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Ama-Dome!: Arena I: Irish Reader vs. Psylocide!

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Showing 1-25 of 118 posts in this discussion
Initial post: Nov 2, 2012 5:36:43 AM PDT
Splinker says:
Listen all! This is the truth of it.

Writing leads to ego, and ego leads to spamming.
And that was damn near the death of us all. Look at us now! Busted up, and everyone yelling about too many freebies and disappearing reviews.

But we've learned, by the dust of them all... Ama-Dome learned. Now, when writer's get to writing, it happens here! And it finishes here!

Two writers enter; one writer leaves.

Welcome to AMAZONDOME 2012! ARENA I

Our first match features two posters who pack plenty of snark:


Two writers with itchy pens and nothing to promote!

Unheard of!!!

The genre that the gladiators will be fighting with.... COMEDY/HUMOR!

Word count: Between 500 and 1,000.

Due Date: October 30!

Stay tuned for the big match. Once both stories are posted, everyone who's anyone will get to vote.

Until then, feel free to place bets, discuss odds, talk smack and read
"I've Been Deader," a near perfect blend of horror and comedy. (Someone's gotta promote something here. Ama-Dome doesn't pay for itself).

Put away your remotes, microwave some popcorn, and enjoy the spectacle.

Two writers enter. One writer leaves.

There can be only ONE!

Posted on Nov 2, 2012 5:38:09 AM PDT
Last edited by the author on Nov 2, 2012 6:08:02 AM PDT
Splinker says:
Stories will be posted in two minutes. Who wrote which story will be revealed after voting. Gladiators, please don't tell anyone which one is yours, although if you want to tweet about the contest or mention me and my book, that's okay.

Everyone can vote simply by posting on this thread. Voting ends midnight Sunday (12:01 am Monday), EST>

Good luck!

Posted on Nov 2, 2012 5:38:53 AM PDT
Last edited by the author on Nov 26, 2012 5:30:31 AM PST
Splinker says:
By Irish Reader
We were all lined up along the bar - true acolytes paying our nightly obeisance to the black stuff - when O'Sullivan came in to buy cigarettes and to cast his fierce gaze about the room. `I need a tree cut down and taken off my land, if any of youse are interested.'
`Where would that be, Francis?' asked Clancy. Clancy is the bar wag. He looks as if somebody drew a face with crayon onto a cardboard box - badly - then added two over-sized ears just to compound matters. I'm guessing he meant to pull the bloody thing out with his tractor.
`The top field.'
Wee Micky Murphy was standing down the end of the counter, sipping his whiskey. His eyes widened. `You don't mean the fairy tree, do you?'
O'Sullivan just growled.
`Sure what class of eejit would cut a thing like that down? You're only bringing bad luck on yourself.'
When nobody disagreed with Micky or offered their services, O'Sullivan's frown deepened. `Are yez men at all? Or a bunch of superstitious ould women?' he demanded.
We all stared into our drinks. I'm not saying any of us believe in fairies, but none of us wanted to cross them, either. Besides, we all knew we wouldn't be getting rich on whatever O'Sullivan paid us - he's the sort of man who still has his communion money. The only reason he hadn't shifted that tree himself is because he's nearly eighty.
Jim Sweeney was just coming back from the jax. `What's up?'
Sweeney has a few machines he rents out now and again. He's a good-looking fellow, a hard worker and always honours his debts, so naturally we all hate him.
He laughed when he heard. `I'll dig up that tree for you, Francis. First thing tomorrow morning, if you like - and if the little people want to pick a fight with me, then they know where to find me!'

It was only after both men had gone that I noticed Clancy smiling quietly away to himself. I knew that look of old.
`Gather round lads,' he said, `and tell me what you think of this idea.'

Clancy's scheme was contingent on one thing: that Paddy let us borrow his daughter's rabbit.
`I don't want it coming to any harm.'
Clancy rolled his eyes. `That rabbit will be back in its hutch before breakfast, and your daughter none the wiser.'
Tom's youngest was six months old, so he provided the bright red babygro.
You'd think an animal that spent its entire life sitting in a hutch munching leaves would be glad of an opportunity to shine. Not a bit of it. That rabbit showed a distressing reluctance to `get with the programme' as Clancy put it. Paddy squeezed it into that babygro eventually but he got a nasty nip on the hand for his troubles.
The cap we made ourselves out of felt, sitting around his kitchen table. It took all our skills combined. If somebody hadn't found a roll of double-sided tape in a drawer, I don't know what we'd have done. We added a strap to keep it in place. The main idea was to cover the animal's ears - tricky, as it kept flattening them against its head any chance it got.
It was nearly half past seven by the time we were finished. We left Paddy's house, creeping up through the forestry adjacent to that field, then scrambling over that stone wall. We'd brought the rabbit along in a bag. The centre of that field is open pasture, with the fairy tree - a gnarled old hawthorn - bang in the middle, but it's encircled by gorse.
`Half the field covered and he gets into a flap about one bloody bush!' Clancy exclaimed.
Then we squatted amongst the gorse at the lower part of the field and had a few smokes while we were waiting.

At eight o'clock sharp we heard the clank of a gate being opened, followed by the steady chugging of Sweeney's bulldozer. Clancy peered out from our hiding place and lifted his hand. The second he let it drop, Paddy turned the rabbit loose.
Sweeney was sharing the bulldozer with his brother - his brother isn't the brightest, but handy if you want a few rocks moved and generally if you get Jim Sweeney, you get his brother as well.
The rabbit went zig-zagging up through the grass. It was still barely light and for a second I saw exactly what Jim Sweeney must see. That is to say, a tiny man in a pointed hat, crouching down low to avoid being seen, who half-ran, half-hopped across the bulldozer's path, before vanishing into the gorse at the top of the field with the purposeful air of a fairy racing off to warn his buddies. No doubt it was only a matter of time before an entire army of the little fellows turned up.
Or so Sweeney must have thought. He jumped out one side of that bulldozer and his brother jumped out the other. They didn't even bother to turn the bloody yoke off. It went trundling joyously down that hill like a dog that's been turned loose, before hitting a boulder and toppling over onto its side.
Not that either man even saw this happening. They were too busy running back towards that gate as fast as their legs could carry them.

Finding that rabbit was easy enough, thanks to what it was wearing. It was none the worse for its experience and back in its hutch before breakfast just like Clancy had promised, with a bunch of carrots as a thank-you.
There's still a fairy-tree in Sullivan's field. And when we ask Sweeney why this is so and whether he's revised his opinion about the little people - as in, whether they exist or not - he sighs, takes a big gulp from his pint, and says nothing.

Posted on Nov 2, 2012 5:39:16 AM PDT
Last edited by the author on Nov 26, 2012 5:31:20 AM PST
Splinker says:
What goes Around
By Psylocide

Joel Fischer and his clan lumbered up the old driveway of 1823 N. Sandhurst Lane in their rented U-Haul. Joel - always the cheapskate - had selected the truck with the smallest cab and didn't mind that his two preteen kids were crammed up against the window, pulling up to their new home with that certain kind of grace that only a child's face smashed up against glass could announce.

Joel didn't care though, screw the neighbors. Screw this U-Haul and screw moving. Joel glanced down at his old Timex that he received from his wife the day they got married. By his own admission, it was a little worse for wear, but still worked just fine... with the exception of the few minutes it lost here and there, and the second hand that had somehow fallen off and even now rattled around inside its glass enclosure. That didn't matter now though, it was almost 11:30 A.M. and Joel hadn't had one beer yet.
Joel drifted off; the big moving truck sat idling as he thought about that day at the church, staring at his wife's coffin from the entrance for a moment, then turning on his heel and walking straight back out to his Ford Fiesta to polish off another tall boy.


Joel's attention snapped back as he looked over at his son who was already standing out in the front yard. His big sister stayed in the cab, eyes glazed over while her thumbs furiously moved over the tiny keyboard of her smart phone. The biggest waste of money in all my years on Earth, Joel mused. He really didn't need any help in keeping his daughter from talking to him, let alone paying for it monthly.


Joel glanced over at his son standing in the yard, and caught his eyes, great... he thought.


Mark clapped his hands together, shoved his fist in the air and pirouetted with all the grace and dignity of a ballet dancer. He then put his hands on his hips and shimmied once to the left, once to the right and back, before topping the whole flamboyant little number off with the most spectacular cartwheel that Joel had ever seen.

Joel silently shook his head before climbing down from the truck's cab; who ever said that God doesn't punish parents for their past mistakes had never met a kid like Mark.
When Joel was young, he was a relentless bully. Children cowered before his husky form, and were easily slain by a quicksilver tongue that was chillingly hurtful.

"Eat it! You know you want to... it's not like you haven't kissed butts before Gerald!" Joel screamed.
A young Joel Fischer was holding Gerald Lebowitz's head just above a fresh pile of dog crap as the frail little boy writhed at the stench. But Gerald wouldn't comply, and he deserved what was coming.
Gerald, a mousy little kid, didn't have much for friends, but what he lacked in friends he made up for with talent. Gerald was an amazing artist; he could draw anything in stunning detail. It just happened that Gerald would rather put his skills towards designing clothing than to draw sweet-ass dragons or football players or something. Joel despised him for it.

Joel tightened his grip on Gerald's neck, "Ok then, you little pansy!"

He shoved Gerald's face into the pile, and held him there for a second. Thankfully, the bell rang to signal the end of recess and Joel released his prey. Gerald ran crying to the teacher, but before he was out of earshot, he turned to Joel and glared at him through feces-smeared glasses.

Gerald held him there with his gaze for a moment, "Keep laughing Joel!" He shouted above the roar of children running back to class, "You'll pay for everything you've ever done!"

"Dad! Wasn't that awesome!?" Mark shouted from the yard.

Joel had drifted again... 11:34, he went around to the back of the U-Haul and threw the door up, the rollers whined in agony. Joel reached inside the trailer and dragged his Coleman cooler to the edge and opened it up. He dug his hand into the ice and pulled out a Busch Light, cracked the tab and poured half the contents down his throat in the first swig. He instantly felt the rush of the alcohol entering his system behind his eyes; a small smirk crept across his face.

Mark busted out a few more cartwheels in his new front yard... announcing to the world that he had arrived. Sandhurst Lane finally had talent, and Mark wasn't afraid to show the neighbors, wasn't afraid of his dad and wasn't afraid of this new town. This was the third time they had moved in less than two years... his sister couldn't have cared less - she was just as connected here as she was at Freemont high or Jefferson - her phone always in hand.

Mark didn't care that it was because of him that they were moving again. His dad was already on his third beer... a small pile had started where the cans had been carelessly discarded. He hated that his dad littered like he did... drank like he did, every day from noon until he passed out after dinner. Mark only felt partially responsible for his dad's drinking, knowing full well that the passing of his mother hadn't helped matters much. In school, Mark was constantly berated and tortured by the other kids while he practiced his moves between classes, and his dad had always been quick to relocate the entire family the instant he heard of anyone messing with his kid.

Joel threw his newest empty into the pile of crushed cans by his feet. As he reached for another, he turned and caught the most majestic round-off to flip-flop to back-flip ever performed, and cracked the tab.

"Well put, Gerald." He said into his beer, and drained half the can in one gulp.

Posted on Nov 2, 2012 5:55:56 AM PDT
Psylocide says:

Pretty hard to guess who wrote what... lol.

In reply to an earlier post on Nov 2, 2012 6:01:34 AM PDT
Splinker says:
My methods are fail safe. Good luck you two!

I did a quick blog post and FB message. I'm sure we'll have hundreds of voters any minute.

Posted on Nov 2, 2012 6:40:59 AM PDT
I choose The Fairy Tree.

Posted on Nov 2, 2012 6:44:23 AM PDT
I enjoyed both stories, both being well written & imaginative. So it was a difficult decision.
The deciding factor for me was.....

WHAT GOES AROUND, while dam good, made me sad.

But THE FAIRY TREE made me smile. The genre being comedy/humor, this one got my vote.

Great job guys.

Posted on Nov 2, 2012 6:50:28 AM PDT
Yup, the Fairy Tree. Seconded.

Posted on Nov 2, 2012 7:00:45 AM PDT
Mandy Ward says:
Both stories are cool, but I preferred The Fairy Tree.

In reply to an earlier post on Nov 2, 2012 7:21:50 AM PDT
Hi again Lil Devil. You're up early.

I vote for 'What Goes Around.'

Posted on Nov 2, 2012 8:12:49 AM PDT
Splinker says:
In order to keep to my high ethical standards, I won't be voting unless I am a gladiator.

More votes!

In reply to an earlier post on Nov 2, 2012 8:23:15 AM PDT
Last edited by the author on Nov 2, 2012 8:23:35 AM PDT
Psylocide says:
Not sure if I agree with this... except the 'more votes' part.

In reply to an earlier post on Nov 2, 2012 8:26:48 AM PDT
Splinker says:
Fine. New rule. Writers can't vote for their own stories.

In reply to an earlier post on Nov 2, 2012 8:31:01 AM PDT
Psylocide says:
I just assumed that we shouldn't vote at all... however, I see no issue with you voting.

Oh by the way... I still plan on purchasing your book and I'm certain Irish Reader said something negative about it at one point.

In reply to an earlier post on Nov 2, 2012 8:32:05 AM PDT
Splinker says:
Excellent point!

Posted on Nov 2, 2012 8:40:39 AM PDT
Last edited by the author on Nov 2, 2012 8:40:49 AM PDT
Pete Morin says:

What Goes Around is very good, but there isn't much humor in it.
And yeah, I wonder which one is IR's.

Posted on Nov 2, 2012 9:27:11 AM PDT
Last edited by the author on Nov 2, 2012 9:28:15 AM PDT
Irish reader says:
[Customers don't think this post adds to the discussion. Show post anyway. Show all unhelpful posts.]

In reply to an earlier post on Nov 2, 2012 9:33:56 AM PDT
Splinker says:
Too late. He already voted

Posted on Nov 2, 2012 9:40:19 AM PDT
Irish reader says:
Just my way of saying thank-you.

In reply to an earlier post on Nov 2, 2012 9:41:35 AM PDT
Splinker says:
Don't give away who wrote what

Posted on Nov 2, 2012 9:43:26 AM PDT
Irish reader says:

Posted on Nov 2, 2012 10:27:19 AM PDT
Pete Morin says:
Uh, I think the cat's already out of the bag, Splinks.

Posted on Nov 2, 2012 10:37:18 AM PDT
I liked "What Goes Around", but I didn't think it was funny.

To me, it seems like the start of a dark fiction novel. Mark could grow up and be a serial killer. : )

In reply to an earlier post on Nov 2, 2012 10:48:27 AM PDT
Psylocide says:
I think the cat escaped the bag when Splinker posted the stories.
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Discussion in:  Kindle Book forum
Participants:  19
Total posts:  118
Initial post:  Nov 2, 2012
Latest post:  Nov 5, 2012

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