t have gone through all the stages of rejection and denial in the span of a few minutes- not when it took me x amount of time. Yet they call me beautiful.

Other people will always accept us more readily than we accept ourselves. I still can’t believe how quickly they traverse the gap between She is flawed. and She is a rising sun that sets in my west, and I must worship her, for she sets my days ablaze. When she leaves me in the eve, not another star in Heaven shines as brightly. Even the moon is but a dream-vision of her. Or something like that.

My point is I can only paint myself as a still life. If I create perfection at one angle, it disappears in the next. That is how I feel about the character development within any of my favorite stories, including the half-written drafts and outlines in my own saved documents. Looking into the eyes of my original characters is like looking into a mirror; developing a solid character is reliant on my own ability to scrutinize- not only myself, but also everyone around me. It’s not the big details that matter, it’s the little ones.

Sometimes it’s just surface realizations, like, I may be overweight, but I’m not fat, no matter how many times I try to tell myself I am. Anyway, plenty of people have told me they love my curves. Other times it’s not so easy. I make conclusions, like, I wouldn’t be so fat/overweight if I wasn’t so lazy. I would lose weight faster if I pushed myself harder.

I can make those same conclusions about character development. Some stories I have written were very hard, /are/ very hard. There is so much of me inside them that I am caught up in the idea of a perfection that just doesn’t exist. I would get my novel ideas finished faster if I wasn’t so afraid to paint the truth about myself and the friends whose habits and nervous ticks I have stolen as material.

I will admit that it is easier to look at my written Self than it is to look at my mirror or camera image. Words allow me such freedoms. I can paint my ideal image with words and give her a new name, a new body, and the ability to save the world. I can give her all the things I wish I had. I can create a male alter ego and write sexy poetry about women, and no one will criticize it, because I can stamp “fiction” on the cover.

Certain life events that I wish I’d lived differently can be plastered on the computer and re-made. I can create an entirely different life for myself, one that I can re-live repeatedly, each time with a new ending. There are no lies in fiction, only ideas. I can manipulate my real Self, but only to a certain extent, and it takes time. With words, it’s instantaneous. A terrible villain can become the savior of the world in a couple words. The savior of the world can become a terrible villain in a couple words. It’s called “Brain-swapping.” Haha. Yes, I laughed at my own joke.

Anyway, sometimes I feel like the character in a novel. I’m constantly trying to change my Self, like I’m my own work-in-progress. I am never satisfied. That’s how I feel about every character I have ever created. I am not satisfied. They are not good enough because I am not good enough. I am not good enough because my logic is flawed; therefore, my character’s logic is flawed, and because my character’s logic is flawed, so is their story, and I must eliminate all flaws.

Other people will accept my characters and their flaws easier than I will. They will call them beautiful despite those flaws, forgive them their mistakes more quickly, trust more fully in their abilities, and follow them more readily. It is harder for the creator to do that. I am the mother of my characters, and being a mother in real life, I know how hard it is to hand over the reins to a child. What is a character but a child, a child born of words, whose ending solidifies with words?

I see the characters from my various novels when I look in the mirror. Sometimes, I even wear them out of the house, as if they are a jacket whose arms are too big for me. I look around my world and I notice one thing, no matter what character I’ve worn that day: My characters are not fit for my world. I wonder if I create the characters I do, create worlds such as I do, because I do not belong in my own world.

It is possible that my characters are a cry for help. Save me, please. I have no idea who I am, and I can’t find myself on the street in front of my own house. It doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel like me. It feels like the beginnings of a new novel, left on the shelf of this decrepit life, as soon as I figure out how to escape.

Of one thing, I am sure: My characters are all the best and worst parts of the people I love/loathe, and myself. Maybe that means I don’t need help, just motivation enough to finish them, to finally pick one and commence the journey. I am a quitter, so every character I have ever created is a quitter, too- not because they’ve chosen to be that way but because I gave up on them too early.

There are plenty of excuses, but I will spare myself, my readers, and all the half-baked characters in my saved documents a load of bullshit and tears by simply saying: I’m sorry, my Loves. I will be better.

Roy Alexis's Queen

No Sex Symbol

18,800 Points
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god, don't close the round yet. i'm posting in the next two minutes because titles i dont have one...

Roy Alexis's Queen

No Sex Symbol

18,800 Points
  • Elocutionist 200
  • Perfect Attendance 400
  • Partygoer 500
i think i did this wrong.

ANNND nevermind the title came so suddenly. also don't hate on the brackets...


i hate creating characters because it is a ******** of a process for me that changes about twenty-five times in four paragraphs and i...ugh this was frustrating. thanks, wing, thanks. you always find these prompts that make me wanna...ugh. i’m going to bed--after i finish this movie of course.





role the die again for the subcategories


[0]

I pick them like scabs.

I start out with a nice cliché to make it a little believable, like drunk confessions, truths swallowed with false laughter and delusions of someone loving a violent girl, the wild girl, the boy with the flowers in his hair. There are lights and rows of shadows, most a little flawed, some perfect and others kind of ugly; they’re all designed by the same architect, the same mind.

I think myself into the part, like a night light shining through the dark. I walk across bone dust—from Bryan and Rose and so many others I forgot to let out—and a graveyard of words, splintered limbs like roots in the earth. I question and answer, twist and tug, grab the worm by it’s head with the tweezers and pull gently at first.

I breathe life into names that dwell in worlds found within my universe. They get dull traits, personalities that are meant to grow with each word and every dialogue that’s sewn onto their tongues. And I leave most to collect dust, thrown together with other lost stories and love lives and families that never got to know each other in a drawer that keeps piling and stays shut for far too many extended periods.

There’s the boy who kisses cheeks softly but doesn’t speak much. He lives by an oak tree that’s as large as his house and he collects the leaves, which is why they call him leafboy. And then there is that broken boy down the street who collects ants and burns them once he’s found enough, a soul flickering about many, who taught Eliza that intimacy was an inferno.

There’s Dysis, the first scientist whom I gave the confidence to actually give quantum physics a try because it made sense to her, but she’s falling for a wordsmith who loved someone with the same face and was ready to sacrifice her.

This ended up producing Ann, the second scientist, who learned not to believe in love, and a child that was hers, who never understood why his mother called his father a bibliophile forever out of reach.

Today, though, it’s about person number three, a boy, or man, I don’t really know because his hoody is casting shadows onto his face and there’s an eighteen percent chance that he’s actually a she. But I assign the gender until he proves to be something else.

That’s what it ends up feeling like, sometimes: he’s assigned to me.

I write, he leads—the evidence of his existence stuck on my tongue and on the tips of my fingers—scattered about, contaminating the plot with careless characterisations, smiles winning over hearts and bullet wounds in his chest that let me know he won’t make it to the end.

We’re handcuffed together in this.

If I try to force him to go right, it’ll end up in a disaster punctuated with false accusations that make the dialogue stale and his actions unreal. We serve time together within the prison of my mind, both guilty of ideas that should be considered crimes, and the plot doesn’t progress without him.

And I stain his hands with blood while he fears they’ll never come clean again and—

His case becomes mine.



But I stood on two tall legs, unflinching, facing more than one world with analytic eyes, knowing that none of them were made specifically for me. I play dot-to-dot with constellations made up in your mind like a colour book picture, a paint by number photo album on your desktop.

Far-off planets gleamed out of reach, star-like and bright, and it made me raise a fist. I wanted to shout. There were no veins to trace beneath the surface yet. There was no pulse.

I was merchandise—a handshake, exchanged smiles and promises of tomorrow. But I never got to go home. There wasn’t any triumph, even when the story was at its end. There was no party at the end of the line.

There was no one, and nothing.



[13]

This is where we begin.

We start here because memories, they don’t tend to like the start; we skip those or we don’t remember, maybe we even suppress them. Besides, thirteen is Amy’s favourite number and Jakob thinks it’s bad luck. They are background characters to Evan’s life, who is, ironically, only thirteen now but a few paragraphs down into his story and he’ll be twenty-three and broke.

He’s got short brown hair, and he’s a little rough around the edges, maybe on the inside too. He’s a dab hand with a gun and he likes the smell of burning wires and gasoline—but he’s never used one on an animal.

He kind of grew up dripping blood.

And he’s also, possibly, stuck in the past.

Someday, maybe, he’ll spend his time actually doing something to live in the future, to not just be the kid that dropped out of school, helped two friends with an illegal abortion and ended up in a gang somehow. It’ll be a miracle or maybe the first sign of the apocalypse, but he’ll try.



There was never any cake, just flashes, pictures of it.

Like, sixty seconds, for me that was a lifetime.

I saw faces I’ve shared those seconds with, some scared, others smiling, and then there were those who just stood on the sidelines watching. There was nothing exciting about the fact that you would kill a good number of these people; that I—or that they—would and we might’ve all been dead yesterday already. I might have recoiled from this some time ago, but I had to learn to embrace it.

I learned to take a knife myself, ready to throw it into someone’s back, to make sure I seemed just a little more interesting to you than they did.

We didn’t start where we should, ‘cause I’m just Evan and you’re Frankenstein to me. Like a core malfunction, it was hard to accept that you didn’t even bother with my name. In your eyes, my passion needed a tune-up; my smiles needed to melt machinery.

It’s coded in my DNA of ink and eraser residue from that time you tried to make me look like someone I wasn’t.

I’m glitching left and right, speaking with two different accents and in three different tongues and you didn’t seem to understand a single word I said. I was running with guns at my back because all I knew was survival—beat the rest, run faster, jump higher, draw quicker.



[27]

Evan drinks like the rest of the alcoholics, and he finds home within the smell of gunpowder and mints. He could afford better whiskey if he got paid for killing every good memory he has, which is kind of linked to police sirens and adrenaline rushes and badly-healed bullet wounds.

The rush of wind through the open window of a stolen Chevy doing ninety round a corner makes him seem cheap again.



You were a creature that studied the weak, tried to break the strong, in the silence of the night like a humble preacher within your own mind, and I tried to speak, slip out of the simple servant act you put us all in.

But I signed my life away, over to you without ever being asked, and it wasno't that hard to kill an idea so I was scared.

Sit down, have some tea, you wanted to see how deep my emotions went; let’s see if you’ll call them a weakness or strength, one so profound it’ll make a God cry—

I was never religious, though I suppose you were mine.

And here I thought I was alive.

And I was scared, and I wanted to live.

So I begged you—



[33]

There was never any cake.

Evan’s been created for a world that never truly needed him.

And, in the end, it turns out that he really is a she—that’s what he identifies as when he’s in his room alone at four in the morning wearing a yellow sun dress and stuffing his girlfriend's bra with toilet paper and socks and trying out the name Erin like it’s salvation.

She laughs through the pain, through the twelve stitches holding his her stomach together, and still she continues to laugh, letting the metallic twang in her mouth stick to her tongue, folding her smile into too many pieces to count.



I am no Salvador Dali, not made up of grand gestures in a world of colours. Some days I wished I were The Persistence of Memory, because at least it was completed. I could feel the words within my thoughts and taste them on my tongue, but they came from your fingers and I couldn’t even trust my own mind because, objectively speaking, it wasn’t ever real.

I was not Evan.

I wasn’t even Erin.



[37]

With her shirt buttoned up and her eyes set on the world in front of her, Erin refuses to believe the universe she is in, denies the questions of mathematics that neither of us understand and she—

Evan is thirty-seven nowadays and he believes he is worthless.

He stays with me for a while.



I survive.

Dangerous Enabler

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