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WK 3
May 14, 2019 14:53:23 GMT
Post by doomey on May 14, 2019 14:53:23 GMT
[doomey sucks the life out of a pall mall, stuffs the butt into the mess in the triangular, marble ashtray set down stage right on the Cherrywood desktop. he takes a sip from the tumbler of amber, sets the near-empty glass on the desktop. he purses his lips, staring at DePlancher's desk. he taps his fingertips on the desktop, twists his lips. he breathes deep, exhales]
as far as I know we have not been able to find the cat.
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WK 3
May 14, 2019 14:54:46 GMT
Post by carol on May 14, 2019 14:54:46 GMT
Cat?
[Carol fingers the apex of the backrest of DePLancher's desk chair]
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WK 3
May 14, 2019 14:56:00 GMT
Post by doomey on May 14, 2019 14:56:00 GMT
[doomey lowers his brow, glares at DePlancher's desk]
Oh, fuck it. Sit.
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WK 3
May 14, 2019 14:57:20 GMT
Post by carol on May 14, 2019 14:57:20 GMT
[Carol pulls out the chair, noticing the wheels might need some maintenance, and she plops her ass into it, swivels left and right. She grabs the edge of the desk and pulls herself up close. She grabs the topmost capital off the pile that's gathered at the corner of the desk. She spreads it out before her like a deck of cards]
Okay. Got us some capital named The Halloween Party crafted by Edward Turner. Sounds pretty solid.
[Carol leans in. Starts her examination]
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WK 3
May 24, 2019 22:16:16 GMT
Post by doomey on May 24, 2019 22:16:16 GMT
[doomey's grabbed the top capital off the pile on his desk, spreads it out on the desktop. he looks over at Carol]
Where the fuck is Jesus?
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WK 3
May 24, 2019 22:20:58 GMT
Post by carol on May 24, 2019 22:20:58 GMT
[Carol busies herself with examining the capital. She purses her lips, combs her fingers through her hair, and then she turns the page over, slaps it atop the overturned examined pages]
He blew his brains out with his shotgun.
[She leans in, examines]
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WK 3
May 24, 2019 22:28:56 GMT
Post by doomey on May 24, 2019 22:28:56 GMT
[doomey stares at Carol. he twists his lips and bites at his inner cheek. he looks down at the capital spread before him]
Andrew Hamilton's Shells in the Ocean.
[he taps out a Pall Mall, swan vestas it, draws in a lungful of sweet smoke. he raises his gaze to glare Carolward]
he wouldn't do that. you're humping my leg, Carol.
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WK 3
May 24, 2019 22:53:02 GMT
Post by carol on May 24, 2019 22:53:02 GMT
[Carol gathers up the capital, shuffles it to a somewhat orderly mishmash, and she stomps over to the Porthole, slams it open]
Ed Turner can craft, Boligard. Let it be said, the dude knows how to type. But he's one of those 'one liners'. Few things I can't stand: pedophiles, empowered waitresses, and one liners. You know them, they spread a paragraph over an entire page, one sentence at a time. Who taught that? You see it all the time. We see it. Can't be allowed here at TQR.
[She stuffs Edward Turner's The Halloween Party out the Porthole and into the wildly whirling deluge. She watches it flutter and whip, separate and twirl]
Yeah. He wasn't happy. He wasn't in a good space.
[She shuts the Porthole, turns and walks over to the Cherrywood]
And you'd fucking vanished. Didn't help.
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WK 3
May 24, 2019 22:59:07 GMT
Post by doomey on May 24, 2019 22:59:07 GMT
[doomey looks at Carol blankly. the blank look transforms to balancing, and then to see-sawing (hurt to upset), and then he emits the curiosity of a child]
you think, if i'd been here, he wouldn't have died.
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WK 3
May 24, 2019 23:06:22 GMT
Post by carol on May 24, 2019 23:06:22 GMT
[Carol picks up a Nemo pez dispenser from the desktop, fiddles with it]
Yes.
[She breaks the dispenser (totally by accident, she's not a Pez destroyer), closes her eyes, and then throws Nemo against the wardrobe, nearly hitting Boligard's childlike face. Nemo shatters and shrapnels in all sorts of directions. She breathes in, breathes out]
Yes.
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WK 3
May 25, 2019 0:07:58 GMT
Post by doomey on May 25, 2019 0:07:58 GMT
[doomey pulls his focus from the capital. he'd gotten a good way in, examined a majority of the capital. he looks to Carol]
None of us-
[he sucks on the Pall Mall, exhales]
-save the day. least of all, me.
[doomey gathers up the current capital and cradles it to his chest like a newborn. he hustles over to the Porthole]
Andy Hamilton's Shells in the Oceans is very much anti-TQR. sweet, calm and breezy is real good for the Harvard review and such, but god damn it-
[doomey stuffs the capital out the Porthole]
-we need twisted shit, ladies and gentlemen. we want dogs and cats living together, we want a young girl tattoo artist who tells the future through her art, we want a casual guy that leads a pack of murderous butterflies.
[doomey walks back to the Cherrywood, sits in the pilot's chair, leans back, and he sucks the life out of his Pall Mall]
we want a man who defies his nature, a man who is more than just a man, a man who makes the world better.
[he lowers his head, and then he looks over at Carol]
you're sure. he's dead.
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WK 3
May 25, 2019 0:22:41 GMT
Post by carol on May 25, 2019 0:22:41 GMT
[Carol's examining a fresh cap. She looks up, scratches her cheek]
Oh, yeah. I'm sure. I scraped his brains off the wardrobe. Cleaned up as best I could, cousin.
[Carol stands and gathers up the current capital]
And, yeah, by the way, crafters need to seriously throw themselves off their high horse. I mean, come on. This guy, Mark Towse, crafts like a puppeteer with a stick shoved up his ass.
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WK 3
May 25, 2019 0:24:44 GMT
Post by doomey on May 25, 2019 0:24:44 GMT
[doomey grabs up a fresh cap from the pile on his desk. he spreads it out]
okay. that makes no sense at all, Carol.
[he leans in]
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WK 3
May 25, 2019 0:34:14 GMT
Post by carol on May 25, 2019 0:34:14 GMT
[Carol's at the Porthole. She slams it open]
He crafts like one of those little girls at the pageant with her mother standing in the wings signaling to her what to do and what to say while the mother's vagina is all dried up and she's got no one else to beat on but her daughter because her husband up and left last Rodeo night at the Cactus Prick with the fucking waitress who has two kids of her own and dentures because of that fight in high school last year. Right?
[She shoves the capital into the Porthole]
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WK 3
May 25, 2019 0:43:32 GMT
Post by doomey on May 25, 2019 0:43:32 GMT
[doomey puts a fingertip on the capital, marking his place, and he looks over at Carol]
still. very little sense, amigo. thinking maybe you might have some issues? you need to work through?
[he awaits her reply. and he waits. he goes back to examining Dan Allen's Ghost Storm. he pours himself a good tumbler of amber, takes a sip]
ghost storm. jesus fucking christ, what i'm i even doing here?
[he downs what's left of the amber]
goodstuff, it appears, is no longer available.
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WK 3
May 27, 2019 1:59:41 GMT
Post by carol on May 27, 2019 1:59:41 GMT
[Carol walks to DePlacher's desk. She sits in the chair, brings out her bag. She begins to roll a joint, shuffling the weed, agitating the paper, shifting the center, licking the edge. She rolls a joint, leans back]
Folks. Let's focus on the opening. Let's take, for example, Charles Portis's True Grit. Crafted back in the day, 1968. That's a fucking while ago, savvy? The opening paragraph says ...
People do not give it credence that a fourteen-year-old girl could leave home and go off in the wintertime to avenge her father's blood...
Right? Sorry, but that is wonderful, righteous, and it fills the soul of the literati with warm butter. All's we need is something close to that, folks. I mean, you guys, the children I'm hoping click on this, need to craft better. Right? That one line, that first paragraph must make us lick our lips. I could give you multiple examples of bad intros from the last few capitals sent our way, but that'd be rude. I'm simply asking you to pay attention to your opening line. The entire opening paragraph, right? Sorry thing is, no one pays attention to us here in the trenches. They'll just continue to send us their shit piles of prose.
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