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In with "Sourdoire Valley Song" by the Mountain Goats.
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Apr 26, 2024 07:17
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In with Dan Deacon's Feel the Lightning. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kK-1axSGkXc
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Apr 27, 2024 02:01
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Aaaand signup now officially over! E: Quiet Feet fucked around with this message at 13:04 on Apr 28, 2024 |
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Apr 27, 2024 09:46
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Title: Love, Undying Song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3dOx510kyOs Words: 1898 It was finally time to offer my services to the Undying Queen. She who commanded armies of the living and the dead, she who brooked no dispute. She was powerful. She was terrifying. She was beautiful. She was eternal, and she needed a mage. She needed me, almost as much as I needed her. I am sure of it. I decided that a touch of drama was necessary. With a clap of thunder and a blast of displaced air, I teleported into her throne room. It was an ostentatious and dramatic gesture, one meant to display my raw power to all who witnessed it. Unfortunately, the only thing that witnessed my display was an empty chair. The throne room was dark and cold. Sheepishly, I opened one of the massive doors to the throne room and slinked out. Still, I was at her castle, I need only find her. This turned out to be a more difficult task than I thought. I was able to conjure storms of lashing rain and peals of lightning where there was a sunny day. I was able to make entire fields grow and bear fruit in an instant. I was able to shuffle heat energy around as easily as a croupier moves cards around the baize in a casino, and yet I could not find her. To be honest, I could not find anyone. This castle is a labyrinth. Room after empty room, no guards, no servants, nobody at all. I must have spent hours roaming the labyrinth of her castle, room after empty room, searching for her. While I searched I thought back to the first time I saw her, when I was just a young man, and she was the same eternal beauty. That first day when she sood imperiously over our lecture - I forget which class - I knew then that she was the one. No matter how long it took, no matter what, I’d find her and I’d offer myself to her. I remember her beauty, her stature, her large blue eyes, her sad smile. When she thought nobody was looking, her face always had a gentle sadness, a loneliness in her eyes. I burned to find the source of that sadness, to whisk it away from her, to make her smile truly. Finally, somewhere deep inside the castle, I came across a simple wooden door. As I grasped the handle, it swung open gently, on silent hinges. As I peered in, the Undying Queen herself was lounging across an overstuffed chair in a light shirt and shorts, legs kicking idly as she read a book. Next to her was a small table with a glass of wine and a plate of cheese. As I watched, she turned a page and reached for her wine without looking. She took a sip and gently put it back down. I swallowed to try and moisten my dry mouth. She was right there, as beautiful as the day I first saw her. “My Queen, I-” She squeaked in surprise and dropped her book. Jumping up from the chair she pointed a finger accusingly. “Who are you? How did you get past the guards?” I hold up my hands, partly to show that I am unarmed and partly to defend myself against any coming blows. “Guards? There is nobody else. I saw nobody in the entire castle.” She put her hands on her hips. “You weren’t supposed to notice that. You were supposed to see people everywhere, be constantly grilled about what you are doing, and where you are going. You aren’t supposed to be able to wander my castle at will, trying doors until you find me.” What was going on? I saw nobody. I’ll just press ahead. “My Queen, my name is Timothy. I’m a mage. I came to serve you.” Her eyes narrowed and she strides up to me quickly. She’s tall; taller than me, and her long leonid hair flows behind her. I catch her scent, it is warm and floral. As she bends down to my level, her face fills my vision, her breath on my cheek. All my life I have waited to be this close to her. If I were to die now, I would be content. “You are a mage? There hasn’t been a person worthy of that title in a century or more.” She rises to her full height. “Show me.” “P-pardon?” “You are a mage? Show me.” She crosses her arms, her smirk a wicked thing. If I fail here, I am dead. I take a breath, hold it a moment, and release. I close my eyes, and imagine what she would like to see. I reach out to her, and feel with all my power. My hair stands on end and I hear a crackle of energy, sparking like static electricity. Beads of sweat form on my brow as I concentrate, every muscle straining, I squeeze harder and my physical form starts shaking. I separate myself from my body and reach across the room. There, just out of reach. I can see her with my third eye. I dig deep for wells of energy that even I didn’t realize I had, and my ethereal hand touches her head gently, caressing her hair. Huh? Her name is Pamela. I wonder how many people know that? I’ve only ever heard her referred to as the Undying Queen. What does she want? What does she wish for? I peer deeper still. There it is. A wish, far within her psyche. She longs for it. Home. I dig deeper. I get the shape of her wish, the feel of it. It doesn’t look like any home I know, but who am I to judge? Far away, back in my physical form, I can feel a sharp pain and a numbness in my chest. From where I am now it’s dulled and distant, but I know what it means; my heart has stopped. The shock of such a magical feat is too great for my comparatively frail form. I should stop concentrating, cease my casting, return to my body. I would live. But what then? I’d fail to grant her wish. No, I am in the presence of my love. The woman I fell in love with at first sight. I feel a slight twinge of worry from the rear of my mind. She’s a person, with wants and needs and feelings all her own. Even if I do this for her, even if I grant her wish, there is every chance that she won’t return my love, that she can’t return my love. I fell in love with the idea of her. With my mind’s idea of her. I relax my casting for just a moment while I ponder. Should I stop? Even if she doesn't love me, I love her. I will continue to grant her wish, even if it kills me. As I come to my final decision my psyche gasps with recognition. That’s how to do it. Quietly, softly I feel my physical hands and arms move in a complicated semi circle. My body feels a breeze pick up. A moment later, I feel the warmth of the sun. There’s a noise from the open window. Traffic. This early? The breeze picks up and I smell flowers in the wind. The queen gasps in surprise, and a sob escapes her lips. There’s a sound like cloth being ripped, but in reverse. I feel a buzzing on my wrist. What is that? What is going on? I reach over to touch the buzzing, and silence my watch. I open my eyes and look up at the white ceiling. A fan whirls overhead slowly, moving the still morning air. It’s morning already. I can hear the traffic outside of the open window. Pam leaves it open at night to bring fresh air in. I turn my head and she’s next to me, asleep. Carefully, I sit up and get out of our bed. The room is bright with the morning light, but she’s still fast asleep. She was always a night owl, not one for mornings. I pad into the bathroom and turn on the water for the shower. While it heats up (it seemingly takes forever) I brush my teeth. While I wash, I try to grab hold of what happened. It seemed so real, but like most of my dreams it fades into mist. Oh well. Here and now is what I have to worry about. It’s garbage day, I have to remember to put the trash out before they come by, otherwise I’ll have to figure out where I can put trash bags until next week. I towel off and walk into the bedroom naked. Pam is sitting up in bed weeping. “Pam! Hon! What’s wrong?” I rush to her side and hug her tightly. “What happened?” “No, no, it’s fine.” She sniffs and smiles. “It’s better than fine. You did it. I’m free. I’m home.” She looks around the apartment. She always wished we could paint it, but the landlord didn’t allow it so we hung cloth and fabric on the walls, giving the room kind of a palace bedroom vibe. “You found me.” Confused, I continued hugging her. “Of course I did. I’ll always find you. You might think I’m foolish, but all I want is you.” The Undying Queen looks around. Pam looks around, her blue eyes wide. She bends down and touches the bed, running her hand over the duvet. She gets out of bed, slowly, carefully as if the wrong step would cause something terrible to happen. She looks out the window and stops herself and takes a breath. “You did it. You can do it. Is it an illusion, or are we actually here?” “Of course we are, we’re in our apartment.” I look at her. She seems worried. “Are… you alright? Is something the matter?” “I don’t know. Do you remember the palace? The Undying Queen?” That stirs a memory. I was a mage, she was the Undying Queen, immortal and everlasting. I spent my life trying to become powerful enough to reach her, and I finally succeeded. “I think I do. I was - am? - was a mage? And you were the Undying Queen? I fell in love with you when I first saw you in college. I spent my life trying to gain enough power to get your attention, to get your favor. I made my way into your chambers, and you told me to prove myself to you.” She sniffed. “Then what?” “Then I reached out to create what you desired most, and then my alarm woke me up, and we were here.” I looked around at the apartment, tidy, small, a first place for a new couple. “It… was it a dream? The other world?” She smiles and shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter now. What matters is that we’re here and we’re together.” She stands up and wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “I don’t know about you, but I could use some breakfast.” “That’s a great idea. Let’s go to that new brunch place. I love you, Pamela.” I bend down, and embrace her. She returns the embrace and sobs into my shoulder.
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Apr 27, 2024 15:15
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Quiet Feet posted:Aaaand signup now officially over! So I'm not allowed to enter? Ok lol.
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Apr 28, 2024 07:46
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Fat Jesus posted:So I'm not allowed to enter? Ok lol. No you're fine, I'm just stupid. E: seriously I somehow missed your post initially and am very embarrassed. 
Quiet Feet fucked around with this message at 17:11 on Apr 28, 2024 |
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Apr 28, 2024 12:55
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Chasing After Endless Windmills Prompt: Muse - Knights Of Cydonia https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G_sBOsh-vyI Word Count: 1812 Even though this was Daniel’s first time seeing me, a small spark of recognition flickered in his eyes as I gripped his hand. In every time and in every place, love had brought me to him. The only thing preventing our happy ending was our imminent demise. We were dangling at the edge of a bridge. Below us, I heard the thunderous crash as the train fell into the ocean. I fought against gravity, desperate to pull Daniel up to safety. I looked down, and he tried to nod politely, while also clutching my hand with all of his strength. The drat boy would always put manners ahead of survival. Daniel found leverage against one of the rickety wooden support beams, and I heaved us up to the top of the bridge. I laughed in triumph as we both lay exhausted. Daniel looked at me, a stranger he had just met, with trust in his eyes. “Madam, you shine more than new horseshoes! The way you punched and-,” Daniel’s own enthusiasm cut him off as he did his best to mime my fighting prowess. I didn’t know what to say to the man who had saved me in my younger years. I finally had the chance to return the favour, but he wouldn’t know it. All I said was, “Ain’t amazing as you.” The wind shifted and I smelled ichor and brine. I froze. If love brought us together, time and time again, I shuddered to think what force tore us apart. From above one of the crashed train cars, a man, dressed in a fine black suit approached us, gun in hand. “This needs to end. With his death.” The man said, pointing the gun at Daniel. “How many times do we need to do this?” He lifted the gun. Aimed it at my love. Daniel moved to shield me. drat idiot didn’t even know he was the target. I flung myself at Daniel, pulled him back. Then I heard the harsh crack of a gunshot. I felt the sensation of a blazing hot spear piercing my shoulder. Spasms of pain coursed through my body. All I could focus on was holding onto Daniel and the howl of the wind as we fell. The water below us churned like a hungry maw. I held Daniel, for the first and last time. I turned as we hit the water and took the brunt of the impact. Pain lanced across my ribs. I screamed, only for water to fill my lungs. Somewhere in the commotion, I had let go of Daniel. I frantically looked for him. He was above me, miraculously still alive, and frantically searching for me even as I sank. I tried to swim, but my legs refused to move. Only the deep, dark blue water saw my efforts. That same old feeling of despair washed over me, and then I felt something drag me down. I let it pull me down towards the sea floor. I let it pull me back to the familiar despair of the dark… --- I emerged, dripping and soaking wet, surrounded by endless twilight. I looked up, and saw naught but the shadow of a giant snake flying in the sky. In front of me was a make-shift camp with a ten-woman tent, a single white horse tied to a post and a blazing campfire. I was unharmed in body, yet torn asunder in mind. I approached the make-shift camp, where three women were by the fire. Two of them were too busy arguing to notice me, while the other woman raised her head in greeting. I nodded, and sat by the fire, grateful for the momentary rest. I knew the three other women here, and knew that each of them had failed in their own way. We all wore a long duster, a cattlewoman’s hat, a knife on our belt, and a gold wedding ring. We all had the same face. The two youngest — you could tell by the gleam of hope in their eyes — were now playing rock-paper-scissors to determine the winner of their argument. The silent one, who sat beside me, had a rough time of it. Blood stained her bruised knuckles and she looked tired as sin. “How long they been butting heads?” I asked “Five minutes or so.” “Did they realise we always pick rock?” “Did you?” “Nope.” This could take hours. Daniel always said I was as shocking as Tesla, and as strong as Sisyphus, but was as stubborn as his mother’s mule. “Stop it,” I said to the two greenhorns. The youngest of me whirled, “One moment I’m at the world’s fair, where my husband is showing off his experiment. The next moment I’m knee-deep in whatever this poo poo is. Where is Daniel?” “Dimension is on pause while we sort ourselves out.” I motioned to the endless twilight that surrounded the camp. It clung to the light of the fire, like thick molasses. Off in the distance, you could see thousands of flickers of flame, each of them another campfire with another set of figures surrounding it “Gotta decide who tries to save Daniel this time,” Rough-me drawled. It took the greenhorns a few seconds to come up with a solution, and they said it so confidently, they revealed just how new they were to this. “Rock paper scissors,” they said simultaneously, holding out their hands. “Oh gawd no,” Rough-me said. The youngest of us would not be deterred. Hands on her hips, she squared up against the naysayer. “Scared you are going to lose?” I remember when I was that headstrong, so sure of myself. Failing your husband a couple dozen times gelds the bull. “We got a system to figure out who leaves. It’s called seniority.” Rough-me said, drawing out the last word. The two rock-paper-scissors mes had to be two or three cycles old. Their dusters were unmarred, their eyes still had that naive gleam of hope. The only one that might give me a run for my money was Rough-me. I eyed her. She stared back. “Whoever has the most marks on their arms leaves and tries to save Daniel,” I said. “If you stay, you get a mark and get to try again.” The youngest me argued, but in the end we all knew this system was the best—I knew because I had been in their shoes before. “What if we lie?” Young-Me asked. Before I could respond, Rough-Me spoke up. “Old Hundred won’t allow that.” I rolled my eyes. “Don’t start with this fable.” She continued, “Old Hundred has tried to save Daniel a hundred times and more,” she said with a reverent tone in her voice. “She’s the one that can never get it right. The one that never gets her man.” “And she watches over us and comes down with flying horses to help us.” I interrupted her before she could go on. “I’ve never met her.” She lifted her eyebrows in response to that and responded with a single word. “Fine.” With that settled, I barked commands to the group. “Everyone, lift your sleeves. Show off how many times you’ve done this.” The youngsters looked confused and used one hand to show how many times they have been at it. Rough-Me lifted her sleeves to show a similar collection of black marks.. She casually said her number, “fifty seven.” I grinned at her and lifted my sleeves. “Count ‘em and weep.” She was persistent; I gave her that. She came over and counted each of the marks on my arms. Counted them twice even, and then swore. “drat, sixty-five.” My momma always said to be humble, but I couldn’t stop a lazy grin from forming on my face. I snuffed out the fire, and dipped my hand into the ashes to grab a glowing piece of charcoal. It was warm to the touch, but didn’t burn me.I used it to mark a line across each other me’s arms. After everyone had gotten their marks, Rough-Me instructed the youngsters to get into the tent. “Take care of ‘im,” Rough-me said as she closed the flap to the tent. “Good luck in the next round,” I replied, and untied the horse from the post. One by one, the campfires in the infinite twilight winked out. As they did, the ground rumbled. Across the twilight, a lone rider rode forward, a silhouette of white dashing across the dark. Other riders emerged from the gloom and followed. From the sky, the giant snake crashed down behind the riders. It chased after them, ground torn asunder in its wake. The sound of a thousand hooves stomping the ground came closer. A cacophonous beat that still held meaning: Forward. The rider raced past me, barely giving me a look. I took a breath, hopped on my horse, and rode alongside them. Behind us, the snake opened its maw and surged forward. I turned my head to look. Other riders reassured their horses, then closed their eyes as the snake consumed them. In its maw, I saw glistening fangs and teeth, along with thick purple veins. Even this far away, in this stampede, I could hear the echoes of wars, of humanity’s triumphs as those mighty veins pulsed. Blood didn’t pulse through those veins, but rather history. The snake roared in pain as it bled purple, blue, all hues, and in its wounds I saw wondrous worlds and terrible worlds. And in those worlds would always be a Daniel. I patted my horse, reassured it everything would be alright, then closed my eyes. I touched my wedding ring. For better, or for worse. My vow. A simple verse that I would see through. The smell of ichor and brine assaulted my senses, nearly knocking me off my horse. We raced forward, a futile effort, as the snake opened its maw and engulfed us. I grabbed at the knife at my belt and tore blindly at one of its veins. Blood, ichor and worlds poured out, surrounding us. I rode through the veins of history; I felt the incendiary fires of a bomb that burns people’s shadows into walls; I heard the cries of joy a husband makes when he realises he will be a father. Then a harsh light pierced through the dark, piercing my closed eyes. I raised my hand to block out the light as my vision blurred. I found myself in a dusty plain, ahead of me, a town where the buildings stretched miles in the air. A new world. A new time. My horse gave a small ninny, as if to reassure me everything was all right. My wedding ring around my finger gave a little tug to the east, where I saw off in the distance, a train hovering over tracks in the ground. It was time to chase after Daniel.
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Apr 28, 2024 18:24
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Song : Barbara - Rémusat Not a day goes by (302 words) The first time she saw the mimosas bloom from the window of her hillside villa, she thought of the last time she would see them ; and the last time she did, she thought of that first time, years before. She was forty-seven, her mother’s age when she died, and her last radiography had shown the cancer had spread to the other lung. But medicine had made progress; she still had some time. The villa was small and comfortable. She could spend sunny, calm days there, enjoy one last day after another. It would be a fine place to rest. All she could see from her window was the flock of short-lived pink flowers on their heavy boughs, and the sea far below. The first time she had bathed in the sea, a different one, it had given her a rash behind her knee; every time she scratched herself during the train ride back home, her mother had slapped her, seventeen times in all. The first few times, because scratching made it worse ; and eventually, out of principle. She remembered her eyes, smoldering with rage and indignancy before each slap, and with haughty triumph after it. She could hear her own children below, on the terrace, and she did not know what she could tell them. She wondered how much fear and pain her mother had hidden from her. Not a tear. The shadow of the house lengthened on the mimosa boughs, just a little. It would be hours before nighttime. But already the starless sky was taking on the rich dark hue that had made her wish to settle there, with her family and her regrets. It was her home now. Not her country, though; but then her country no longer existed. She coughed. The heady, indifferent, eternal odor of mimosas surrounded her.
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Apr 28, 2024 20:32
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Planet of Fields (Song: King of Carrot Flower by Neutral Milk Hotel) Word count: 667 The carrot felt, in a way that is not quite how we feel, one of its lateral roots perfectly filling an air pocket in a nearby patch of loose loam. Its meristematic tissues, ever responsive to the murmurs of the soil, released a specific hormonal medley to indicate that a nearby hyphal strand had tightened its lethal noose around the body of a squirming nematode. A spattering of phosphates and nitrates would soon become available here, and the carrot would be ready. Delicious. The carrot knew, in a way that is not quite how we know, that it was today in a plot with many plants, cared for by humans, somewhere between a vast jungle and an even more vast desert. It both felt, and also knew, that its own ancestors had been carried around the world many times over, had been planted in many depleted soils, had been fed chemical fertilizers and absorbed bitter pesticides, for centuries. The carrot heard, in a way that is not quite how we hear, its human caretakers speak of their experiences, sing, and plan. The day before yesterday, a song for planting. Yesterday, a song of love. Today, a song of victory, for across an ocean the humans were on the verge of liberating the last bastion of the old chemical order that had poisoned the carrot's forebears, a name that vibrated through the mycorrhizal neighbors of the carrot into its root: New York. The carrot new this place across the ocean well, and was aware of its cousins still today breathing more freely in constrained urban balcony boxes in that distant place. ~ In that faraway balcony box, the carrot’s cousin could feel the anxiety of its own human caretakers. The world they knew was about to break. They were permitted to grow things like carrots in boxes outside their dwellings because carrots posed no threat to the humans who ran the world outside. Typically, for this box-carrot’s caretakers, there was nothing to do every day, for most humans were superfluous to the reproduction of those in charge. During the day, the box-carrot would take in the rays of the sun through the smog and the fog, making do with the curated mix of nutrients in its box, provided with love by its human caretakers. It was hardly a way to be a carrot. To really be a carrot would require the box to connect to the rest of the Earth (which it doesn’t), the carrot in a box’s human caretakers to fill the box with a rich community of fellow organisms (which they can’t), and the humans in charge to allow songs to be sung on balconies (which they won’t). But this would be the final season of dim rays and suppressed hope, the end of the box-carrot and its human caretakers being unable to fulfill their purpose. The box-carrot heard its human caretakers whisper about their own distant human relatives, now just outside New York, about to bring this place back into the rest of the community of the living. The voices were fearful yet hopeful, for though they did not know their own fates, the fate of those in charge was sealed. ~ Back across the planet, the carrot experienced, in a way that is not quite how we experience, a full transformation of its being at night. It stopped to become more of itself underground, and sent its energies up high towards the dark night sky, where its apical meristems burst into a display of stamens and pistils. As the sun rose, its human-companions returned to sing a new song. The carrot could feel that across the world, the final soils were about to rejoin the whole. Springtime on the other side of the world was now marked with violence, and it could no longer feel its box-carrot cousin. As the carrot built its tower, tumbling through the trees towards its human care-takers, it was to finally be a carrot, fully able to be alongside others on a planet of fields shwinnebego fucked around with this message at 00:26 on May 1, 2024 |
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Apr 28, 2024 23:26
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rohan posted:I am judge
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Apr 29, 2024 00:47
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The Cult of Dionsyus - The Orion Experience https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ZcqaolcjUI you ever do it with a merman before? It was high school graduation and I was high off a pot brownie thinking about drowning myself in the Santa Cruz ocean. It wasn’t a serious inclination. Mostly it was because my old friends were texting me things like human being after my hook up decided to out me. Then there was the what the gently caress am I gonna do after high school. And that I was a teenager who liked 13 Reasons Why a bit too much. The ocean did have an appetizing look to it, though. I always thought the ocean here was much more romantic than down south. It was night, clouds obscuring the moon, and the ocean roiled at my feet. It would sometimes lick at my toes, foamy coldness wrapping around my toes. The water had a cruelty, an uninviting chill that I always liked. Almost like the ocean challenged me to drown in it. “You okay?” a male voice said to the side of me. I was mostly alone on the beach, a few families and couples higher up on the beach, sitting and laughing. I didn’t see anybody walk up to me. “Yeah,” I said, then I looked to the side. It was a quite handsome guy, bare tan chest and defined arms. Swimmer look. I didn’t have the tact to not obviously check him out, and I scanned his body down. His legs were completely submerged into the ocean, which was insane given how cold it was. Then I noticed they weren’t legs. “You’re a loving mermaid?” I said. “Or merman? Or whatever the gently caress?” He bobbed his head, “Yeah, I suppose.” “They’re loving real?” I said, and then realized that it was quite possibly the dumbest thing to say since there was a merman literally sitting next to me. “Are you okay?” he asked. “No, there’s a goddamn merman sitting next to me.” “Before that,” he said. “I didn’t like how you were looking at the ocean.” I blinked, trying to move past his finned lower body. I looked out across the water, at the blinking lights of a distant ship. “You ever think about drowning?” I asked. He pointed to his neck. Gills fluttered there. I have no clue how I missed those at first. “Little hard for me.” I laughed, and then I realized I was laughing at a real life merman, and laughed even more. “Why do you wanna drown?” the merman asked. “I don’t know,” I said. I could feel the pot in my body burning at the words in my thoughts. “I just, I think it’d be nice. You know, to be done.” “You got a lot of other ways,” the merman said. “Drowning kinda sucks. Trust me, I’ve seen it a couple times.” I looked out at the cold gray sea. The waves were moving in closer, completely submerging my feet. The bitter cold numbed my toes. “I just always loved it here. Seemed like a nice place to die. You know, kinda romantic. My first memory was coming to a beach. Seems okay for it to be my last.” “If you wanna go in,” he said, reaching his hand out, “I can give it to you.” His palms were smooth and veins pushed against the skin of his forearm. I could get lost in those arms. “But,” he said, “I won’t let you drown.” The pot made it easy to take his hand. He didn’t say anything. He just pulled me in, like I was the tides moved by the moon. We went deeper and deeper into the water until we were completely submerged, my eyes closed. The water froze my body, ached my skin, but right when I was about to give in and ask for him to let me go, he pulled me tighter. His muscled body was warmth itself, so powerful that my whole self burned with heat. “Look,” he said, and I opened my eyes. The salt water didn’t burn. The dark water spread across us like an endless sky, shivering fish floating off in the distance like shooting stars. The chill of the ocean peeled at my skin, then relieved by his body’s warmth. We went deeper and deeper, the pressure pushing on my back. If I could die here… “You won’t drown,” he said. We reached the ocean floor, my feet pressed into sand. Crabs scattered away from us, broken rainbow shells spread around us. “This is where I wanna die,” I said. Then he kissed me. His tongue tasted of salt and fish, his breath like an ocean breeze. He pulled me in so tight that my body couldn’t resist if it wanted to. I gave in, his entire form pulling me in. The ocean shifted. The sand gave way. The whole world was nothing but him. “Don’t drown,” he said. “Please, don’t drown.” The world existed again. We were at the bottom of the ocean. Light couldn’t reach us. The cold of the world breached past his warmth. I remembered graduation, where no one talked to me. The text messages. The boys at school I could only imagine about holding. The great expanse of the world and the nothingness that I was. Lost, with nowhere to go. A future that I wasn’t ready for. “It’d be so easy,” I said, “to just drown.” “Don’t, though,” he said. “Why not?” I asked. He let go of me. The deep chill of the ocean consumed me. The weight of the water pressed down on my head. Odd fish spun around me, slimy scales scraping against my skin. I shivered against the freezing water. I reached out into the waves, looking for him, looking for his warmth, for something to hold onto, looking for someone else. “You loved it here, right?” he asked. I couldn’t see him, or feel him. “This is it, right? Where you want to be. Why did you come here?” Because when I was twelve, my mom brought me here. I would run into the cold water, dip my feet in, and run back. I would pick up broken seashells and try to find one that was intact. I would steal glances at the shirtless college boys playing beach volleyball, not understanding what I was feeling. I would sit down and soak in the ocean breeze. I would lay down, close my eyes, and just enjoy the cold. The ocean around me didn’t change, but I remembered that. Just enjoying the cold. And I felt it again. The icy cold wasn’t like a knife anymore, but like an old friend poking my ribs. The fish’s mouths gaping open were like buddies laughing. The sand brushed against my feet like someone holding my hand. I closed my eyes and cried. Not because I was sad, but because I was here. The place I always wanted to be when I couldn’t understand anything. The deep bitter cold the best friend I ever had. A hand, not warm this time, wiped across my face. “We’ll wash those tears away,” he said. “Me and the waves. Every time you need us, we’ll be here.” He kissed me, his tongue deep in mouth. His body collapsed into mine, his tail tightening around my chest. We fell into the sand, our bodies tied together. His body no longer had that fake warmth, but a real chill to it. The chill that I always loved. We spent our time together, our bodies pressed against each other, sharing each other’s cold. After we had enjoyed each other enough, he took me back to the beach. His lower body was covered by the waves while I stood on the sands, the Santa Cruz pier lights blaring behind me like a foreign place. We stared at each other and he smiled, knowing words weren’t needed anymore. I bent down and gave him a final kiss. It was salty and bitter and cold, like the ocean itself, and I’ve never forgotten that taste.
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Apr 29, 2024 02:01
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Song Choice: Celebrants, Nickel Creek https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RVDIiREJHY0 Silent Sessions 1885 Words Intake Note 10/22/2021 I met with Lira for their first session. They disclosed no self-harm tendencies, and upon review of my practice’s policies, they provided their verbal informed consent to engage in therapeutic services in my practice. Lira had a guarded presentation, was fidgety, and disclosed “I don’t want to be here.” Upon further probing, Lira said they were in therapy at the behest of their best friend who told them that if they did not begin treatment, they would lose their friendship. Upon sharing this with me, Lira became tearful and asked for a bathroom break. Lira said they didn’t feel ready to develop a treatment plan or identify goals when they returned. Instead, they insisted upon asking me detailed questions about my credentials and requested to see my license. Impressions/Diagnosis: I do not feel prepared to make a diagnosis at this time. Lira displays paranoid tendencies and their labile affect suggests a possible history of trauma, which will be explored in future sessions. Plan: Engage in developing a treatment plan for services moving forward. Progress Note #2 10/29/2021 Lira was excessively fidgety again at the onset of the session. I asked if they felt particularly nervous about something and they disclosed concerns about my faith asking: “So are you gonna try and do conversion therapy on me or something?” When I enquired further they pointed out the window behind me at the crucifix atop the church. I self-disclosed that I am areligious and am not affiliated with the church in any way whatsoever. They still presented with some suspicion so I further self-disclosed that I was raised Jewish and currently identify as an atheist. Lira laughed at this and asked ‘So this isn’t your cathedral?’ We moved on from that to goal setting and treatment planning. Lira hopes to have a more peaceful existence and struggles with intrusive thoughts. They disclosed having ‘a lot of poo poo’ in their past but said they didn’t feel ready to expand on that. Lira also asked about the games I have on my shelf and if they can play with me sometime. Progress Note #6 12/03/21 Lira entered the session today with a guarded presentation and engaged in a highly defensive manner when I tried to engage them in conversation. I asked how their Thanksgiving went and they shut down and asked “Can we just play Codenames again?” I agreed, hoping to bring them down to baseline and find a way back to their goals. I noticed that, like weeks past, Lira took quite a long time to offer hints and make guesses. I hadn’t commented on this up until now, as Lira has mentioned feeling judged in the past for their processing speed. This time, however, I noticed Lira’s focus was not on the cards in front of them. Their gaze was slightly to the left of the playspace. I asked them if they felt disconnected and they immediately offered a clue for their turn. When I asked how long they had a clue ready, they told me they were “sitting on it for about five minutes.” They stood up, and with about ten minutes remaining in the session, thanked me for my time and walked out of the office. Progress Note #7 12/10/21 I am writing this note as close to the process recording form as possible as the session raised potential ethical concerns. I disclosed to Lira that I intend to share this note with my supervisor, whom I employ, to receive guidance on best practices moving forward. I will be using the: Dialogue Self-Report Feelings Analysis Model to cover this portion of our session. ***** Lira: I have a question. This surprised me. Lira typically enters session quietly, and waits for me to start. I’ve learned that it’s best to begin the sessions pointedly with a target in mind or Lira gets stuck on what to talk about themselves. A positive response is good here as Lira is showing assertiveness in a new way. Therapist: Sure, go ahead. Lira: If I tell you that I’ve been doing something in our sessions that you don’t like, would you fire me? Again, highly surprised, this sort of communication from Lira, both in tone and speed is unusual. Without getting into diagnostic mire, this question from Lira indicates an immense insecurity around attachment. Lira is communicating to me, right now, that I need to be very careful with what I say next. Therapist: I think you know that I shouldn’t make any specific promises to you about what I’d do upon learning new information, right? Lira: I guess that’s true. Relief here. I noticed my body loosening up a bit. Lira has shown me they can remove themselves from sessions at a moment’s notice. They didn’t do that. They’re still here. Blanketed assurance would have been a big mistake here. I don’t think Lira would have bought it and would have ultimately raised suspicion. Therapist: It seems like what you want to share with me now is big and scary. Lira: I can’t tell. Lira’s head fell and sunk a bit into their chest and I immediately recognized in me the want to make them feel better and calm them down. Lira needed time in this moment, not my intervention. I opted to give them a minute or two before engaging. They lifted their head and looked at me, expectantly. I offered a gentle smile. Therapist: Try me. Lira: I like when we play games. Therapist: I like that too. What is it you like about them? Lira: That’s the part that’s big and scary. My curiosity is getting the better of me here and I can feel my want to know bubbling over my want to help. The best course of action here is to continue to validate and give them the space they need to maneuver through a difficult process. Therapist: I appreciate you letting me know that it feels that way. Beyond the fear of me potentially firing you over this, is anything else making this challenging for you right now? Lira: It’s weird, I want to say what I’m doing, while what I’m really doing, keeps me from doing what I say. This is probably the most confusing thing Lira has ever said to me thus far and I think they caught the expression on my face that indicated as much. Their head fell to their chest again and I realized they successfully caught me off guard. What they threw at me there could be interpreted two ways: It was obfuscation to divert my focus away from their concerns or their thoughts and feelings were indeed that confusing to themselves. I went with the latter, hoping to pursue a line that felt more gentle at the moment Therapist: Let me ask you this: Do you know what you want, right now? Lira: Yes. Therapist: Tell me. Lira: I want to think. More relief here as, even though I’m a bit confused by the answer, they gave me one, and they did so quickly and assertively. This is disjointed and should be connected to their previous line of communication Therapist: I see. Well, you certainly are allowed to think in here, though thinking can certainly get us into trouble. Not much of a joke but I felt the need to offer something playful as I felt a sense of agitation rise up. Encouragement is still good and necessary here. This is different and needs to be treated differently. Lira: Yeah, but I guess I just want to think and… not really talk? Therapist: So you want to think, and play a game? Lira: Actually, no. I’m feeling good here. The backpedal relieves me. Lira showed me that they are comfortable changing their mind and not overly concerned about the resulting consequences. This indicated a perception of security and helped guide me into further probing. Therapist: But there was something about playing games that you like? Lira: Yeah, I like that we don’t have to talk. Therapist: Well, we don’t need to play a game for you to take some space to think. Lira: Yeah I know, but what if that’s all I want to do? Like for the whole session. Lira was my last client of the day. I was tired. The notion of not having to actively engage with one of my more difficult clients did appeal to me. It was a request, made assertively, and I wanted to help be a part of Lira’s growth in being able to advocate for themselves. Therapist: I’m fine with that. How long would you like? Lira: Can we do the whole session? I kinda just want to sit here and think about things. Therapist: Sure, can we check in when we have five minutes left? I was doubtful that Lira would spend the duration of the session in silence but was happy to provide them some space. Lira remained quiet throughout the session. They occasionally shifted their gaze through the different windows in the offices. They presented as comfortable. When there were five minutes left, I checked back in. Therapist: We have five minutes left, Lira. Lira: Yeah, that was really great. Can we keep doing our sessions like that? Therapist: Just sit quietly? Lira: Yeah. Therapist: Honestly, Lira nobody has ever asked for something like this. Would you mind if I discuss this with my supervisor? Supervision Note #130 12/13/21 I met with my supervisee, Dan, today to discuss emergent issues in his caseload. He raised concerns about one specific client, who we call L. He reports that L has asked for what he calls ‘Silent Sessions’. L wishes to come into the office and use the space for quiet reflection with little to no interactivity. Upon discussing this case, Dan discovered that their primary concern was not based on ethical considerations but was largely related to ego issues. I challenged him on this and told him that if he trusts his clients, and isn’t seeing anything negative result from their requests, to listen to them. He still seemed to struggle and when I pushed further it became clear that Dan’s interest in the case was coming from a potentially unhelpful curious motivation. Progress Note #30 06/20/22 Lira arrived on time. After our quick safety check-in, they withdrew their notepad from their breast pocket, kicked off their shoes, smiled once at me, and fell into their thoughtful silent process. I noticed that the sounds around the office: the hum of the air conditioning, the lawnmowers outside, or even the muffled chatter in the office next to us no longer seemed to exist to Lira. The process they are engaging in remains mysterious to me but it’s a process. At our checkout, I commented that I’ve noticed that Lira hasn’t fidgeted with any of the toys on the table in front of them for some time now. They smiled, shrugged their shoulders, and said goodbye.
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Apr 29, 2024 04:14
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Installation 1269 Words Song choice: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kK-1axSGkXc I burst through the rooftop door, cold air and neon lights washing over me. I kicked it shut behind me and got to work welding a bolt in place to keep it that way. Sparks and slag cascaded down the door, marking the pristine metalwork of the Quinovic-Woolworths Banking Ministry's copterpad entrance. In a city that stopped sleeping, you can at least trust them to give the brass a night off on CEO’s Birthday weekend. That was what we were hoping at least - no blue-bloods working means no copters, and therefore no staff on the air transit level. I finished up with the door, cutting a solitary figure outlined by a dull orange glow against the green and blue bathed rooftop landing pad. “Status report, Blue” Alice chirped in my ear, coordinating the mission from her multi-monitored roost somewhere far across the cityscape. ”Phase one complete, moving to position two” I’d spent more nights than I could count staying up shooting the poo poo with Alice over tightwire channels, it felt a bit rude - but OpSec came first for her, and I got a bit of a kick out of sounding competent. For anyone listening in, our transmissions blended into the grey noise of the nightly corporate espionage and black market chatter. I moved to the edge of the roof, taking my pack off and unspooling the cable and gear. I glanced down while I hooked my anchor through the drainage sluice and back up over the low wall. It was a clear night, I could see a couple of blocks at least before the buildings were lost in the swirling clouds of pollutants and exhaust. Bright white light washed across me, dazzling me and sending everything beyond my hands into inky black as my pupils contracted. I was on the radio before the realisation of what was happening hit. “In position, but we’ve got company”. The copter sliding into position above the building, as if on an invisible helical track. I had a few seconds before someone noticed me huddled against the railing, I didn’t have time to wait for Alice’s go or to know the other moving parts were ready - it was now or never. I gave my anchor a quick tug to double check the hook held, then clamped on my descender. “Starting phase two” I whispered as I rolled over the ledge into the dark, the cable whipping out below me, lashing out at the night sky like a mad snake. The top of the billboard was three stories down. It beamed lending rates into the night, colossal numbers falling out of sight as they unfurled far, far down the skyscraper facade. If Alice’s intel was right (and it was rarely wrong), there would be an override panel tucked in behind the top left corner of the signage. Above me I could hear the copter touching down, the quad rotors roaring louder as it descended, then tailing off to a whine as the pilot powered the craft down. There was no point waiting to see if I’d been spotted, they’d see the mess I left on the door and start looking for answers any minute. I started my descent, drawing on months of training for this moment, trying not to think about how different this was to a 10 metre wall above a mattress. I slowly fed the rope through my descender, alternating between the two automated grips on the device to maintain the balance of slack and security. Step by step, metre by metre. About a two thirds of the way down I heard shouts, and caught the full beam of a flashlight in my face as I looked up. The wind took the words for itself, leaving me with their angry shapes - I could guess that they wanted to know what the hell I was doing and also to stop doing it and come explain further. I wasn’t stopping. I pinged Alice, “I’m busted, please tell me Green has come through”. “Code’s coming through now, can you hook us in still?” I checked over my shoulder - the gantry along the top of the sign was only a few steps away. “Roger, give me two minutes”. I felt a tug on the rope from above - poo poo, they were messing with the anchor. I rushed the last few steps, losing discipline in favour of not dying - forgetting for a moment how connected they were. I missed the regrip on my descender and fell the last metre, cracking my head on the gantry rail and feeling the whole thing shake and creak under the impact. On the platform, tucked just behind the top of the sign, I rolled over onto my knees - checking my head for blood but fingers coming away dry. I shook it off and got to my feet. As I did, my anchor and cable soared past me over the top of the billboard. Fuckers had cut me loose, the gentle glow of vindication spurred me on. As the anchor ended its arc, the cable tugged on my harness hard - enough to make me grab the rails tight. “In position for phase three.” I crept along the gantry to the control panel and popped the front off with a quick shimmy of a screwdriver. I hooked Alice’s transmitter into the admin port. It was a beautiful thing, years of scrounged PCBs and componentry to create our very own lightning rod. LEDs blinked their sequence before beaming a steady green light. “Connection is live, command.” “I’m seeing it here, Blue.” I saw more flashlights behind the windows of the building, office lights coming on as they honed in on my position. I looked around to see whether there was a way to get to me - to get to the controller. There was a single window near the panel, an outer handle marked with a telltale red and yellow striped border. In the mirrored surfaces of the glass monoliths surrounding us, I watched the reflection of the billboard change - our new programming sputtering into life. The uniform teal and white of the Ministry logo gone and replaced with a blast of colour and life. Over time we had commissioned hundreds of art pieces under the guise of The Collective. Today we had a gallery. Portraits, landscapes, raw emotion expressed in textures, poems, Intermingled was what Green was working on. Our man on the inside, working in god knows what department, exfiltrating the transcripts of dozens of board room meetings where the quiet parts get said out loud. Direct quotes from the people that run nations outlining past and future plans to stick the knife in and twist. As I watched day break, the red light of dawn bleeding through the smog, I radioed Alice. “You wait your whole life over for this moment to begin,” adrenaline pumping and not knowing what happens next “and now it's over but you're not tired?”. I could hear Alice smile of the airwaves “That’s because it’s not over.” The window thumped, I moved over to it and leaned my back against it, bracing my feet on the railing. I could hear muffled shouting behind me, but I just grinned as the warm golden light of morning stroked my face. Watching sunrises and sunsets, country scenes, smiling families, joy worth fighting for reflected in the windows of the surrounding buildings. And then one by one, other billboards sparked into life across the cityscape. I gasped, loud enough to trigger my throat mic “What?” Alice spoke, smile definitely a grin on her face now too, “You thought the Collective was just us?”.
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Apr 29, 2024 05:04
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Widows of the Woods 1745 words Flash Rule: The Mountain Goats, "Sourdoire Valley Song" By the time she stumbles upon the house in the woods, Tsitsia is so delirious that for a moment she mistakes it for a dead tree. The house's wooden walls seem too soft to stand on their own, grown over with creeping vines -- a fragile house, just the way that softlings build them. She cannot rest at a softling house, but she can go no further. Her ankle aches; the wound in her back throbs; above them all, her broken teeth scream. Fever dances under her skin and behind her eyes. As Tsitsia wills herself to stay standing, to take one more step and one more breath, a softling emerges from the house. The softling-smell lets her focus: female, old, but no tang of sickness, only the faint scent of herbs clinging to hair and skin. She walks closer, and Tsitsia can make out pale, sightless eyes in the lined skin of her face. Blind, then? "Who's there?" calls the softling, and Tsitsia knows it. Blind. Easy prey. Tsitsia doesn't need prey right now, even if she were in condition to claim it. Tsitsia needs refuge. She'd hoped to find the trails of the East River people, but she's seen and smelled no trace of their markings, and she can search no longer. She speaks the softling tongue well enough; if she can fool the blind softling into mistaking her for kin, maybe that will give her a hiding place and enough time to heal. Tsitsia pitches her voice to the odd softling tones and tries to concentrate. "I'm hurt," she chokes out. "Hurt badly. Sick." The softling approaches and reaches out, finding Tsitsia's wrist; her grip is stronger than she'd expected. "Then you'd better come in," she says. "I'm not half the healer I used to be, but I'll help. Where are you hurt?" "Back," Tsitsia spits out; thinking about the pain makes it flare. "Ankle. Teeth." She stumbles hard on the ankle again as the softling marches her into the house, awash in the scents of herbs and smoke, just dark enough to feel like a home. "Sit down," says the softling, gesturing her to a low wooden stool, on which Tsitsia perches as carefully as she can. "You said your back?" Already the softling's hands are moving across Tsitsia's skin. "Right or left --" Her breath caught. "That's a damned arrow in your back. Feels like a hunter's shaft. I'll have to pull." Without any further word, the softling pulls the arrow free. The pain is enough to make Tsitsia yelp in her own voice, but it is a better pain: fresh and sharp, the pain of blood and not rot. The softling's fingers are probing the wound, with new little jolts of pain, and the old woman's voice goes low. "This is festering, girl. I'll need to clean and bandage it, and then I'll give you something for the pain. Hold still a while longer." Tsitsia holds still. She wonders if her lie can hold, with the softling's careful attention, but flesh is flesh, surely? She's seen it herself, how alike they are under the skin. The softling says nothing until she smears her back with some herbal-smelling mud, then grunts at her to help wind a long length of cloth around her chest. "That should hold," she says. "Now for the rest of you. Teeth, you said?" "Bad," replies Tsitsia. With her other pains muted, her teeth are louder than ever, like thunder in her head. The softling hands her a small clay jar. "Chew these roots for a toothache," she says, then offers another jar. "Chew these ones for... well, you'll feel better and sleep better. Dream pleasant dreams, and we'll do more in the morning. What's your name, girl?" "Jana." That's the shape of a softling name, isn't it? It will have to do, and the softling says nothing, just grins with all her teeth. She guides Tsitsia to a bed, then offers her water and hot broth to help the roots down. They're bitter, too chewy for her pained jaw, and Tsitsia has to swallow her gorge and tell herself that this is food; once the first few mouthfuls are down, though, the pain begins to ebb away, and she can stand a few sips of hot venison broth to wash the taste from her mouth. The second root is sourer, but a mouthful down and the world grows hazy and soft around her, fear melting away alongside the pain. She has refuge now. The hunters are very far away. When Tsitsia sleeps that night, not long after the roots and broth are gone, she dreams a child's dream, of shifting colors and distant singing. She hears Zhenzhann's voice, but she does not see him bleeding and broken, opened from neck to gut by a hunter's blade. She does not see the softling hunters, does not feel the impact of the metal club against her jaw. It is better, in this dream, to be alone. *** The next day, Tsitsia tends to herself in her people's fashion. The teeth are loose and shattered, easy to pry out by hand now that she has time and peace; when the work is done, the softling offers her cold water and more pain-easing roots. The ankle is healing on its own, not broken, and Tsitsia says a silent prayer of thanks to any of the spirits still watching. For days after that, she mostly sleeps and lets the softling tend her wound and speak to her. The softling's name, she learns, is Lavender. She asks "Jana" nothing about her life (and Tsitsia says another silent prayer in thanks for that), but seems happy to speak of her own, of husbands lost and children departed. She lived a long life as a healer in the softling villages before retreating to the woods for "a bit of quiet," and to cultivate her herb garden. (Is that why she calls herself Lavender? Tsitsia thinks this is the name of a plant in the softling tongue. Is that how they give themselves names?) "When you've healed," Lavender says one day, "might you help me with spring planting? If you plan to stay, of course." What else can she do but stay? Even with her strength returning, Tsitsia has nowhere to go. She and Zhenzhann were alone before the hunters, and she's seen no trace of the East Rivers, or of others who might have taken their territory. If she could even find the East River homestead without a marked trail, who's to say it would be safe? "I will stay," she says, "if you will have me." "Gladly. It's been some time since I had someone to talk to." Soon enough, Tsitsia's ankle can hold weight, and the pain in her back and jaw is dull enough that she can go the day without the sense-dulling roots, as pleasant as they are. The routines of the garden and hearth are almost enough like home to quell the sadness that takes the pain's place. There is food, and Lavender's stories, and laughter. No singing, none of her people's stories, no bone-crack games -- but not nothing. A moon's turn or two after Tsitsia's arrival at the cottage, she feels her child stir within her: the child she'd assumed was lost, the child they should never have made. What fools they had been, and yet a foolish joy fills her, to think of it alive. A child. Lavender only gives another of those toothed grins when "Jana" tells her the news. "More hands is lighter work, girl." A child. A home. A strange home is still something. *** The child's birth is less than a moon away when the horns sound in the woods again. Tsitsia rises from her seat in front of the fire, slow and unsteady on her never-again-right ankle, while Lavender crosses to the window to listen. "Can you see the torches, dear? That'll be the ogre hunters out. Go down to the root cellar." Tsitsia takes a moment to remember "ogre," the softling word for her people. It takes her a moment longer to realize that she'd never fooled Lavender, had she? How could she have? Even a blind softling had ears, fingers, a nose. "You always knew," she says, in her own voice, as much as she can when shaping softling words. "I can't fight. I can't run. Give me up." "Didn't you hear me, girl? The root cellar." "But they'll know, and they won't stop, not until they have me. My husband took a -- took one of your people from the village. I ate him. To let us make the child." "Oh, I know," says Lavender, "but the man you ate was the only one that year. When I was a girl, the village lost a dozen or two every breeding season. In my grandmother's time, they'd leave babies and elders in the woods for you, or every child in the village would be gone by the end of spring." Lavender's smile is very wide, and her teeth very bright in the firelight. "The hunters have won, dear, and one or two ogres left behind won't change that. I'd rather have the company than the bounty or another notch on my knife. If you want to die, I won't stop you, but I'd just as rather you hide and live." Tsitsia wants to bare her teeth and snarl, to offer some last defiance to the grinning softling before her, but the truth is a heavy shroud across her shoulders. She stumbles to the cellar door and down into the darkness, leaving Lavender behind to face her kin. There is no future for her. All along, there has never been a future, even with the child coming and a place at Lavender's hearth. All there will be now is empty days leading to nothing. Without softling flesh, her child will never grow tall and strong; with only her voice to teach it, it will never sing sweetly in her people's voice. One day, it will bury her, and then it will find a dark place to live and die alone. Nonetheless, huddled in darkness, Tsitsia does not want to die. All she wants is those empty days. All she wants is to see her child's face. She will live, and she will love the grinning softling that shelters her, and she will be grateful for every sunrise. She will chew roots. The pain will ease.
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Apr 29, 2024 06:01
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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=953PkxFNiko Quite a Pickle 1184 words I was dragging him by his feet when one of his boots came loose and I found myself sitting on my rear end in the mud and saw that tattoo on his bloated blue and cold fat gut and started laughing like a crazy man. Well I might be, but that tattoo. I’d forgotten it since I hadn’t seen the bastard without a shirt since before the mine shut down, or even high school when we still had one. I Don’t Believe in Friends it says, the words arrayed around what’s supposed to be an heart with a knife through it. Folk out here had some bad tatts, but this took the cake no matter how fitting it was now. You dumb gently caress I tell him between laughing and huffing for breath as I got up and started hauling him down the yard once more. Steal my fuckin’ shoes will you I mutter and curse, looking back to see I’d moved him all of 20 yards, this just aint working. Too heavy, twice my size. Maybe go get the chainsaw I’m thinking then remember I sold it last time I got the shakes. Maybe roll him? Yeah that don’t work. I got to get him in the ground before he starts to smell. But not here in my backyard. Where the hell was I taking him anyway, this sure could have been planned better but then again it weren’t my plan to kill the son of a bitch. I start laughing again thinking when I done it I were saying I didn’t know my own strength, hitting him that hard that his brain’s showing which was a surprise, both him havin’ one and it now saying howdydo, and now finding I wish I were even stronger. Quite a pickle. So I start digging telling myself this is a good place after all. I like digging, it’s mindless work and feels good to move again since I aint worked awhile and before you know it I got him planted five feet down, and went to get rid of his truck parked at the bottom of the holler near Mrs Wendy’s who won’t be a problem since she’s 90 or something and blind. So I get in and the keys aint there or under the visor so I’m yelling then shut up remembering what’s going on, looking around to see if any lights came on but none do. Guess I’ll be headin’ back, I tell the night. Quite a pickle. By the time I got the keys from his hip pocket and had the fat bastard planted again it were nearing dawn so I sat by him to watch since I loved watching the sun rise and set then I remember I had a plan and things to do. This time I took the bat with me to the truck and Mrs Wendy’s lights were on, goddamn that woman she’s a nosy one, but I recall she’s blind now from that bad shine and laughed as I got in and started his truck and drat if his muffler had a hole or what it’s gonna wake the dead, and I laugh looking in the rear view like the dead bastard is gonna be chasing after his stolen rust and that really cracked me up so bad I near lost it on the curve out of the holler and had to stop and get my pipe blazing some. Better, much better, he had some good rocks on him at least, not that he were giving it over at the time with me owing him from the last time and I swear he has getting paid back but he weren’t having it and picked up my shoes like they’re for touching by any feet but mine, that’s what set me off not the shakes. It’s light now and I’m roaring and clanking down the road a mile from town and and sure enough blue lights start flashing behind, no siren so I pull over, nothing for it, though I know there’s a loaded glock between the seat where the fat son of a bitch left it. The deputy comes to the window and I see it’s Billy Ray, a good boy from the holler and I wind down the window and say, I done a bad thing, Billy. Say what, he says, what you doin’ in Rambler’s truck Aloysius? Nobody calls me that only these boys when they wear their uniforms, like it turns them into something else and they forget who’s side they’re on or something. He had some mischief, I says. You best get on out Aloysius you been tweakin’? Yes sir, I say, and get on out tellin’ him there be a gun under the seat. Is that right?, he says and leans in to get it and I take my bat out from the truck’s bed and he comes up with the glock held between his thumb and finger like it’s something bad, and I hit hit him over the head even harder than I hit Rambler and he went down. His brain stayed inside but there’s a big old dent right down the middle like the part on his hair. It was funny the way he looked at me and I giggled like a kid. Quite a pickle I’m in. Why the hell did I do that? Well nothing’ for it. I shoulder my bat and start walking home the short way through the woods. I were asleep that afternoon when the sheriff himself showed up with deputies Jim Boyd and Wallace Smith and they got to asking questions about Rambler and where he might be and I said I thought he were outside and they just looked at me and Jim says, he’s tweaked to the gills, and Wallace Smith and the sheriff just nodded at me stern and soon had me back in a room at the station. Quite a pickle. What’s this about, I ask like I don’t know. Deputy Billy Ray Collis were found dead by Rambler’s truck, the sheriff says, you seen that boy? No sir, I say, not since the day afore. You know where he might be? No sir, but he was always talkin’ about Mexico. Mexico you say? Yes sir. Well drat. You boys sure he killed Billy Ray? Sure as poo poo. I aint. He’s your buddy, we understand, Aloysius. Don’t you cover for him or it’ll be the worse for you. Billy Ray were from my holler, wish I could help you boys. They just nod and open the door. You go get and stay off that poo poo you hear? I’ll do my solemn best, sheriff. I got up and walked out and found the street and stopped by the drugstore and looked at my shoes in the reflection and smiled. I took them off and tied them together and slung them around my neck to keep that shine and started walking back to the holler in my bare feet to tell Rambler he’s in Mexico because he done killed Billy Ray, stupid son of a bitch.
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Apr 29, 2024 06:02
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Jack of Diamonds 1237 words Flash: California Swinging Marcus Jules called with pocket jacks, the spade and the diamond. I mucked my Ace-nothing. Before the dealer sent the pot his way, the old man nodded to his bodyguard, who pulled out a shiny Desert Eagle .50 Action Express, aimed, and shot Jules in the head, covering hostess Tricia's sparkling white dress with blood and brains. And that should have been it. I dropped the glamour on the card for the sensitive in Jules’ entourage. As far as they knee, it worked, spent its power, and would re-emerge on a card table somewhere else in the world in a few years. Except that a few seconds later a cloud of rotten, sulfurous smoke rose right out of the carpet and the devil himself floated up and laid hands on Marcus Jules’ shoulders. Jules started talking. Screaming, mostly. His mouth was intact, and he didn't need the brain that was notably missing. The words came straight from his soul. “No!” he yelled. “You can't have me! I've got the card, won fair and square!” “That?” said the Devil. “That's not the Prince of Grace.” “What?” said the lower half of Marcus’ face. “A fake,” said the Devil. “The real card is in my boy Harlan Moon’s pocket.” And he pointed his thumb right at me. It's possible–just possible, mind you–that I sometimes don't completely think things through. Case in point: when I was eighteen years old I went out to a desert crossroads at midnight and sold my soul to the devil for an instrument of power and the skills to use it. What I had in mind was a guitar, of course. Traditional. Or maybe a flute. But what I had taken lessons on five years earlier, what my mind went to despite myself and what Old Scratch dutifully provided, was a concert grand piano. A Yamaha, mostly, but with the lumber harvested from the wood of the suicides, heavy and black as an abandoned mineshaft, with tendons and bones from the damned for strings and keys. About a ton, the thing weighed. I had a little bit of luck, there. While I was trying to figure something out Tricia Noland pulled up in her big brother's pickup truck, with all three brothers in tow, and after she took a scraper to the Jesus fish sticker on the back we got that thing loaded into the bay and strapped down with a few dozen long bungee cords. I rode beside it, worried the whole way that the next bump would knock it on its side and either crush me or break the damned thing. But it didn't. Wouldn't have mattered if it had fallen. I mean, not on me, the other way. It’s pretty near indestructible. The ride did knock it way out of tune, and it was months before it was suitable for learning any kind of magic. “How'd you know?” I asked Tricia, afterward. “I didn't,” she said. “I mean, I didn't know know. Just had a guess.” She'd been my partner for about a lifetime. She booked the shows, cased the joints, distracted the shills, handled the cash. We weren't that way, except one time back when we were too young to be completely sure we weren't each other's types. We were a team, and now we were both in big trouble. Me, because the Devil grassed me out in front of the Jules crew and five other high rollers before dragging the old man straight to Hell, and her because she preemptively threw drinks and her tray in a few of those people's faces to buy a few seconds rather than fading into the crowd like a sensible person would. I was holding on to the one thing none of those rich men's money could buy, they all knew it, and they knew she was with me. The Prince of Grace. The Jack of Diamonds these days. One of a kind. The printing, back and front, changes like a chameleon to match any deck, but if you've got any sensitivity at all you can tell. It shines. With everything it promises. A no kidding Get Out of Hell Free Card. Only there's rules. Can't be bought, and that includes telling people you employ to hand it over. Can be given away, or stolen, but you've got to steal it yourself. Things the old man couldn't pull off even after his people took it off the diplomat's deathbed. But gambling, gambling works, and there's a special loophole when it's in a winning hand. The other people in the casino who were all very much in the market for the card were nowhere near as infirm. I had three steps before they started moving. The good news here is that they thought I'd be heading for the exit, but I was headed for the stage, for the piano. A few gunshots flew wildly, but my momma always told me I was born to hang so I haven't been shot yet. One nearly pierced my left ear, close enough to feel, as I scrambled up to the stage then slid feet-first under the legs. I sat down, rolled out a quick cascading arpeggio on a diminished F major. Shields up, flaming hellish energy rusting bullets and scorching bruisers on their way in. Trisha made it just in time, leaping onto the piano in what would have been a seductive pose were it not for the blood, bone, and brains all over her dress. I started a polyrhythm, 5:4 on the left hand and 6:8 on the right. Powerful dissonant chords. Black spirit horses with flaming red eyes and hooves materialized in front of the piano, turning it into a chariot. A lot of places, leaving this way would mean Kool-Aid-Manning a wall. Not here. This was a stage they used to put elephants on, before people caught on to how cruel and dumb it was to tranquilize an elephant to the point where it would stay on the stage. The old elephant doors were perfect good piano chariot doors now. I played out chase music, infinitely ascending chords and complex melodies in sixteenth and thirty-second notes, and the hellish horses obediently pulled us away, fast, out to the interstate, out into the desert. And when I finally stopped to breathe, it was nearly too late. My first thought was that the old man hadn't had nearly so much blood in him. I found the wound, right through Trisha's lung. I started to smell hints of sulfur again. Trisha never told me what she sold her soul for, and I never asked. Probably something embarrassingly dumb. She made her deal well before I did, when she was deep in her goth phase. I once promised her I'd destroy all photographic evidence of those two years, and I mostly have. Of course I gave her the card, slipped it in her bag. “We could go together,” she said. “If we're both holding it. The codex says it's been done before.” “I'm not dying, though,” I said. But I saw the appeal. Seen too many hints of Hell to not have nightmares of when that bill comes through. But the other place doesn't have much appeal either, not while there's this much living to do. “I think I'll stay.” The smell of sulfur vanished entirely, replaced by myrrh and fresh leather, and she was gone.
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Apr 29, 2024 10:07
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My error. Meant to close submissions at 6 this morning but we'll go with what the OP says. Quiet Feet fucked around with this message at 13:56 on Apr 29, 2024 |
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Apr 29, 2024 11:39
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edit: nvm
Toaster Beef fucked around with this message at 13:57 on Apr 29, 2024 |
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Apr 29, 2024 13:20
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Thunderdome Week DCXII: Soundtrack Song: Red Rock Riviera - Sea Power Immensely, in Time 1,827 words I wake to horns, tinny and blaring. The sun is warm on my skin but blinding, and when I bring my hand up to shield my eyes, I accidentally sprinkle my face with sand. As my senses come alive, the horns are joined by the sounds of surf and chatter and screaming children. In the distance, seagulls laugh loudly at one another. The fog begins to lift. I’m on the beach, splitting the difference between the water to my right and the boardwalk to my left. The horns are from the speaker system of the amphitheater pier directly ahead of me. It’s a recording—a promo for a small local orchestra that will be performing next weekend. The pier’s concrete arches and cloudy half-moon windows rise high above the dunes. A thrumming, energetic bassline reverberates through everything from a kiosk on the boardwalk. Somewhere, a very pregnant young woman stirs and wakes next to a man she doesn’t realize she’s never met in a house she doesn’t realize she’s never been in. She is deliriously happy. I climb the steps that run from the sand up to the boardwalk. The bar was empty, save for a few stragglers. I was the soberest among those left, sitting by myself, watching a news report on the muted television about someone who’d leapt off the Greate Bay Bridge earlier in the day. “Jumpers always regret it right after they let go,” he said from close behind me, and I flinched. I turned to look, but he’d already laid a calming hand on my shoulder—it felt hot even through my shirt—and was taking the stool next to mine. He was small, slight, and impeccably dressed in a finely tailored black suit. Against the backdrop of the dive we were in, it might as well have been a bright red sequin gown. His skin was olive and his features were dark, with thick black eyebrows and short, immaculately trimmed hair that he kept slicked back. He tilted his head toward the television. “Even the ones who live will tell you, the moment they step off all they can think is, ‘I don’t want to do this,’” he said. “Makes you think about all the folks who don’t live to tell the story. Poor bastards.” He looked toward the bartender, whose eyes were completely vacant as he reached for a bottle of something dark and expensive and slid it down our way accompanied by two shot glasses. The man filled both glasses and pushed one in front of me as he spoke. “Anyway,” he said, raising his glass. “To business.” The boardwalk teems with people—a proper midsummer crowd, thousands upon thousands strolling this way and that, cutting across lanes of foot traffic to dive into stores or eateries, rushing toward coveted bench space, gearing up for or recovering from the latest jaunt down to the sand and surf, or any number of things between or beside. I float among them, untethered rather than unmoored: no destination in mind, but none necessary, and nothing to pull me one way or another. Half a block down, a massive and surprisingly well-maintained dragon figure stands proudly over an indoor mini-golf course. The speakers under him roar and snarl, and he growls something about how his course is the best on the beach. It’s hard to pick out. An endless barrage of smells waft by—funnel cake, popcorn, monkey bread, some countless number of notions. The crowd rolls through like an unending tide, and standing still feels perilous. I walk by a bustling pizzeria and spot a man, older but not old, I guess, maybe in his forties, engaged in a hopeless juggling act. His right arm is occupied with a baby nestled up against him like a tree frog, but he’s trying to sip from a too-full fountain soda in that hand because the other hand is moving a large stroller back and forth while the toddler inside screams and screams. The stroller’s second seat sits empty, I assume because the baby liked it about as much as the toddler. His partner is rushing back over to him, fighting the laws of physics to bring her family two more fountain drinks and three slices of pizza on three separate increasingly orange paper plates. I stroll by. A few stores down is a tiny book shop where I pick up an old and thoroughly worn paperback western from the clearance bin for pocket change. He was calm and understanding as we talked for what felt like hours. He nodded quietly as I spilled everything. “I’m too young,” I told him. “I’m just too drat young and there’s so much I want to do and see and be a part of—so much I’m meant for—and I can’t do any of that. But I can’t just … leave them. You get that, right?” “Of course,” he said, leaning in, his voice near a whisper. “A man sets out into the world with an idea of what his life’s going to be, and then the concessions begin. And you acquiesce here, and you make allowances there, and you chip and chip and chip away and then one day you look up and poof—you’re an old man with nothing to show for all his years but debt and regret.” I just stared at him. He placed his hand on my shoulder again. It carried the heat and weight of the back of a coal shovel. The book is fine. Daring ne’er-do-wells, roped-up damsels with heaving bosoms atop tight corsets, stoic men of honor saving the day. It all holds my interest for a bit, same as anything. I sit with my back to a pylon in the shade cast by the amphitheater pier and fly through some of it before my attention drifts. Sound reverberates off the bottom of the pier and is amplified here, meaning the soft white noise of the surf becomes a roaring overture. Some very young children have wandered under here as well, and though they’re some distance away, their sharp screams are making my inner ear rattle. They’re running around down near the water, where the sand’s hard and soaked. One of them trips and falls. His chin bounces off the ground hard enough to stun him, and after two or three seconds of confused silence he starts crying loudly for his mother. Somewhere, a very pregnant young woman is balancing a small plate of waffles on her stomach. The man she doesn’t realize she’s never met brings her a glass of chocolate milk. She smiles at him warmly, and he smiles back. I met him close to midnight under the boardwalk at the far end of the island, where the tourist amenities gave way to quiet disrepair. The orange glow of the streetlights coming through the boards cut hard lines along his slight figure. He was, again, impeccably dressed. It looked every bit as out of place here as it did in the bar. “You came,” he said. “I almost had you figured for a jumper.” I looked around, my shoulders hunched. Even this far off the beaten path at this time of night, summer on the island usually meant no space was completely isolated—and yet. “Relax,” he said with a smile. “You’re not ordering a hit or scoring coke. Just a young man meeting an old friend.” I did my best to loosen up. I thought of all the things I wanted to do, all those concessions that brought me to the bar the night before. I thought of what it’d mean to go to college and master my craft and design a whole drat skyline—to claw my future back for myself, to save my own life by severing the weights pulling it under. He checked his watch. It was brilliant and gleaming, even in the darkness. “The switch flips at the stroke of midnight,” he said. “Granted, the timing is purely a for-show thing. Still, if you have any final questions, now’s the time.” I nearly told him I couldn’t think of anything, but then: “Just … I know we covered this last night, but I want to make sure,” I said. “They’re going to be okay, right? They’re not being wiped from existence or anything?” The man laughed. It was deep, unsettling. I shifted a little in place. “Even I don’t have that kind of sway,” he said. “Nobody’s being wiped from existence. They won’t even know anything has happened. Think of it as a … reorganization. They’ll be happy, wildly happy, and you’ll be free to make your own way.” I looked out toward the ocean. It was pitch black. Only the crests of the incoming waves were visible. They washed up onto the beach, avoided and then chased by batches of skittering sandpipers. “You’ll wake up in a new life, down by the seaside,” he said, and I looked back at him. “Something different, something you were meant for.” “Yes,” I said, and nodded. “Repeat it,” he said, an eye cast toward his watch. “Word for word.” “I’ll wake up in a new life, down by the seaside,” I said. “Something different, something I was meant for.” He stuck out his hand. I braced myself and shook it. Though the boy is screaming for his mom, a man runs over—he couldn’t have been very far away at all—and scoops the child up. I can just barely hear him shushing and telling the boy “You’re safe, you’re safe.” The boy calms quickly and leans into the man’s shoulder. The two stand there for a little bit before the man squats down, grabs some seaweed off the sand, and plops it on top of his head like a bad hairpiece. The boy giggles, then laughs uproariously as the man pairs the seaweed wig with some silly faces. Soon, the two are laughing together. The man kneels and lets the child down. The child runs over to the first batch of seaweed he can find and places it on his own head, which only makes them both laugh harder. The man says, “Come on, let’s go show mom,” the boy grabs his hand, and the two walk off. I smile, then look down and try to get lost in the book again. It doesn’t work. Somewhere, a very pregnant young woman has let half a plate of waffles fall to the floor as she gets up to run for the bathroom. Her water just broke. She’s excited beyond the telling of it. Shaking his hand felt anticlimactic. Whatever great, cosmic impact I was expecting, nothing came. All the same, at least one thing changed: The charming stranger was gone. In his place was a man who looked much the same but carried an impossibly wide grin and eyes draped in shadow. He held up his watch for me to see. Seconds to midnight. “Will it hurt?” I asked. He cocked his head.
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Apr 29, 2024 20:36
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Alright, submissions definitely closed now. Judging has begun. Time to begin drinking away your anxiety. E: crits and results should be done by this afternoon. Aiming for 1:00 PM EST. Quiet Feet fucked around with this message at 14:20 on Apr 30, 2024 |
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Apr 30, 2024 02:55
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 Thunderdome DCXII: Soundtrack RESULTS! Lots of good stuff this week but our winner is Flerp, who dared ask us You Ever Do it With a Merman Before? Honorable mentions go out to Antivehicular with Widows of the Woods and Kuiperdolin for Not a Day Goes By. Both strong contenders and I really like how much Kuiperdolin was able to cram into such a small space. Crabrock did not write anything!? Shame! No losers this week! Crits will be up either within the hour or like, I dunno, maybe 7:00-ish depending on other stuff I need to get done today!
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Apr 30, 2024 18:37
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Week 613: Something Awful Times Connections youve probably heard of the new craze going around called the new york times connections. its a daily puzzle where you create four groups of four similiar words out of sixteen. its fun. this week youll just be doing that. i have a site that generates endless connections and i will give you a set from it. you will choose four words from that set of sixteen words and use those as your prompts. up to you which words you choose (they dont have to be a connection) and how you interpret them. here's a sample of what a prompt will look like  thats it. have fun. logistics stuff: sign up deadline: sometime in the morning of saturday PST submission deadline: sometime in the morning of monday PST word count: 1616 no poetry judges: me flerp flyerant someone 2 flerp fucked around with this message at 18:42 on May 2, 2024 |
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Apr 30, 2024 19:45
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This week's crits! Thanks to Rohan for providing a template for judging. "Vibes" is obviously an incredibly subjective thing to critique, so I didn't come down heavy on any story for it as long as I could see how you got where you got. Judging is a lot of work. In the future I'm gonna aim to write mediocre poo poo so I can thread the needle between not losing and not having to do stuff. 1: Beep Beep Car is Go – Love Undying (1898 words) There are a few places in here where the tense switches from past to present and then back. I'm not sure that anything is served by having the castle empty and drawing out the search; the heart of the story is in the interaction between these two characters, but we don't get to that for a while. It'd also tell us a lot about either of these character how others react to them: he was trying to impress her, so what did anyone else think about it? Also, she's a queen but a teacher too? Lyric feels a little shoehorned in. I can see some of the vibe for the song in here, but I thought a sillier tone would fit better. MID 2: Flyerant – Chasing after Endless Windmills (1812) The opening scene could be a little shorter. Who's the antagonist who shows up here? He seems like he knows what's going on and who the protagonist is familiar with. Nitpick: "I saw naught but the shadow of a giant snake" Not really; your MC immediately describes other things. Would be more accurate to say she saw it first, not that its the only thing she saw. Were the other figures at other campfires more of the protagonist, or just other people experiencing the same phenomenon? I'm assuming the latter but would liked to have known more. Just a sentence or two on that could have gone a long way. I bet someone thrown into this dimension would be curious enough to check, especially if its something they've been at a long time. Explanation of the snake feels a bit sparse for what it is. I would have liked to know. Fits vibe of the song well enough though the lyric is more of a reference than a direct quote. MID 3: Kuiperdolin – Not a Day Goes By (302) Short story, short crit. Well done with strong, specific sensory details. This reeks of nostalgia, which is exactly the vibe I got from the song. "It would be hours before nighttime" is a good metaphor for your character's remaining life. HIGH 4: Shwinnebago – Planet of Fields (667) I'm a sucker for non-human POVs so this caught me right away. That being said, I'm not quite sure what is going on here? I think it's enough that the carrots seem to have an idea of what's happening, but I feel a bit left out. A couple of other nitpicks: Carrot-in-a-box reads a lot easier than "carrot in a box", and you have a typo in the last paragraph of the first section: "new" instead of "knew." HIGH 5: Flerp – You Ever Do it With a Merman Before? (Words?) This is a very well fleshed out character with just enough details about their past and their present to really get them. The prose feels just a little awkward in spots, but its strong overall. Your merman feels both human and alien at the same time, which is great. Your song lyric fits, it's fine. We definitely had a VERY different take on the vibe from that song, but I could see what you took from it. HIGH 6: Chili – Silent Sessions (1885) Really good on a technical level and I respect the choice to present the story in a different format. That being said, in at least the Progress Note #7 is a bit of a chore to read. Is "firing" a thing that happens in a therapeutic setting? I'm not very familiar with how therapy goes. I didn't spot a specific lyric in this one, more just a reference to one, which feels kinda weak. For as positive as the song you chose generally feels, there are definitely moments of struggle, and I have to assume you picked up on that part of it too because it feels like that's the focus here. Unfortunately, this story just kinda stops rather than ends. MID-HIGH 7 steeltoadsneakers – Installations (1296) This one is very detailed and I honestly think it would help to cut back a bit. If the action were a little more truncated, and more space made for exactly what the goal of these characters is and why its important to them, you'd have a stronger story. The vibe for your song felt very futuristic, and what seems to be a dystopian future here works fine as a setting. Lyric fits well enough, but would work a lot better if we knew more about these characters. Did they really wait their whole lives for this? Why did it mean so much to them? MID 8 Antivehicular – Widow of the Woods (1745) Condenses a lot of detail into a small space, although a little more info here and there might have sharpened it a bit. I'd have liked a quick sentence or comment at the beginning on what differentiates the MC from a "softling". For example, maybe a quick contrast after "just the way softlings build them", in the form of what the MC would expect from a house. Stone walls? Decorated with skulls? White picket fence? The lyric slides neatly in here and it fits the vibe really well. The whole thing is sort of gentle but with this muted ache for the past. One of my favorites this go round. HIGH 9 Fat Jesus - Quite a Pickle (1184) I had a hard time reading this. Sentences ramble and there's some missing punctuation. The lack of quotation marks for the dialogue doesn't help. Voice is strong and it hits the vibe, but cleaves a little too close to the story in the original lyrics. LOW 10 Thranguy – Jack of Diamonds (1237) Think this could have used a little more space to breathe. Maybe just a little more scene setting, or some dialogue between MC and Tricia/Trisha (both are used.) You've got two magical artifacts in this story and they're kinda muscling in on each for space so I'm not sure if either one really gets the screen time they deserve. Who's the old man? "Kool Aid Manning" is cute, but feels kinda awkward. Vibe fits. This has glitz and glamour. Lyric is just kinda there, but its fine. Not like the song gave you a lot to work with. MID-HIGH 11 Toaster Beef – Immensely, in Time (1827) I wish the distance between the present and past pieces were a little sharper, or that we had more of a clue just how much of a span separates these two. You've got a couple of bits of prose I really like in "quiet disrepair" and "standing still feels perilous." I don't know why these hit home for me. Sometimes just a couple of words put together in the right spot feel appropriate. I like the use of the lyric as a sort of chant, something to make magic happen. This is another story that just kinda stops. Think it would have been better ending before the last three lines. They imply some kind of action that I'm not sure we the audience are expecting or in on. Actually, it probably works best after "She’s excited beyond the telling of it." The MC is disappearing into his new life, right? And so it makes sense if the story doesn't end with him but someone he left behind. MID-HIGH
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Apr 30, 2024 19:47
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In
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Apr 30, 2024 19:54
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Yeah, in
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Apr 30, 2024 20:39
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 Toaster Beef posted:Yeah, in 
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Apr 30, 2024 23:27
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in
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May 1, 2024 00:47
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I am IN to write many words about four words. E: is there some etiquette about entering right after a win? Should I take a week off? Judge for a week? Quiet Feet fucked around with this message at 02:30 on May 1, 2024 |
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May 1, 2024 01:10
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In
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May 1, 2024 02:06
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 Quiet Feet posted:I am IN to write many words about four words. do w/e you want  
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May 1, 2024 03:25
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Going to take a risk and try my first Thunderdome... In 
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May 1, 2024 15:43
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hit me w them connectsJossiRossi posted:Going to take a risk and try my first Thunderdome... nice, i just entered my first one like a month ago. i'm in my late 30s and have never done any creative writing before and this has been a great experience so far. have fun!
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May 1, 2024 17:45
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JossiRossi posted:Going to take a risk and try my first Thunderdome...  shwinnebego posted:hit me w them connects 
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May 1, 2024 21:02
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You have my reading skills, I shall be second judge.
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May 3, 2024 16:08
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Crit for Flyerant's last entry Flyerant - Chasing After Endless Windmills: With the onset of the story I’m definitely a little lost. I understand what you’re trying to do but this feels kinda Phanom Menacey of ‘remember that time on same yagoba planet when we….’ It’s like OK, these people have some kind of history and somehow also haven’t touched each other but also they love each and also one has saved the other somehow… Like that’s a lot of poo poo, and it could even be interesting poo poo but you’re only kinda glancing at it and I don’t really understand the relationship between these people. And the despair of the dark might be familiar to your narrator, but we don’t really know how or why it is so we’re just kinda meant to take an awful lot of things into consideration here. The second scene starts and I’m hoping for some clarity but it’s more obfuscation from the jump and that kinda started turning me against the read. However! I think I like the idea of this; kinda feels like a neat idea for a roguelike video game. But, I guess I don’t get the rules of this though because the narrator seems to take some semblance of pride in having the most marks but doesn’t that just mean she’s failed the most? Ok so here’s the deal. It all does indeed come together in the end. The confusing first scene does make sense in the larger context of the piece but it takes too much time getting there. I’m gonna pull a number right out of my rear end here but I’ll go ahead and set a rule that no more than…. 7.5% of your used word count should be dependent on anything following it to make sense. And by my further pulling out of rear end I’d say you used about 19.3%, that’s over double. As my new metric is now codified as official thunderlaw, it enjoys the privilege of retroactive expectation, so that’s what, an 11.8% infraction? You can see where my confusion comes from. The piece carries a generally competent hand, but it needed to be a bit more thoughtfully organized if it was going to deliver on its ambition.
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May 3, 2024 18:25
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Thunderdome DCXIII Say No Names (1613 words) Prompt: ((Picked Ryobi, Makita, Dewalt, tongue)) Dan cut the old Ford's engine and turned around in the driver's seat. "Alright team, we're here. Tongue, you awake?" It was early April. Morning. Gray. A fine spray of rain clung gently to the van's windshield. Tongue stretched her arms. "April" used to be her name; now, she was "Tongue" and April was just a month. Tongue had lost lots of names. Doug, Barbara: her parents. Noah: her brother. Josephina, Ryan: friends. She pulled the hood of her jacket a little tighter. The van's heater was broken. Everything these days was broken. Dan had lost Sarah, and half his name with her when she died seven months ago, since she'd called him "Daniel" and was the only one who did. He put on a brave face now, but he still marinated his feelings in Johnny Walker, Jim Beam, Jack Daniels, and other names wrapped around brown bottles. Tongue wondered if the people who'd changed still had names. You couldn't call them zombies, not really. They weren't dead. It was more like they'd... reverted. They knew how to use tools. They communicated through grunts and gestures. They cooperated. They knew what They were, and They knew what you were, and what you were was not one of Them. People who were still normal, like herself, and Dan, and everyone else at the warehouse called them things or trogs, but usually just... Them. A blank designation for a nameless horde. "Tanner, Frog, you're on grocery. Abby, check out the Bob's for some shoes. Mine've got holes in them. Size 10. Tongue, I want you in Lowe's. We need batteries. You know the kind. Makita, Ryobi, Dewalt, anything big and rechargeable." Tongue held up her hand and nodded. Frog slid open the door, got out first. Just like April, he'd lost his name to a nickname, one everyone'd given him on account of his big eyes. Dan stayed with the van. The rest of them split up, walking to their different destinations in the plaza. Tongue walked by the remains of parked cars: Ford, Honda, Kia. Names that didn't really matter anymore. You drove whatever car still started. A minute later she reached the store entrance. The wind picked up, whipping at scattered trash. If there were any of Them inside they'd be asleep at this time of day. They preferred the night. Tongue slipped in through the shattered glass door. The air inside was all damp and dead dust. Her dad, a carpenter, used to take her along sometimes when she was little. There was a cashier, Deb, who gave her a lollipop once. She wondered if Deb was still Deb. Deb laughed loud. Deb had big hair. Tongue's stomach rumbled and she thought she'd see if there were snacks at the registers on the way out. Doritos, Reese's, Hershey's: names Noah snuck into the house after school when their mom had said he was "getting pudgy." She made her way down aisle 62, past the patio furniture, walking slowly down, running her fingers over the blue shelves and tracing little hills and valleys in the dust. More names on the shelves. Brands. Hampton. Hanover. Stylepoint. At the intersection with the next aisle she stopped a moment to listen to the robins chirping in the rafters; to the water dripping from the ceiling onto the Traeger grills. She froze. Thought she heard movement. Tongue could still hear. When the new names in camp found out she couldn't speak, they assumed she was deaf. Nope, just unlucky. The apocalypse took her tongue. She couldn't even remember it. She knew it'd been a car crash. One night in July her parents had her grab a few things and run out the door. Doug and Barbara's little town had fallen to Them and the plan was to drive into the mountains and... well, Tongue wasn't sure after that. She remembers getting into the car that night, eyeing the glow of a fire down the distance, a house burning on their block. And then she was awake in a dirty Coleman tent under the Carlton bridge, mouth stuffed up with gauze. Sarah had introduced herself first. Then Dan. Then Tongue met Brad and Tanner and Elijah and Abby and Becky. Some of those names were gone now, deleted and replaced. A moment passed. Nothing but the robins chirping. The sliding glass doors to the garden section were intact but stiff. She pried them apart with a crowbar she found leaning against a nearby shelf. The roof in the garden center leaked. Drip. Drop. She looked down the aisle to the right, listening. She sniffed. There was a smell to Them; a too-human stink like a combination gym locker and stale bathroom. Along the wall ran the names she needed: Makita, Ryobi, Dewalt, in boxes colored red, green and yellow, respectively. There were still plenty. Most of humanity was either dead or Them, with no need for Makita, Ryobi, or Dewalt. Tongue cracked open a hedge trimmer, a Ryobi. The tool inside the box was worthless, but the fluorescent green battery it came with would be useful. She'd opened up more than a few boxes, taking the batteries and leaving the contents behind in the aisles. She almost dropped a chainsaw on her foot and let out a grunt in place of the word "gently caress". You didn't realize how much you used your tongue until you no longer had one. A month ago, she and Tanner were bored and began making out in a quiet corner of the warehouse, away from prying eyes. Her hands ran up his sides. He was lean and muscled. His own hands were stroking her back, fumbling at her bra. He stank. She stank. Her blond hair was dark with grease and sweat. They both stank—that too-human reek of unwashed bodies—but neither cared anymore. And then he pressed his mouth against hers and kissed her, forcing in his tongue. There was a pause, barely a second, and then he pulled away. He opened his mouth to say something and then just walked off and left her there, as if he didn't need to say anything because she couldn't speak either. The batteries were heavy and she wished she'd brought more than one bag with her. She'd get six or seven in this one, tops. Maybe they had lawn bags nearby? She was still wondering what to do when the wind shifted and she caught the scent; a foetid, human odor wafting in. From the section of the store she'd just left there was the noise of something metal falling to the floor. Tongue dropped the batteries and ducked behind a display of mowers—Makitas—waiting, nerves on end. She had a hatchet with her. A Dewalt, not that the name mattered. A hatchet was a hatchet, with or without a name. A scarecrow-thin man entered the garden center through the glass doors. He had a hammer—a Stanley—and a grubby denim jacket with a slew of band names ironed on: Nirvana, Soundgarden, Metallica. Tongue drew in a sharp breath. Her dad'd had a jacket like that. The man-thing stopped short, standing between Tongue and the door. He looked around, sniffing the air. Shivered. Why wasn't he asleep? He was blonde with a patchy beard. Too short to be her father, but the jacket looked so similar. She remembered it well, one of her first memories of being wrapped in it on their way back from Christmas at Grammy Rebecca's. The heater had broke and he'd given it to her to wear, though he was shivering too. She fell asleep looking at the lights in the houses in the dark. The coat smelled like detergent and wood dust. The radio was on at just a whisper. Nirvana. It wandered in further, warily scanning around. He definitely knew she was there. His body was shaking, whether from the cold or some illness, Tongue couldn't tell. A startled robin suddenly took off from nearby, chirping and squawking. The man-thing yelped and swung his Stanley hammer and not only missed but lost his grip, sending it clanging into a shelf of Ryobi mowers opposite. She had to go! Tongue took off from her hiding place, trying to run past the man-thing. It shrieked and move to block her path. She slammed into him and sent them both sprawling, herself on top, choking on his smell. He was struggling, thrashing, screaming. Tongue raised herself up on her knees, thanking a god she didn't believe in that she hadn't lost the Dewalt in the tumble. She raised it over her head, and suddenly he went quiet. Her heart was drumming in her chest. Man-thing's eyes were brilliant blue. Noah's eyes had been like that. She suddenly realized, this thing, he was younger than she thought, despite the moustache and the frayed yellow beard. Barely a man. More a boy. He raised his hands. He croaked something that could have been part of a word or just noise. "Aaaa. Aaaaaa..." And she wondered. From somewhere deep in the store came responding howls. This could have been Noah, in their father's coat that said Metallica, Soundgarden and Nirvana. It could be Noah. It could be no one. It didn't matter. There was nothing they could say to one another. Nothing. At all. She buried the hatchet in his face, blood spraying her coat and face and mouth. Tongue grabbed the batteries and ran but she did pause, just one long second more, to look back at the coat. Just at the coat, she told herself. There was no April. There was no Noah, or Doug or Barbara anymore. She ran. Names belonged to the past.
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May 4, 2024 06:20
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hello may i have a thing and also in
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May 4, 2024 14:43
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Chairchucker posted:hello may i have a thing and also in  sign ups closed
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May 4, 2024 16:19
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