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Feb 11, 2023 12:13
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Low effort Brawlcrits Beef My biggest issue with this is that I was left with a big question: does Dexter even like Diane? Or vice versa? What is our impetus for wanting to see these guys get together? He's paired with her at a bachelor party, which means there's inherent awkwardness, because he banged her sister? I'm confused with this whole premise, I don't see why Dexter is so nervous, I don't see why Diane should be "mad" he banged her sister, I don't see why these two would make a good enough couple to hang a romantic comedy on. I'm confused by Dexter's character. Other characters tell us he's the life of the party, but the whole story he's just a weird nervous trainwreck. And his name is Dexter. No better way to signal a character is a nerd than by giving him a name which is often prefixed with "poin." Penguin What I like most about this is how it didn't even need the fantasy element. This story would have worked if the destination was Paris. It conveys a specific point that every loving relationship goes through, when the honeymoon ends, but the love's still there, and you're mostly just binging shows together. The rest is just icing, and I really enjoyed it. Watch your ending. I'll allow the "it's funny because it agrees with presumedly leftist politics of the average TD writer" joke this time, but only this time.
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Feb 12, 2023 06:32
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Bellhop 979 words “I don’t want to have this argument again. It doesn’t look as good if it’s all twenties, I need small bills to even it out.” The cashier gave me a look, the incandescent bulb that lit his booth gleaming off his little green visor, “You think the right bill mixture’s gonna be the tipping point?” “I’m not saying it’ll convince ‘em more, it just shows some basic respect. We all know what’s going on, but people appreciate when you put in an effort.” He raised an eyebrow, but he still opened up the cash box and slid over some fives and ones. “Will that suffice for sir?” “Don’t be an rear end in a top hat.” I signed for the bills and hosed off back down to the mortuary. Mr. Plimsoll was waiting there on the slab, dead as the day was long. I stuffed his pockets full of cash, making sure not to get any blood on them from the big smashed melon that used to be his head. We’d pulled him up from the ravine outside the card room earlier that night. Mr. Plimsoll had waited for a moment when no one was looking to make his move. Then it was a foot up on the railing, a jump, and he was over the edge of the patio, plummeting into the darkness just a couple of yards from our award-winning mile-long lobster tail and shrimp buffet. Real class act. Nobody even noticed until the next morning, when the ornamental flamingos found the body. That’s when I got sent in to take care of things. To be honest, I would have appreciated a bit less class and a bit more not having to fight off furious pink birds. I fastened the cufflinks I’d recovered back onto his sleeves, then took a polaroid and clipped it to my notes, writing the date and time in the little spot next to his name and next of kin. We inter these guys in the special ‘gambling suicides’ cemetery for seven years, then dig ‘em up and see if the family wants to re-bury them in their ancestral turf or whatever. It’s important to get the dates right so you don’t leave them in the ground too long and take up valuable graveyard real estate. And you definitely don’t want to dig ‘em up early. You got told that cautionary tale on your first shift. I adjusted my little cap and checked my brass buttons. All present and accounted for. Time for the big show. I hucked Plimsoll onto a gurney and wheeled him out. “Watch out! We got another shrimp mania casualty! This guy’s goin’ in the shrimp graveyard!” All the gamblers in their tuxedos and their cocktail dresses turned to watch him go, the trails of their cigar smoke catching the chandelier light like slug trails on silk. They knew in their hearts they’d never bust out all their cash and plunge it, ravine-style. No, they’d be chugging martinis and huckin’ dice forever. It was sad, they’d say, that ‘shrimp mania’ was such a problem. Then they’d wink and chuckle and probably kiss a little and turn back to their games. Their cufflinks would stay on their cuffs, not have to be strangled out of a flamingo by a bellhop. The hotel didn’t always even have a slab-room. Then they’d put in the baccarat and the games with the dice, you know, the one with the sevens, and the gamblers’d come. And sometimes, a stiff would find they’d gone through their life savings at the table, or the big win to turn it around hadn’t come, and they’d see that big empty space calling to them, and the hotel’d realized they needed a place to process all those croakers. Trouble was, there hadn’t been space anywhere deep in the hotel-guts, out of the way of the clientele. That was all taken up by machines and offices and kitchens that couldn’t legally be within a certain radius of actual human bones. So they’d turned the breakroom into one. Technically it was still a breakroom, but it’s hard to relax five feet away from a guy getting pumped fulla formaldehyde. The gamblers didn’t care if some stiff got wheeled past them though. Some of them came to see it special. We made it out the door and I let my smile drop. I glanced over at our former guest. “Sorry about that Mr. Plimsoll. All part of the service.” Mr. Plimsoll didn’t answer. “No, I guess you wouldn’t mind.” I loaded him into the hearse and climbed into the driver seat. We roared down the street in a billow of black engine guff. I dug in my pocket for my coffin nails and realized I’d smoked the last one that morning. I cussed and pulled over to the side of the road, then jogged back to the hotel commissary. “Six dollars.” I checked my wallet - I only had five. I held up a finger and jogged back to the hearse. “You mind if I borrow a buck?” -------------------------------- We hauled up to the cemetery just as the gates were opening. I signed us in and parked in the employee-reserved spot. The gurney went KLONK-KLUNK as I pulled Mr. Plimsoll back down out of the back. We headed to the drop-off window and I signed him in. “Mr. Plimsoll here will be checking in for his stay.” “Why does he have a cigarette in his mouth?” The sexton on-duty peered over her half-moon glasses. “Well, he paid for ‘em.” ------------------------------- I waved goodbye as Mr. Plimsoll vanished into the drop-off window and lit a smoke, then took off my little cap and unbuttoned my brass buttons. I flipped off a flamingo as it wheeled overhead, the Monte Carlo sunshine gleaming off its pink wings. It wasn’t noon yet and the morning was crisp and fresh like a new dollar bill.
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Feb 12, 2023 23:19
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What’s Going Down? A key component of your story is someone getting locked out of their room. 1335 words “poo poo, poo poo, poo poo!” echoed the voice down the hall. I looked around the corner, and there she was: shapely from behind but a little casually dressed, wrestling with the door next to mine. I walked back from the elevator bank. “Can I give you a—” She whirled around, surprised, a foul look on her face transforming into a blush. Jamie, the VP’s secretary. I smiled a little inside. They had been the ones making all the noise last night. I didn’t know Don had it in him. She said, “I, um … left a bag inside my … friend’s hotel room.” “Don does get in early when he’s on the road.” Her blush deepened. “No key?” She avoided my gaze. “I just came over once he was back from the office last night.” “Well, I’m sure he won’t make that mistake again. Least you won’t have far to walk to get it on your lunch hour.” I gestured to the elevator bank. “Shall we?” I began to walk, and she joined me. Her head was darting from side to side, watching the doors. “So … Don’s been talking?” My answer rung out in a harsher tone than needed. “Give him some credit. Do you think he runs his mouth?” “Well, how’d you know?” I pressed the button. I was on the club floor, the top floor, thanks to my Platinum status. It was going to be twenty-four stories down with her, with who knows who getting on. Great. By the time we hit the lobby, tongues might be wagging about our supposed affair. “I’ve worked closely with him for five years. He’s been skipping nights out with the team, and he makes a lot of trips to your desk to ask you about stuff.” Should I talk to her about it? I wondered. She exhaled a sigh of relief. I watched the numbers over the doors. One elevator was on the eighth floor and climbing slowly; the other two were stopped on seventeen and four. Was only one of the three working? What the hell; I went for it. “Look, Jamie. Don’s a good kid. You’ve probably heard, but he got his heart broken a few months ago when his fiancée cheated on him. Treat him well. If you don’t, I’ll know about it.” Her eyes bored into me, and her hands flew to her hips. “I don’t know where you get off talking to me like that. I should go to HR.” Christ! I needed out of this building, I needed out of this conversation, and I needed a smoke. Where was the loving elevator? Twelfth floor! “If we were at work, then yes, you could go to HR. But we’re not. We’re just two people meeting in a hotel hallway and talking. There’s nothing actionable about that.” She laughed. “Fine. And, ‘I’ll know about it.’ What’re you going to do? Maria’s running the account, and she knows me. You’re just a senior manager; you’re not even based here.” I held her gaze. “Maria’s one person, just a VP, and she’s not the head of this office. Besides, you’re not understanding me.” Jesus, I was ready to start chewing on a cigarette. “Don’s got a great track record, the client loves him and his work, and he’s pushing the limits of what someone at his level owns. I don’t want to see him sidetracked by misunderstanding whatever this is between the two of you.” Her eyes were sparking with anger. Shut up, you’ve said too much, I thought, then sighed. Too bad I was never any good at listening to the angel on my shoulder. “You’ve got ten years on him. I don’t know what you’re looking for, but I assume, since you’ve got a kid, it’s not a fling with an out-of-towner.” My whole rear end was hanging out. I thought quickly. “Anyway, I couldn’t tell you if he’s serious or if he’s looking to settle down again, but he’s not even in his thirties. I guess I’m saying all this as much for your sake as for his.” She shot daggers at me, and I’m pretty sure she knew as well as I did my warning ‘for her sake’ was complete CYA bullshit. She was turning to walk away (where to? the stairs? wouldn’t put it past her) when the elevator dinged and slid open. I gestured for her to enter and followed her inside. “I don’t know where you get off—” she began, but then the elevator stopped on twenty-three. People stepped in and looked at us, squeezed into opposite corners like two boxers between rounds. It stopped at almost every floor on the way down, but the car was full by eighteen. A couple more minutes after that, the atmosphere was simmering like a pot on a stove. Finally, at least ten minutes after we got on, we exited into the lobby. Stepping out, I gently took Jamie’s arm. “I’m going away so we don’t walk into the office together, but I want you to think about this: Don’s a good kid. Treat him well. He deserves it.” She rounded on me, finger in my face. “Him? What about me? I’m thirty-seven, a single mom with a son. Your sainted protégé flies into town each Monday, fucks the boss’s secretary, hell, has nooners with me, and flies away to enjoy his real life over the weekend. He hasn’t even invited me to visit his home. I don’t know anything about him outside of here.” Tears had started to form in her eyes, and I recognized her look – it wasn’t sadness, it was fear. “You think this is some game I’m playing with him? What if it’s some game he’s playing with me? Some sick throwback of grabass with the secretary and laugh with the boys afterward?” She dug in her purse for a tissue. “And why do you care so much about what happens to him? He’s a grown man. You’ve worked with him for five years, ever since he got out of college, right?” She poked me in the chest. “Is it because you’ve got no kids of your own?” Another jab. “Is it because you’re divorced twice?” I bit back my first response, which was harder than anything I’d done in quite a while. Instead, I offered her my handkerchief, which she dabbed at the corners of her eyes. I took a moment to think and calm myself. “Look, Don isn’t playing games. He’s the most forthright, honest guy I work with. You know he’s different. You wouldn’t be seeing him—” “You don’t know—” “Please, let me finish. You wouldn’t be seeing him if he weren’t different.” I sighed. “In my opinion, the two of you need to talk and sort things out, because it doesn’t sound like you two have figured anything out, and you need to.” I paused, gathering myself and taking a deep breath. “Take it from me. I’m an expert. Not figuring things out together is why I’m a two-time loser.” Her tears had stopped. She handed back the cloth and stared at me, must’ve been ten seconds at least; felt like an eternity. “So, I’ll see you at the office?” I put the handkerchief in my pocket. “I guess I’ll get some Starbucks. Pick you up something?” “Don’t want to get used to drinking the expensive stuff. That’d put a real dent in my budget.” I gave a slight half-wave. “See you, then.” “See you around.” She turned away. I walked out of the hotel and headed for coffee I didn’t really want. But at least I was outside now. The Marlboro was already between my lips, and my lighter was sparking as soon as I brought it up in an arc to meet the cigarette. The flame burnt and went out, and the cherry glowed. I sucked in the smoke, then exhaled it in a heavy sigh along with a few of the cares I had accumulated that morning.
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Feb 13, 2023 00:59
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The Grand Imperial Hotel 1,373 / 1,500 words Your hotel is the former jewel of an imperial power, left to languish in a colonized country, a decrepit reminder of fleeting foreign arrogance. Mr Sykes pulled needle and thread through the frayed edges of the carpet, squinting in the gloom. The stone tiles outside of the island of fabric were cold, the oppressive local heat kept out by the thick stone of the Grand Imperial Hotel. On distant walls, tall windows - which had once shown the surrounding dunes - now stood in the shadow of new-build highrises clad in the local white clay. “What is UP my friends, it’s ya boi, KyKy, coming at you live from the G.I.H.! You voted for it so here it is - the 24-hour sea-imp stream!” Mr Sykes rose to find a twisted mockery of himself on the other side of the reception desk. Hair slicked down and parted but not combed. A cheap printed suit, already splitting at the seams. Worst of all, a string of countless fat, braided cords sat around their neck. Mr Sykes’ hand went to the three hard-won braids at his own throat, before he remembered himself. “Welcome, honoured guest!” he intoned. “Welcome, to the Grand -” “YO! xX_Shu_Xx thank you for the superchat!” Mr Sykes eyed the pic-drone bobbing behind the guest’s shoulder nervously. “You stand on imperial soil,” he continued, “as my father and his fathers before him decreed. At this, the farthest reach of the Three-Part Empire, I bid you enter, and take succor.” “Yo, check it out, chat! We match! Hey, bro, what’s the story? Don’t you guys always have a sea-imp story to go with the bling?” The guest tugged at their necklace and gurned for the pic-drone, which swivelled to get Mr Sykes in the background. He swallowed and forced a sombre expression. “I am honoured to wear my fathers’ deeds,” he said, a prickle of annoyance twisting through his body. “One for my great-grandfather, at the Battle of Zealandia. One for his brother, at the victory over the Doggerland fleet. One for their father, for … valour.” It burned him to cut short the declaration of deeds but “for the sacking of these lands” tended to go down poorly with the locals. “Hear that, chat? Guess that makes me real valourous too!” The guest’s laughter remained with Mr Sykes long after the bellhop had guided them away, through the path to the lifts swept in the dust of the lobby floor. ## “Hey, service! Service!” Mr Sykes sighed and abandoned the hard-bristle brush on the carpet, the patch of mud - tracked in from where, only the gods knew - half-eradicated. He put on his best face before he turned. “Greetings, honoured guest.” “Yeah, cut the act, the stream’s on loop.” The guest slapped the pic-drone, which sat lifeless on the desk. “Where’s the vepka?” “Vepka, honoured guest?” Mr Sykes’ smile had never felt so strained. “The minibar. My room. There’s no vepka. I paid for Premium Service.” Slaps on the desk to stress the words. “What kind of ‘premium’ doesn’t cover vepka?” “Honoured guest, I’m afraid vepka is prohibited in the Three-Part Empire.” Vindictiveness lessened the strain. “It pollutes the body and character.” “I don’t give a rat’s rear end about the empire,” the guest snapped. “I’m not in the empire.” “Oh, but you are,” Mr Sykes said. He couldn’t help a little quavering glee enter his voice. “As I said when you arrived, you stand on Imperial soil. Within these walls, Imperial law still rules.” He stamped his foot, bringing his arm to a crisp salute. “The Empire lives here,” he said, “and you are our honoured guest.” The guest stared at him for several long seconds before bursting out laughing. The cords around their neck danced. Mr Sykes stayed very still and his smile didn’t move an inch. “Oh man, you’re serious!” The guest fumbled for the pic-drone. “Wait, wait, get ready to say that again - chat’s gonna love this!” ## Mr Sykes watched as the guest kicked their way, laughing, through the swathes of dust that had accumulated in the farther reaches of the lobby. When they were done - and the pic-drone settled on their shoulder once more, camera dim - they trudged back onto the path between the lift and the reception desk, tracking dust onto the carpet. The edge had begun to fray again. Mr Sykes’ eye twitched. Perhaps he could sear the edges - but no, it was all natural thread. None of that modern poly-whatever rubbish. “Honoured guest,” he said, as the guest trudged past, “we must ask that you keep the noise to a minimum. For the other guests, you understand.” “Excuse me?” The guest grinned, stopped in their tracks. “What other guests?” They gestured around the tomb of the lobby. “All other guests. Prospective, present - and of course, past.” Mr Sykes smiled. “Please be respectful of the history here.” “The his- bro, where are you from?” The grin hardened. “We kicked your lot out in ‘63 - that’s history.” “The Empire wisely consolidated its borders.” Mr Sykes drew himself up to his full height, running one finger unconsciously along the braids around his neck. “And for your information, I was born right here, in this very hotel.” He met the guest’s eye with a steely glare. The guest’s eyes lit up with wicked fire. For a few seconds, their mouth moved silently. Then, they fiddled with the pic-drone and it hummed into life, surveying the scene. “Got the bombshell of all bombshells for you, chat!” The guest never took their eyes off of Mr Sykes. “Breaking news on the sea-imp stream - our boy here isn’t even a real imp!” A sharp intake of breath. Mr Sykes was distantly aware that his hands had balled into fists. “Bet bro’s never even seen the empire!” The guest cackled and pounded a fist on the desk. “I AM AN IMPERIAL CITIZEN,” Mr Sykes roared. “I was born on imperial soil! I wear the deeds of my fathers! I will not be mocked in my home by … by … ” The pic-drone stared. Mr Sykes was hazy on such things but even he knew that the infernal devices could broadcast to hundreds - no, thousands! - of people. Watching all around the world. Watching in the Empire. Watching him. Watching the Empire, again, at long last. “Honoured guest.” The words burned his tongue. He dipped his head, feeling the braids around his neck dip too. “I bid you forgive me for my … fervour.” “Haha, check it out, chat!” The guest’s head dropped into Mr Sykes’ vision, voice barely a whisper. “Bow lower for the stream.” Mr Sykes’ head dropped until all he could see was the carpet. He could hear the guest - hear him hooting and laughing as the pic-drone whirred around them but all he could see was the blur of the carpet. Faded. Stained. Memory told him there was a pattern there, somewhere. All he had to do was stare at the carpet until the guest left. But then his fathers’ braids swung into view and Mr Sykes saw himself as the world saw him, through the eye of the pic-drone. He saw himself straighten to a military alert. He saw himself march out from behind the desk and grab a fistful of fake braids, saw the plastic nearly snap as he swung down with the weight of history. Saw skull hit desk. Saw head hit floor. Mr Sykes retreated smartly to his customary position behind the reception desk. He smoothed the crease in his sleeve and tutted at the new bloodstain on the carpet. As the pic-drone whirled around him, he stood tall. Proud. Imperious. Let the world watch him. ## Mr Sykes pulled at a stray thread on his jumpsuit and dropped it to the floor with a sniff. When the local police had arrived, he had greeted them with dignity, as honoured guests. He had let them escort him away, head held high, safe in the knowledge that Imperial soil meant Imperial law. Extradition. He was finally going home. He noted now the four strong walls with an approving nod. The concrete floor was free of dust and the windows - though small - gave a clear view of the yard outside, despite the bars. He had a small writing desk and a neatly-made bed and they had even let him keep his fathers’ braids. His empire, at long last.
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Feb 13, 2023 01:09
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How Far You’ll Go 1000 words Chris hit the vending machine hard enough for the receptionist to yell out from inside, but the Snickers remained diagonal behind the perspex. Rubbing his knuckles, he fished around in his pockets for anything helpful—a coin, crumpled note, flattened bottlecap. God, he was hungry. Nine hours driving and he’d arrived in the only town where the pub was closed for an outbreak of gastro and the servo was closed due to illness. ‘Think your machine’s busted,’ Chris muttered, walking back inside. ‘Do you have any change? It won’t break a fifty.’ ‘Sorry,’ the receptionist shrugged. ‘We don’t accept cash. Covid, you know.’ ‘Right. Right.’ Chris looked back out to the motel carpark, the sign mirroring ‘WELCOME … VACANCY … WELCOME’ into the puddles on the darkened pavement. ‘Is my room ready yet?’. The receptionist regarded him flatly. ‘As I explained,’ she started, ‘the cleaners are stuck in traffic. We’re short-staffed due to—’ ‘Yeah, yeah, illness. Look, is there anywhere to eat in this town?’ She passed a brochure across. ‘Tallarico’s do nice pizzas. Just down the road, right across from the station. My favourite’s the capricciosa, but they’re all good. Would you like me to make a booking?’ ‘Fantastic,’ Chris beamed. ‘Yes, please, thanks.’ ‘Tomorrow? 7pm?’ ‘I was hoping for, uh—tonight?’ ‘They’re closed Mondays,’ the receptionist shrugged. ‘And they close at nine anyway. Excuse me. There’s a guest.’ Chris heard footsteps, sharp on the lino, rolling luggage following like thunder. He whirled, cursing, stepping away just as a lady in an Audrey Hepburn shawl placed a purse on the counter and passed over a license. ‘Sorry,’ she said, to either Chris or the receptionist. ‘I’m actually a bit early. Had a better run than I was expecting.’ ‘Not a problem,’ the receptionist smiled, and passed over a key. ‘Your room is one-oh-four, on the left.’ ‘Her room is ready?’ ‘Of course. She booked ahead.’ ‘She planned to come here?’ “She” regarded Chris over oversized tortoiseshell glasses. ‘Liked the pizza last time.’ ‘You know what?’ Chris growled, rounding on the receptionist. ‘I don’t care! Cleaner or no cleaner. How bad could it be?’ # Chris took one look at the bed before rolling up his jacket and propping it against the cupboard as a pillow, laying onto a futon of pilfered newspaper. ‘NO VACANCY’ blinked through thin drapes, but if he turned and closed his eyes, he could almost— The air-brakes of a truck blasted outside, before the station bells tolled for an incoming train. He heard footsteps and doors slamming, a toilet flush, NO VACANCY, trucks passing, traincars clattering, each loaded with pizza, NO VACANCY, he was running to catch up, NO VACANCY, chased by Audrey Hepburn on a vespa, scarf billowing in NO VACANCY, NOT WELCOME, NO VACANCY, truck and train colliding at the crossing, pizzas tumbling, momentum arrested by perspex carriages, NO VACANCY, NO VACANCY, NO— He sat up, gasping, covered in sweat. In the bathroom, he blinked into the mirror, fluorescent light humming, as he raised his arm and saw an imprint of the sports section on his shirt. # Outside, on the balcony, he cracked open a mini-fridge Fosters. ‘That bad?’ a voice asked, from the balcony opposite. ‘Oh,’ he said, seeing the lady in the Hepburn shawl. ‘Sorry. About before.’ ‘I get it,’ she said, and lit her own cigarette. ‘Driving alone sucks. Only your thoughts and callback radio for company. How long have you been on the road?’ ‘Three days. From Melbourne.’ She whistled appreciatively. ‘Don’t tell me. “Destination Wedding”. You’re a groomsman, but you haven’t seen the groom in years. Taking the long way to prolong that reunion, work out how you’ll reconnect. Close?’ He took a swig. ‘Taking my dad to the Daintrees,’ he said. ‘Oh, that’s lovely! Is he—’ ‘Guess you could call it a “Destination Funeral”.’ ‘poo poo,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’ ‘Used to go every year,’ Chris continued, nursing the Fosters. ‘Growing up. Don’t know how we afforded it. Three kids and he never made that much. Guess that’s why we drove?’ ‘That must have been nice—making memories.’ Chris barked a laugh. ‘This is the only trip he hasn’t spent berating everyone. Always making huge deals from trivial poo poo. Half expecting it, still.’ ‘Hm,’ she mused. ‘It’s not like we wanted to go,’ Chris shrugged. ‘I’d’ve been as happy playing cricket in the backyard. Helping him in the garage. Playing Scrabble. Y’know … talking. Not just listening to … what you listened to earlier.’ She ground her cigarette out. ‘My dad and I,’ Hannah started, ‘used to play a game, on long car trips. Guessing how many servos, how many crossings, how many bridges till the next town. He always won, I never knew how. Like he was psychic. ‘Years later mum told me. He didn’t work in “the next town over”. He worked all across the state. Each week a different town. But he always came home for the weekend. Always. And he took note of everything, remembered everything he saw, just to wow me when he took me places. After days on the road, when he probably wanted to do anything but.’ ‘He must have really loved you,’ Chris managed. She shrugged. ‘I mean, he also had a woman in each town. But. Yeah. Sometimes a love language is just how far you’ll go.’ # It rained overnight. Chris checked out, and swore when he saw his window left down. Grumbling, he lay newspaper over the damp seat, vowing to always travel with a blanket and towel from now on. Settling back into the blurred sports section, he noticed a wrapped bundle atop his dashboard, tied together with a strip of floral fabric. Loosening the knot, a Snickers bar fell onto his lap and the paper unfolded to a note: Lucked out and got two for one this morning. Figured this might keep you two going the next eighteen servos. Take care — 104 Smiling, he unwrapped the Snickers, picked up his phone, and called the radio station to place a request.
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Feb 13, 2023 04:38
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Bob wasn’t happy to be stuck in Utah one more day. Cancellations were becoming too drat frequent. But he wasn’t about to let his spirits sag even a little bit. Bob Hertz had just accomplished a mammoth task for his partners. Today he notarized the very last signature in a group of leases for what would become a 6,000 acre solar farm. He was going to be rich. The night called for a celebration. It was time to drink liquor and root for Patrick Mahomes. Bob wheeled his rental SUV into the parking lot of the first bar he could find, took off his tie, unbuttoned his collar, rolled his shirtcuffs and exited the vehicle hoping to seduce a mature single in his area. *** Stacy needed somewhere to hide. She didn’t care what her parents thought of her. She didn’t care if she’d never make sense of life. She didn’t care about bliss or peace. She needed a place to hide for the night and needed someone, anyone really, to purchase her plane ticket back home. If her parents could do that (and they would), she’ll figure the rest out. “You’ve been so awesome to me. Maybe just drop me there.” The sign read Grantsville Elementary in shaped concrete. Beside the sign laid a crumpled vinyl banner attached to useless nylon rope. A wind gust must have taken the hotel’s name, but the light up marquee lettering inside the concrete sign had an unmistakable message: NOW OPEN!! VACANCY RV PARK COMING SOON!! “OK, here you go. You sure you’re going to be OK?” The man was the sort who didn’t give rides to strangers but he could tell Stacy was in some kind of trouble. “Yeah, this is great. I’m sure it’s not too expensive,” she answered, trying to find some humor in the situation. “Maybe you can work on your multiplication tables,” the stranger riffed as she exited his pickup, “Be safe, now.” Stacy wanted to turn and give the kind stranger a proper thank you, but instead strode to the glass doors of the entrance as fast as she could. *** It was time for Bob to go. The game was great, but he had done too many celebratory shots with his new best friends. He had tried to make inroads with a lovely divorcee, but she wasn’t that kind of woman. Had he lived in town, maybe. By 10:00 everyone he was interested in drinking with was leaving. He was on the downswing of a night he had imbued with too much potential. He was too drunk to drive. Time to Google up a hotel, then a Lyft. *** “Are we sure this is a hotel?” Bob asked his driver. “It’s trying to be.” Bob made his way through the double glass doors and up to the prefab kitchen island that served as a front desk. He purchased a night in Room #8 from a youthful night manager in blue shirtsleeves. He was a young man with a narrow face, a thin mustache, and an imperial goatee. He looked like a much younger Johnny Depp. After getting the key, Bob walked down a corridor of painted concrete block in the direction of Classroom 8. At the end of the hallway, a young brunette knocked on the door of Classroom 10. A young bald woman opened the door and embraced the brunette with desperation and instant tears. Bob wondered if this place had a bar. *** The awful green carpeting remained, but management had successfully converted the Grantsville Elementary library into a bar. It had mounted TVs, a bar, a Coca-Cola Branded refrigerator with beer and mixers, a shelf of common liquors, and a person willing to charge money. Bob was soaking his brain in awful Manhattans and texting every woman he knew in law school. Occasionally, he’d make an off-hand remark about the probable value of some item on the Antique Roadshow. The bartender was barely there. To his left, through the glass partition separating the library/bar from the hallway, Bob could see a row of vending machines and a cluster of mismatched cushioned chairs. It gave the appearance of a “common area” but for who? And why there? Bob was asking himself how he could convert the school were he in charge when the bald young woman from earlier walked into his field of vision. She was visiting the vending machines. She was cute, but way too young. And he was iffy on the shaved head. And now some young men with topknots were flanking her. After some discussion the three of them sat down, the woman facing the two men. Bob could read people. It was something he excelled at. He knew this young lady was in trouble, but didn’t want to stare. She was crying now. loving sad. And now the brunette arrived, angry. She tried to pull the young woman with the shaved head from her seat, but the woman was unwilling to move. “She has to decide, you can’t do that for her!” Those words were shouted by one of the men with topknots. One did the talking. The other was obvious backup. The words cut through the pane glass separating Bob from the group and could be heard over Mark Walberg interviewing a widower regarding his dining set. The postures, the facial expressions, the menace in the blank stare of the silent backup all told Bob what he needed to know. This was obviously some kind of religious cult trying to claw this young woman back. He knew he had no place in the conversation and that the young woman’s pursuers could not be reasoned with. A tight argument doesn’t go that far with these types. So there was nothing Bob could do. He could only hope the young woman would make the right decision. Unless … It was at this moment Bob had a really stupid idea that was nonetheless so amusing to him that he could not suppress a smile. And then he thought, gently caress it. He wasn’t coming back anyhow. “I’ll have a double Cuervo and settle up.” He’d introduce himself as a recovering Catholic. Let the youths know he could spot them for holy men. He wanted to find the light himself. And then …blamm-o. He downed the shot. No lime or salt. His throat burned and his stomach recoiled. loving stupid idea. It felt like the tequila vapors leapt up his esophagus and into his sinuses. Think of turds. Think of eating dead rats. There. *** Stacy was in crisis. She saw misery in every choice she made. She had ruined her life. She may have ruined all of her lives for eons forward. Her resolve melted as comrades she had grown so close to laid her betrayals bare. From the corner of her eyes came a wretched looking man in crumpled slacks and an untucked dress shirt. His hairy white belly stuck out underneath. He stank. “I’m Catholic!” he declared confidently before all the confidence melted into animal fear as a stream of vomit burst from his mouth and onto Ananda (Jeff) and Bandhu (Blake). After the vomit had soaked the two men, Jeff and Blake stared at Bob in shock and rage for a beat. The brunette and the young woman with the shaved head exited the scene. “Oh, I’m so sorry, let me help you with that,” Bob couldn’t stop laughing as he said it. “No, NO, we DON’T WANT YOUR-” Too late. *** Bob’s recollection of the events are fuzzy at this point, but he remembers picking himself off the floor, soaked in barf, pulling all of the $100 bills out of wallet, saying “Sorry, Johnny” as he handed the money to the night manager, and disappearing to his room and locking the door. It was at this moment Bob realized he needed a therapist and maybe a sabbatical. If this were 2006, he could write a zany Tucker Max style blog. After making himself clean, popping some ibuprofen, and chugging some tap water, Bob opened the door to Classroom #8 to get on a plane out of Salt Lake City as soon as possible. As luck would have it, Stacy and her ever-supportive friend were checking out of Classroom #10. gently caress it, might keep acting like a freak. “Hey, I’m sorry about last night. I just hope who or whatever is stalking you finally lets you go.” The young woman gazed at Bob from down the hallway. Her blank face held traces of astonishment, pity, compassion. “I hope the same for you.”
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Feb 13, 2023 09:00
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^^^^ Hailmary 1,432 words
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Feb 13, 2023 09:01
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flash Speed Run 841 words She brushed by me, wearing a smile and a tight red dress and a wide hat with a lilac on it, and dipped my pocket. Didn't take anything out. Put something in. I continued my sweep of the casino floor. No new faces, no schedule changes. All good. Except for her. It was a keycard. Not for this hotel, for the Ambassador across the street. Room number 423 and the word 'midnight' in tight lines in red sharpie marks on the concrete-gray plastic. It wasn't the kind of invitation I'd turn down. At midnight, give or take a tenth of a second, I swiped the card, and the door unlocked. She was sitting on the fully-made bed, in the same outfit minus the hat and the smile. Business, then. "We have a mutual interest, it seems." She said. "The question is, how mutual it is." Just as I had thought. I do fine, romantically speaking, but it's mostly hustle. I'm not often the pursued. So this was business. Two professionals working the same site. Either we had the same target and were rivals, or we had different goals, which could be more interesting. "I'm not after the house, if that's your game." "It's not," she said. "Too little cash, and the security is still set up for when there wasn't. You'd have better luck hitting the bank itself." "The armored car," I said. "That would be the weakest point. If it was the casino money I was after, which I'm not." She nodded "A guest, then?" she said. My turn to nod. "Who?" "I don't trust you that much." I said. "Yours is the same, right? A guest, usually on the floor this time of year?" "He practically lives there," she said. I grinned. "Excellent." "Your target is a woman, I presume?" "So we can work together," I said. And should. Much better to work with each other's distractions and exploits than to let whoever goes second deal with the kind of security upgrades a successful heist brings. Or evena failed one. We talked shop until the wee hours of the night, agreeing to strike the next night. It was a good plan, an excellent plan. It felt more like a dance-off than a usual job. We both had access to the hotel facilities, and had different ways to exploit it. The light system usually has a slow cyclical dim and bright cycle, creating the illusion of perpetual evening, subtly drawing foot traffic from attraction to attraction. When my program was loaded, subtle went out the fake windows with a desert oasis in the distance. Too much emergency lighting and game lights to go for darkness, so I went the other way. Dazzling brightness, with a little stroking. The slots already made the room no-go for photosensitive, but this would give anyone a splitting headache. I gave her a pair of sunglasses like mine, heavy duty. She took care of the cameras. I wasn't that concerned there: if I got out clean nobody would be going to the cops. But someone might bribe the casino to get the tapes, so better not to have any recognizable faces, and after her filter distorted the images nobody could tell us from Bugs Bunny and Valkyrie Bugs Bunny. Sound, next. The speakers were easy to override, replacing the calculated easy listening and droning subsonic with some loud and lively Electronica. Just the thing for constant motion. The guards are well trained. Under normal circumstances they have less than a minute response time. With the sensory overload we had going, I put that at a bit more than two. And they prioritize the money over identifying and intercepting troublemakers. So when the lights and music started, we had to go fast, to careen across the room fast enough that we seemed like a dozen people under the strobes. Indirect routes, colliding with the tables and ending up right where we wanted to be. She bounced right into Victor Tierce, taking off his bracelet full of blood emeralds and gold while they stood up, skittering off towards the exit before he noticed the weight off his arm. And I ran up behind Diane Shaw, formerly Diane Peck, whispering a name in her ear right during a soft section of the music. She took my arm and we practically glided away. Mike Shaw did notice. He chased after us, loud and lumbering. I counted it down. Three. Two. One. Zero. A tiny fumph of an explosion in Mr. Mike's coat pocket, and the deck full of face cards I dropped in there spewed out its contents, kings and jacks and aces all with the house backs all spilling to the floor. The guards prioritize the money, and Shaw was the kind of guy they just love to get to stop sucking up to. He was running. We were just moving fast. And in twelve hours we'd all be out of the state, free, clear, and in some of our cases a lot richer. A fine day's work.
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Feb 13, 2023 09:23
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The Crystal Cove Word Count: 1464 Bad Seafood posted:A luggage mix-up has catastrophic consequences. I thought I saw a dead pirate in the lobby. This is the third time I’ve seen an apparition like this since I’ve been here. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep. The podcast does take time to edit. Maybe it’s the rubes I’ve been interviewing for this episode, either complete engrossed with their own superstition or vulnerable enough to scare into anything. Or maybe it’s the Key West tourist trap I decided to record in. But I think I’m starting to see the ghosts too. “Thank you for staying at The Crystal Cove Hotel and Casino, Mr. Jones,” the girl at the counter says, the hollow dead eyed smile of customer service laying just a little too easily. Behind a brass of relief of overly excited pirates. The scenes depict the massacre of The Crystal Cove, showing dreaded pirate Captain Dirge’s campaign of slaughter after his treasure disappeared from under him. A campaign that according to legend extends from the grave. “Come back soon.” “Yeah, sure thing,” I mutter, not particularly trying to hide my disinterest. I wheel my luggage to the tiny kitchenette, over the nautical themed carpet and past the anchor patterned wallpaper. Concertina music and sea shanties play on a loop as I fill my cup with complimentary coffee. It’s hard not to feel as if multiple portraits and statues of Dirge’s crew are actively interested in me. Each piece of pirate art is a lovingly detailed rendering of a historic figure, based upon what little record there was of the brutality. But just a little too friendly about it. Whatever atrocity was committed on this beach, the marketing department here filtered it through Chuck E. Cheese sensibilities. After all, we wouldn’t want mass murder to be uninviting. “Captain Dirge lost his treasure trove,” sings the jaunty voice over the lobby sound system. “Woe to the thieves of the Crystal Cove.” I grab my dark roast before pulling the handle on my luggage before realizing the red tag with the podcast logo was missing. Only a few feet away walks a woman carrying an identical suitcase with the Skeptic Call with Kevin Jones tag immediately visible. “Hey!” I shout at the woman. “Wait! There’s been a mistake.” The woman snaps around as I struggle to drag her case. Whatever she’s carrying in here might as well be a boulder. She nervously turns around, offering an embarrassed “Oh! Oh sorry,” before noticing my face on the red tag. “Wait. Is this you?” That gets a chuckle. “Yeah, I’m the podcast guy.” A smile crosses her face at the realization. I can’t gauge if she’s impressed. “Now I am embarrassed. Here I am stealing a celebrity’s bag. You doing an episode about the ghosts around here?” “You won’t be mad if I’m debunking them, will you?” She pauses before smiling slightly. “You know, I don’t know if you ever have guests on your show. But if you’re looking for local experts—“ “You’re an expert, I take it?” “I’m actually a consultant at a jewelry store downtown. And I’ve had more than a few people try to pass off their grandma’s old cocktail rings as the lost treasure of Captain Dirge. You pick up a few things when you have tourists try to bullshit you every few weeks or so.” “Oh really? Well if I were, what name would I put in the show notes.” “Nettle. Emily Nettle.” Her offer tempts me. No one I spoke to during my time here was particularly willing to call out the grifters directly. Emily might have a valuable insight to add. And I must confess, I find her charming. # My eyes jerk drifting towards the horizon, blotted out and overcast as it is. I can smell the oncoming rain in the damp breeze that seems to linger more than blow. Fog seems to linger just above the water. I find myself expecting to see ships and have trouble snapping myself back to reality. “Any more questions?” Emily asks. This jars me back to my senses. “Sorry! I’ll have to edit that out.” I note the time code on the record software on my laptop, adding to the google doc open in the browser window. After reorienting myself, I lean back towards the USB microphone. I consider ordering another drink, since we’re both checked out, and I’d rather not get the patio bartender too angry at us. “So do these weirdos actually expect you to believe they have pirate treasure? And they’re just willing to dump it at a strip mall downtown?” She laughs. “Well here’s the thing. Suppose you did have a cursed artifact. You would want to get rid of it as fast as possible, right?” “I guess. But how would you even know it’s really cursed? After all, don’t all sailors embellish. Especially the mangy scoundrel types. Why not hold on and wait for something weird to happen?” Emily's face grows sullen and I can tell she’s trying to fight it. Apparently I touched more of a nerve that I expected. “Maybe something did.” “But how do you know it’s pirate ghosts and not just life sucking. Because it does that periodically.” “Maybe when your life starts to suck, it starts sucking in a way that’s hard to ignore and the timing is suspect. And maybe it begins to suck in a way that you can’t quite explain.” There’s something she isn’t telling me. I wonder for a moment if she believes more than she’s letting on. I wonder for a moment if she believes in the ghosts of the Crystal Cove. This could have been a mental health crisis. Poor girl. I don’t want to exacerbate any potential issues, but I do have to push further. “You haven’t actually seen ghosts have you?” She pauses before letting a slight smirk crack. “That would be a silly thing to say here, wouldn’t it?” I turn the recording off. “Just so you know. If you need to discuss anything serious, we can take a break. I don’t air anything without your approval.” “Can I ask you something?” “Sure.” “What if it was ghosts?” “Excuse me?” “What if the legend was true and Captain Dirge would drag you to the world of the dead if you had his treasure?” I mull the question over. Maybe this place, with its dedication to Disney-fied pirate murder to an almost H. H. Holmesian degree is getting to her too. She seemed on the level so far. I try to laugh it off. “Well, it’s not. So why worry?” “But what if it was? What if you laughed at the stories then it found you. And what if you narrowly escaped?” I look at the table to see Emily lifting her sleeve. A large, jagged scar tears it’s way up her arm. It’s not fresh, but it’s still pink, having only recently healed. “Who did that to you?” “Doesn’t matter.” “No seriously! Do we need to get the police involved? I know lawyers. I can get them on the phone now.” “You probably wouldn’t believe me if I said ghost pirates, would you?” Her answer takes me back. I pause to wonder if this is some kind of joke to break the tension. “That isn’t funny.” “No. No it’s not. I’m sorry. But I need to go.” “Wait!” I stand up, trying to stop her. But she’s already grabbed her bag and began walking. Not wasting any time, she was already past the back doors. I sink back in my seat, before admitting defeat and packing up my laptop. I try to roll my suitcase, but it’s heavier than I remember. Almost like there was a bolder inside. I anxiously look for the red tag and find none, immediately chasing after Emily upon realization. I momentarily glance back to the horizon. That’s when I see them. The decrepit ships manned by decaying crew drift just slowly out of distance. It’s difficult to make them out past the rotting palm trees and abandoned shanties that gradually replace the beach goers. The fog doesn’t help either. That thick, oppressive mist fills the air, as if the gray skies above are consuming the land. But I still walk forward. My body seemingly moves under its own power. My mind accepts this all the same. I break the spell for only a moment to open Emily’s briefcase. The glistening of gold and jewel mired by time greet me. The breeze lingers in the air like a corpse floating in the tide, carrying the same odor of rot, and a song. An ancient, jaunty melody whispers through the air, each lyric sung by what sounds like a scoundrel's final breath. “Captain Dirge lost his treasure trove. Woe to thieves of the Crystal Cove.”
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Feb 13, 2023 09:41
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Flash rule: Your hotel is hosting several guest speakers who've arrived in town for a decidedly niche convention. The Last King of Lawrence 1500 words “Good morning. Thanks for coming.” Paul shuffled his notes on the podium and looked out at the half-full conference room of the Lawrence Riverfront Inn. He scanned the faces briefly, and recognized most of them from previous conferences, and all of them from the hotel bar last night. Scant few new faces and a few missing old ones. At the back of the room, a scruffy bearded man in a wrinkled brown suit paced nervously. “I’m Dr. Paul Shackleton, professor of Historical Linguistics and Early American Studies at Harvey Mudd in California. I’m talking today about the same thing we’re all talking about : how AI is coming for—for our jobs.” He stumbled over this last line, but the audience gave him a few kind chuckles anyway. “No, no. What I’m actually talking about is how I’m planning to use AI to help me in my work: further uncovering the narratives of indigenous people groups, a sorely underappreciated part of our nation’s history.” He talked for an hour, and the assembled dutifully listened. All the while, the ragged stranger paced the back row, never once looking at the stage. Paul glanced at him periodically, but eventually stopped looking at him once he got into the flow of his presentation. When he finished, he left the stage to polite applause and headed toward the back of the room. He was surprised to find the strange man staring at him and blocking his path to the door. “Hello, sir. Can I help you?” “Dr. Paul Shackleton.” The stranger spoke with what Paul guessed was a Scandinavian accent. “Yes?” Paul said, unsure of how to respond to what had not been a question. “I have to show you something. It’s urgent.” “I’m sorry. Who are you? Are you a presenter here?” “You wrote a paper. I have it here.” He pulled out a rolled packet of paper and handed it to Paul. Paul looked at the title: Assassin’s Creed, Burial Rites, and the Illuminati: What Gaming Gets Right About America’s Secret Religiosity. Below the title was his name. Paul’s hand trembled. “How did you get this? This was never published. How—” He half shouted that last word, and a few heads turned, so Paul shouldered through the door of the conference room. The man followed him. “How did you get this? Who are you?” “My name is Sven Eriksen. You don’t know me. But I’ve been looking for you. I need your help.” “What could I possibly help you with?” “Come to my room, room 212. I’ll show you.” Paul actually laughed at this. “Why would—” “I’ve discovered the Founder’s Ledger. The one you discuss in your paper. It’s real.” Paul’s ears pulled backward on his skull. “You… You have it?” “I do,” Sven said, and held a picture out to Paul. “Here. In room 212. Will you come look at it?” “Lead the way,” Paul said with an eagerness that belied his earlier trepidation. /*\*/*\*/*\*/*\ Sven’s hotel room had been rearranged from its original layout, and resembled now a makeshift research station. Pictures, diagrams, and charts covered the walls. Stacks of texts and artifacts covered every flat surface. “Please, sit, Paul,” Sven said, and gestured to the desk, and Paul obliged. Sven went over and pulled a briefcase from under the bed. “What is all this?” “My family is Norwegian,” Sven said, which answered only Paul’s question about the accent, and nothing else. “My wife died several years ago, and our child with her. We buried her in the family tomb, an ancient thing. The graves go back at least a 40 generations. Perhaps that sounds like an exaggeration, but I assure you it is not. I never spent much time in there, until my wife’s passing. Afterward, though, I began my own little archaeological project. Found some interesting things.” He placed the briefcase on the table and set his hands over the clasps. “Then, I moved to California and began a post-grad program at Cal Berkeley, in the department of art history. I also worked as an archivist in the department. Yes, that’s where I found your paper. And that’s when I discovered that these might not just be curiosities.” At this, he opened the briefcase, and revealed an old leatherbound tome and a series of polished stone tablets. Paul leaned forward and inhaled sharply. His Old Norse was rusty, but he recognized enough to guess that the tablets might consist of authentic writing, at the very least. He knew he should be skeptical, but a schoolboy’s enthusiasm crept over him. He examined the cover of the book and read it’s title: “The Book of the Dead and the Way of Living.” The Founder’s Ledger. The long-theorized manifesto of the Knight’s Templar and the Illuminati. “May I?” “You may. If,” Sven said, as he reached into the briefcase with a pair of now-gloved hands and extracted the book. “If you’ll do me a favor. I need a section translated.” Paul’s enthusiasm overran him. “Of course.” “Excellent. I’ve put a bookmark where I’d like you to start. If you would do me the kindness and read it aloud as you go?” Sven gestured to the book, and to a notepad and pen on the desk. “Uhh, yeah, no problem.” Paul didn’t look up as his fingers trembled over the book’s cover. The book was in remarkable condition—either it was fake, or Sven’s family tomb was a marvel in its own right. Paul opened the book and read a page: “The kings of old… have lost the reason for living. They make a mockery of the human soul. For too long… For too long they have ruled without consequence. To restore the life—no, the spirit of man—this definitely sounds like the right guys. Holy poo poo, Sven.” “The bookmarked page, please.” “Right, right.” Paul gently turned the pages until he was at the designated page. It was the start of a new section, and unlike other pages, it had characters from all three languages, as well as an elaborate drawing: four figures, which Paul recognized as Thanatos, Mors, Hel, and Satan, the various gods of death. They appeared to be bartering over souls, who variously ascended or descended behind them. The first line was Latin, and easy enough to translate: “The Marketplace of Souls,” Paul muttered to himself. “Odd. Didn’t know the Templars were much into eschatology.” “Louder, please. So I can hear it, as you read.” Sven’s voice startled Paul, but he nodded. “Right. The Marketplace of Souls.” He continued, more loudly. The text switched to Greek. “There are no devils, only kings above and… Kings below.” The next line, in Old Norse. Paul puzzled over this one, his runic reading being slow, but eventually: “A soul is a soul. One is like another, and may take its place.” Behind him, a doorknob turned. Paul wondered for a moment whether Sven was still listening, but only for a moment. The book called him. He read, in Latin: “Where gathered are the Elements, a king may call to a king, and trade.” And then, three lines that appeared like a list, one each in Greek, Latin, and Norse. Paul read them. “The blade of a monarch. The crown of a king. The skull of a royal.” “Ah!” “Sven?” The exclamation started Paul from his reverie. “Sven, what is this book? I’m not certain it’s what I thought it was.” “Ah. I see now my error. Come, come see.” Paul stood from his chair and turned, but did not see Sven. The bathroom door, previously closed, stood open, and flickering light as from a candle came from the darkened interior. A chill crawled up Paul’s spine. Curiosity compelled him forward. “Sven?” The ragged Norwegian was crouched by the edge of the shower. Candles covered the countertop and the lip of the tub and the walls were covered in Norse symbols. At Sven’s feet was a triangle, painted in red. At one point sat a polished silver crown; at another, a smooth human skull. “I could make out most of it myself. The last bit was crucial, though.” Sven reached inside his coat and pulled out a short blade, and placed it at the remaining vertex. “A seax,” Paul croaked. “The blade of a monarch.” As he said the words, the room descended into total darkness, but for a light coming from within the painted triangle. Paul looked inside and saw, deep within, a throne, and a dark figure seated on it. A voice called: SEEKER OF SOULS, WHOM DO YOU SEEK Sven replied, unshaken: “I seek the one they call Astrid, daughter of Odin.” SEEKER OF SOULS, WHOM DO YOU OFFER Sven replied: “I offer Paul Shackleton, knowledge seeker.” HE SHALL KNOW THE OLD WAYS A question formed on his lips, but before it could leave, Paul discovered that he was looking up through the triangle at Sven, who stood in an embrace with a dark-haired woman.
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Feb 13, 2023 10:06
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The Roommates 1249 words "I'm sorry, but we don't have any more rooms available." The hostel receptionist smiles sweetly at me, but the look in her eyes tells me she gets this kind of request all the time, and she's sick of it. "There must have been a mistake," I insist. "I booked a single room." Tough luck, buddy, her face tells me, and I shuffle disgruntedly into the breakfast room. Breakfast consists of a choice between stale cereal with lukewarm milk or overripe fruit. I opt for the fruit and settle down at the only unoccupied table. I'm disappointed in myself as I survey the fleabag hostel, with a grand total of three tables and a broken microwave servicing twenty-four rooms — the majority of which I've learned are shared between complete strangers. The room I'm in has four beds, and one glance at my roommates already told me I'd be in for a long week. Sure, I'm on a tight budget, but this is a bit too tight even for my standards. The weather outside doesn't look promising; it's pouring hard enough that the view is obscured by the rain splattering against the window. "Do not use the shower room on the first floor," cautions a spectacled young man wearing an oversized hoodie as he cops a seat at my table. "Looks like I'm in luck, then," I drawl dryly at my uninvited company. "I'm on the second floor." The shortage of seating is about as deplorable as this fruit bowl; it's impossible to keep a low profile if I'm expected to partake in conversations, and it looks suspicious if I try to ignore them. My lip curls in disdain as I poke at a particularly mushy piece of cantaloupe. The guy across from me picks up his mug a bit carelessly, coffee sloshing out. "Don't let the hot water tempt you." I raise a brow. "The second floor doesn't have hot water?" Not that I'd expect much of this place, but a lack of hot water really nails it in that I'm probably staying in the shoddiest accommodation in the city, save for a cardboard box under the bridge. And even a cardboard box has more privacy. I take a bite of my food, and immediately spit out a piece of probably rotten pineapple. "You'll see," shrugs Hoodie cryptically. I take a sip of my coffee, only to find that it's a horrid combination of watery and bitter. Disgusted, I stand up to clear my place, leaving the dishes in the cleaning area. -- There's shouting coming from my room when I insert the key. Inhaling deeply, I brace myself for the worst and turn the door handle. My two high-as-a-kite teenage roommates are hanging halfway out the open window, and the heavy rain is inevitably drifting inside as they smoke. Some of what they're saying is completely incoherent to me, but I catch on quickly. "Yeah man, you should totally do it!" "Really?" "Yeah, like, totally! Imagine how rich you'll be!" "Yeah, I like money!" All my instincts tell me to leave this conversation alone, but I can't suppress the urge to shut the window, so I approach them diplomatically and clear my throat. "Sorry, guys. Could you close the window? It's getting a bit chilly." One of them — the bloke with an ugly paisley sweater — turns around to face me. "Oh, sorry man! We were just making plans to rob a bank!" I stare blankly at the two of them. Paisley Sweater grins. "We're gonna be sooooo rich!" "So rich," echoes the mohawked guy in only a tie-dye shirt with a stoned looking dinosaur on it. "I don't think you guys should rob a bank," I advise them. "But don't you wanna get rich?" "Robbing a bank is the fastest way to get money!" "Robbing a bank is the fastest way to go to jail," I correct them. Dino Shirt pouts at me. "But think of all the money!" "You should totally rob a bank and get rich, man! You'd be set for life!" There's not much point in reasoning with them right now, so I try to distract them instead. I really want that window closed. "Hey, there's still some grub downstairs. Why don't you fellows grab some breakfast before it's all gone?" Dino nods pensively. "I don't wanna rob a bank when I'm starved," he agrees, peeling himself away from the window. As the two of them leave, I breathe a sigh of relief. I shut the window and pull out a book to read. -- My troublesome roommates are gone for much longer than I'd anticipated, but I can't complain. The relative quiet is a blessing, although the paper-thin walls leak every single sound, no matter how subtle. In fact, I can hear a commotion down the corridor. I leave the room to go to the toilet, and to my dismay the source of the ruckus greets me as I open the door. A flood of sewage water rushes into the carpeted hallway, and I jump back in startlement. Once again, Dino Shirt and Paisley Sweater are stirring up trouble — I recognize their voices. "Turn it to the right!" screeches Dino. "I did," insists Paisley. "No, the other right!" For whatever blasted reason, I find myself trudging through the muck. I arrive to see Paisley turning the water knob the wrong way in an attempt to shut off the overflowing toilet. "Move aside; I'll do it," I announce, stepping over the useless teens to try my luck. The toilet bowl stops filling as soon as I shut off the tap, and the kids stew dazedly in their swamp of a stall. "Why were you even in here?" I ask, instantly regretting my question. Before they can answer, someone else barges through the door, yelping as a fresh wave of water laps at their feet. I hear the door slam, followed by the sound of running footsteps as the hapless guest scrambles away. Without being asked, I yank the two idiots to their feet and guide them out of this disaster of a bathroom. "I'll let the desk know," I assure them — not that they're listening — and practically shove them back out into the corridor before storming down to the reception desk once more. The receptionist stares at me, unimpressed by my sopping wet attire, the excess water dripping off the edges of my shirt. A trail of muddy footprints can be traced to my former whereabouts. "Is that toilet flooding again?" she asks in a disinterested manner. "I'll call the repairman tomorrow. Just use the downstairs bathroom for now." A tight smile on my face, I thank her and head back to my dreadful room, if only to make sure that my roommates haven't stolen my suitcase. I discover quickly that they've forgotten about robbing a bank, but they're onto the next terrible idea. "Oh, poo poo," I mutter as I watch Paisley lob pieces of mushy fruit out the window at the pedestrians below. They're giggling like children. I don't know how much more of this I can take, and against my better judgment I yank Paisley away from the window without commentary. "Hey, we were playing a game," he protests as I wedge myself between them and the window. "No, you're not," I respond flatly, slamming the window down and locking it. Paisley stares at me with bloodshot eyes, barely comprehending anything I've said. This is going to be a long day...
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Feb 13, 2023 12:05
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Submissions are closed. Check-out time.
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Feb 13, 2023 22:54
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 Week 548 Results Post Writing this in the middle of getting ready for work. I'll keep it brief. The winner is Strange Cares, Rohan HMs; the loser is Windward Away, Admirality Flag DMs. Do come again.
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Feb 14, 2023 23:15
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Oh cool! Welp, time to figure out how to write critiques!
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Feb 14, 2023 23:33
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Strange Cares posted:Oh cool! Welp, time to figure out how to write critiques! When in doubt, this is a good template: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1gvEDkl4oV5tjwoKdsMJ_8yrVWIT0VxIgnIluO55YFPQ/edit
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Feb 15, 2023 04:05
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 Week No. 549 - The Hitchikers Guide to Seraphinianus The Codex Seraphinianus is a surrealist art book made by an Italian architect, that is a guidebook to another dimension. It is written in that dimension’s language, which is totally untranslatable. Guess what? This week, we’re translating some pages! I will be assigning entrants a page from the Codex and you will be writing stories inspired by them. If you're not doing a flash or hell rule, specify in your signup that you're inspired Flash rules this week are all the same - you’re not just being inspired by the page, you’re writing the guidebook page. - Specify in your signup that you're doing a guidebook Hell rule? You get one of the pages from the subatomic particles section. You don’t need to write it as a guidebook, but extra points if you do. - Specify in your signup that you are meddling with forces beyond your comprehension Word Count: I wanna see what you’ve got but I don’t have all day - you’ve got 1k words to write with I've got an extra 500 for flash rules, an extra 1000 for a hellrule. No screeds, no fanfiction, no erotica. You know the rules. Sign up by Friday, February 17th, at 11:59 PM EST, and be ready to submit two days later. Home Office Rohan Pham Nuwen Field Reporters Albatrossy_Rodent - Meddling with forces beyond their comprehension  Thranguy - Guidebook Chernobyl Princess - Guidebook Staggy - Guidebook BeefSupreme - Inspiration IdleAmalgam - Guidebook  Dicere - Guidebook My Shark Waifu - Guidebook Slightly Lions - Guidebook Strange Cares fucked around with this message at 04:08 on Feb 20, 2023 |
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Feb 15, 2023 16:13
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In, hellrule
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Feb 15, 2023 18:10
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In, guidebook.
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Feb 15, 2023 18:24
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quote isn't edit
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Feb 15, 2023 19:28
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Week 548 Judgement Post Bellhop by Strange Cares The one where a bellhop is responsible for managing a recent corpse at a casino/hotel that has become known for suicides. This was genuinely interesting to me! It’s not a high-conflict story, or even an any-conflict story, it’s just a guy doing his job. But the job is interesting enough and the actions are compelling enough that it kept my attention. It’s the story that I thought the most about after reading, which is a good sign. The imagery and the voice were on point and that’s, ultimately, why this was my choice for the win. What’s Going Down? By Admiralty Flag The one where some folks from an office have kind of a fight in an elevator about her having sex with his friend/her boss So… this story was high conflict but the conflict was never described. Why does this guy care? So his friend is a good guy who he doesn’t want to see being taken advantage of by a cougar, and he’s going to drop weird threats to her about it? What is his relationship with this dude that he’s willing to risk an actually pretty serious HR violation for this? Because despite what he says, you can absolutely wind up with an actionable HR complaint outside of work hours, especially if you are on work travel. Without knowing why this guy cares, this story leaves me as baffled as the poor woman who just wants to get out of the elevator and away from this moralizing weirdo. The Grand Imperial Hotel by Staggy The one where an imperialist hotel Maitre D assaults an arrogant streamer. I liked this one, honestly. I liked Mr. Sykes’s outrage and obsequiousness. I liked his obsession with the carpet. I liked the obnoxiousness and arrogance of the streamer, who has good cultural reasons to hate Mr. Sykes, but whose utter douchebaggery leaves you feeling pretty okay about when Sykes bashes his head into the desk. A classic story of a wasp landing on a scorpion to predictable results. How Far You’ll Go by rohan The one where a guy on a trip has a pleasant conversation and receives, at last, a Snickers bar. This was a serious win contender for me. Chris’s frustration, his bad dreams, his snapping at the receptionist who is being so profoundly unhelpful, all of it is so relatable. And I love the rising tension in Chris that this chance encounter with a woman with her own problems manages to release slightly. There’s no perfection here, no moment of benediction. Just a recognition that love and fathers are complicated. All that said there’s bits and pieces of information that seem to be left out. The music he requests at the end sounds important, but there’s no music mentioned before. Hannah’s name gets dropped but she never introduces herself. Adding those in will make this a stronger piece. Hailmary by Dicere The one where a deeply-sad-but-ignoring-it businessman rescues a deeply-sad-and-can’t-ignore-it girl from a local cult by vomiting all over the cultists. I’ve got to be honest, this has all the hallmarks of a story that I’d really like, but for whatever reason it didn’t click with me. I think it needed Bob to be sadder, to be more pathetic, and to maybe be more aware of how he is weaponizing his own patheticness to help Stacy. I think we also needed to know more about the cult that Stacy was running from, about the life choices that led her there and then away. Hard to do in 1500 words, but I think there’s some fat here that could be cut and replaced with more meat. Speed Run by Thranguy The one with the heist A serviceable heist story with a cheery, light voice. I liked that it was a bit different in that their targets were people at the casino instead of the casino itself. I am left with a couple ‘why, how?’ questions, but honestly your story is paced so neatly that I think pausing to answer them would detract. Its breeziness is both its virtue and its downfall in the contest. I enjoyed it a lot but it didn’t stick with me. The Crystal Cove by CaligulaKangaroo The one where a professional debunker gets handed some stolen pirate gold and ends up haunted/dragged to hell. This I think would have been better if it had started with the interview and been more about the interview. That’s the bit that interested me, I wanted to know about Emily, I wanted to know about Kevin’s show, I wanted to know a little more about Captain Dirge’s curse as it fell from Emily to Kevin. It’s sad when a story is hampered by the prompt, but I think that’s what happened here: if you hadn’t felt compelled to start it in the hotel, you’d have had more space to dig into the Good Bits. The Last King of Lawrence by BeefSupreme The one where a professor winds up an unwitting sacrifice in an effort to bring a dude’s wife back from the dead I feel like I knew what was going to happen to Paul as soon as he started reading. It was cool, it was an interesting thing, but it would probably have been better with Paul having more time to really marinate in the horror of the moment. As is, we have a lot of lead-up to the drama and not enough time to really appreciate the drama itself. The Roommates by Windward Away The one where a guy has bad roommates and keeps trying to prevent them from making bad decisions. The major sin here was of formatting. Put a whole line in between every paragraph, it makes it a LOT easier to read. Doing it for some paragraphs and not others made this feel choppy and difficult to read. It also kind of lacked a central point of tension or interest, it was just “guy is in a hostel, his roommates are weird and dumb.” The End. It would have been better if he’d been pulled along in their shenanigans at least a little, as it was… there just wasn’t a There there.
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Feb 15, 2023 20:45
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Also in with a guidebook
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Feb 15, 2023 21:08
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In, guidebook.
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Feb 15, 2023 21:56
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Albatrossy_Rodent posted:In, hellrule Albatrossy, please enjoy your hellrule of page 141 
Strange Cares fucked around with this message at 22:42 on Feb 15, 2023 |
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Feb 15, 2023 22:27
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Thranguy posted:In, guidebook. Thranguy I hope you enjoy writing the guidebook text for page 113! 
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Feb 15, 2023 22:29
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Chernobyl Princess posted:Also in with a guidebook Chernobyl Princess, go hog wild with page 246! 
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Feb 15, 2023 22:32
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Staggy posted:In, guidebook. Staggy it gives me great pleasure to assign you page 209 
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Feb 15, 2023 22:37
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in, just the garden variety surrealist inspiration please
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Feb 16, 2023 03:44
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In , guidebook
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Feb 16, 2023 04:09
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BeefSupreme posted:in, just the garden variety surrealist inspiration please Beefsupreme, enjoy page 85 as inspiration 
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Feb 16, 2023 04:42
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Idle Amalgam posted:In Idle Amalgam, you'll be guiding us through page 253 
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Feb 16, 2023 04:47
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In with the guidebook, please.
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Feb 16, 2023 05:02
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Dicere posted:In with the guidebook, please. Dicere it is your solemn duty to report on the goings-on of page 115 
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Feb 16, 2023 15:02
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I'm in, a guidebook please
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Feb 16, 2023 18:25
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My Shark Waifuu posted:I'm in, a guidebook please My Shark Waifuu I am assigning you as our piscine correspondent to page 75 
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Feb 16, 2023 19:18
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Signups close tonight! Get your signup in before midnight EST!
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Feb 17, 2023 14:52
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In, Guidebook
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Feb 17, 2023 17:39
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Slightly Lions posted:In, Guidebook Slightly Lions, you shall be giving us words about letters from page 276 
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Feb 17, 2023 18:33
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Entries close in 40 minutes. I'm going to bed, so if you wanna slide in at the last minute you'll be getting your prompt in the morning.
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Feb 18, 2023 05:19
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Week 548 Crits HA HA yes doing my job like I'm supposed to. Bellhop by Strange Cares This story does a lot with a little, and I admire that. There's a name for this sort of story, though it escapes me. There's no real "Conflict," nothing "Changes," but each sequence unravels more and more of the mystery we didn't know we were solving. Your prose is punchy and full of personality, with a morbidly nonchalant approach to its own subject matter (a hotel having an on-site body-chucker for the purposes of wringing even more cash out of a suicidal gambler's family) that made for a perfect comedy cocktail. Probably the only thing I found fault with in this story was the ornamental flamingos. Where I'm from those are lawn ornaments, stationary, manufactured; but it reads at times like they're real birds? The single flaw in an otherwise polished piece. What's Going Down? by Admiralty Flag When I was younger my parents used to take me to see plays at the local community theater. Sometimes they had a budget, but just as often the costume and set people had to get creative: a two-act play set in an office; everyone wears their work clothes; a single water cooler on an empty stage, flanked by black curtains. This story reminds me of those plays, but not in a good way. There's no character to the proceedings, no humanity, no flair. There's a conflict, conversation, but our protagonist seems "Above" it all in a weird sort of way, even as the woman goes through a roller-coaster of emotions. Something happen, the characters fall out over it, end scene. There's a skeleton here, but not much flavor. The Grand Imperial Hotel by Staggy The most interesting thing this story does is play with audience perception. Given the setting (as informed by your flash rule), it would be easy to reduce the concierge to his status: a relic himself, contained within a larger relic, beholden to the memory of a system everyone around him has ample reason to hate. But the influencer is just so obnoxious, in a very real way, that our sympathies remain with the curmudgeon despite it all. It may be a bit grim to admit but, as my esteemed co-judge says, sometimes there's just something satisfying about swatting a fly. Outside of this singular dynamic, I found this story competent, well-told for what it was, but nothing that really pushed it over the top. How Far You'll Go by Rohan HANNAH, HER NAME IS HANNAH, I DIDN'T KNOW HER NAME WAS HANNAH, I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU LEFT THIS TYPO IN AAAAAAA. Alright, well, now that that's over, this was a pretty good story, and was neck-and-neck with the winner for awhile. Of all the pieces I read this week, this one was probably the one that best embodied the "Ships in the night" angle I was hoping for. To people meet and share a human moment, in a way that sometimes only strangers can. We've all got complicated relationships with someone in our family, and connecting with a stranger can make that universality real in a way that helps. More than mere personality, your characters have a real humanity to them in this moment, shored up by relatable experiences of traveling gone wrong. There are a few hiccups here and there, but nothing you couldn't clean up if you wanted. Hailmary by Dicere Please link your flash rule at the start of your story, thank you. This may sound counterproductive of me, given the theme of the week, but this story's biggest weakness was how coincidental it came out. Two characters have their own thing going on, cross paths briefly, and then it's over; a sequence of events without much resonance behind them. Wasn't that what I asked for though? Ships in the night? That was the platform, yes, but here it feels like punctuation. The story itself is workmanlike in construction, with characters who are recognizably characters but something's missing. I can believe the events unfolding before me, but I'm not seeing the element that completes the whole picture. Speedrun by Thrangy First off, congratulations, you basically interpreted the flash rule the way I wanted: channeling a vibe. Good job on that front. The opening here is pretty strong, and could be a good start to a great story. Sadly, once the actual heist kicks off, it's a bit more paint-by-numbers, telling us what each character is doing in sequence until it's time to go home. One year for NaNoWriMo I found myself a bit stuck on an action scene, and ended up sticking [Insert cool fight scene here] in the middle of the manuscript before moving on. This feels like an expansion of that concept, a series of step-by-step instructions for what should happen, but I'd rather see it than read about it, you know? The Crystal Cove by Caligular Kangaroo There's a fun concept here: novelty pirate-themed hotel from Hell, my brain filling in the animatronic skeletons; but the tourist trap curse is real, and gets passed onto our protagonist. So what went wrong? The biggest thing, I think, was the tone, followed by the characters. There's a deliberate tackiness to the setting that never feels fully served by the narrative. If it were a bit more comedic and punchy, it could work. If it were a slow descent into horror, it might work. As is, we get a charmingly awful description of the hotel, then some fairly rote (for the genre) character interactions, carried by two characters who, well, they exist I guess, but I couldn't remember much about either of them. The Last King of Lawrence by Beef Supreme I don't have a lot to say about this one, unfortunately. It's a competently-told story that delivers on the prompt and the flash rule, but basically follows the signposts exactly before ending abruptly, and it's a little difficult to care about our protagonist when he doesn't see this coming a mile off. The Roommates by Windward Away In which our protagonist is witness to a series of other people's conversations and misadventures, kinda, without any sort of guiding through-line. Everyone's exactly what they appear to be, some things happen, the end; and a badly formatted end at that. There's not a lot going on in this story, and what is going on isn't very interesting.
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Feb 18, 2023 11:45
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