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A Hole in the Sky 1801 words Flash:Wuxia "There," I said, pointing at a deep black part of the sky. I made sure Surai was looking at the right place before continuing. "There used to be a galaxy there." I paused, an instant that stretched into forever. The instant before. "Imagine it, the peak of intelligent theory and praxis. The forgeworlds balanced within the burning core spinning neutronium and strange quark matter into hulls for planetary shells. Fractal clouds of dense computational matter around countless black holes, each host to dazzling intellects and impossible virtual worlds. And the stars, where on planets and spinning shells lived four sextillion souls." Surai looked at me, sadness and fear already in her eyes. I had known her for about a year. I had never talked about home, but sometimes something would slip. "What," she said. "What happened?" I turned away, fixed my gaze on that empty patch of sky. I didn't answer. "Almost all of us were literally incapable of violence. The Tzin, we called it. A microscope node in our brains, in constant empathic contact with every other soul. Only one in a billion of us was like me, born without a functioning Tzin." "What?" she said. "You're the most-" "Not that way. Without a Tzin I had to learn the kind of empathy your kind practices. With my eyes." She has her mother's eyes. Kind. Honest. It hurts to think I will need to train that last away. "With all my senses and my mind. I would have been a soldier, had I not been so young." "You need to tell me what happened." Her eyes are hard and determined, showing a touch of fear. An open book. "I need?" I say, voice rising. I look mostly like her, mostly like a human. I had trillions of choices where to flee, of course I chose one as closely compatible as I could. But as I rose, straightening out my spine, the differences stood out. I'm taller than most here, my joints just a bit more angular, my hair rougher, my skin has violet tones. "Yes," she said, holding her ground. It's never been me she's afraid of, after all. "I need to know, and you need to tell me." I never knew love, at home. My training, my lessons on Tzinless life were all about not hating, not seeing others as tools to manipulate, controlling rage and fear and animal passion. Incomplete. And misguided. I had to learn to hate before I could love. And I did love Surai's mother, my first and best friend here. I even loved Surai's first father, a good man but the wrong man. I could love him for being part of what made Surai. I love her as any true father must. And she's right. I sat down. "There was a mind among us. General Fyxx. The best of our soldiers. He earned every glory we could give in fights against rebels and slavers and pirates, but it was not enough for him. He formed a cadre among his officers and plotted a couple, sought to put himself in a position to absolute command. "He failed. He was betrayed, ambushed, captured, and tried. And the fractal minds that sat in judgment knew no prison they had could hold him. He dared them to execute him, to prove themselves hypocrites forever. But they did not. Instead, they built a new prison, in an unspace space beneath the universe, and sentenced him to timeless eternity there. "They did not know their new cage was not empty. "This was before my time, generations before. In my day, the day that I should have started service as a soldier, the day my bulletship flung me back home across the galaxy a failure, Fyxx came back, changed, and at the head of an army of things older than time. "While his armies slaughtered ours he launched his deadly strike, a piece of twisted self-replicating cosmic string that attacked the Tzin, that created a nanospeck of antimatter as it reproduced. "The wave of death spread, from Tzin to Tzin, far faster than the speed of light. But just slightly slower than the speed of empathy. So each person who died suffered more and more instants of multiplied pain as they felt the ones before agonizing death from a brain melting and boiling from within. Fyxx explained that to me, his sword pressed to my temple. But that was later. "Then, I saw my world die in agony, moments after I stepped off the bulletship. I wandered, buried or burned what bodies I could before the futility of it all set in. I did not eat. I only took water when survival frenzy forced me to. I might have gone mad a little. But then my wanderings brought me back to the port, where the bulletship remained, a single light flashing on the main console. "I pressed the launch button and hurled across the dead galaxy, to the black hole cluster, to the fractal minds, dying in protracted dilated time to negative matter poison darts. I interfaced my mind with them, and as their dense computational matter dissolved they dedicated it to a fast simulation, where they trained my mind in every art of war they knew. It took a lifetime. It was a lifetime, with a wife and children, simulated but no less real than you. It took seventeen seconds. "Then the bulletship flew on, to the forge at the center of the galaxy. There was one survivor, ancient and wounded and left for dead, half-blind, in despair. 'Only reason I didn't finish the job myself is they told me you'd be coming,' he said, and it made me ashamed of every doubt I'd had up to then. 'Let's get that bastard back.' "We worked the forges, me being his eyes and third and fourth hands. We added layers of superhard hull to the bulletship, and we made weapons, a dozen blades of quarkalloy steel swords, folded over a billion times to an edge sharper than quantum intervals. We worked beyond endurance, pausing only briefly for meals, until our bodies forced us into rest. "I woke up a few minutes after he did. 'Job's done,' he said, eyes weary and fading. 'I've sent the signals.' "'Signals?' I said. There was only supposed to be one, to the dying fractal minds. "He was starting to bleed from his eyes, the living and the dead one. An involuntary response, a sign of near death in our kind. 'Sorry, kid,' he said. 'Can't say you did anything wrong, but my loyalty has always belonged to my General.' I shook him, yelled at him, but he was beyond words, beyond pain. I wrenched my thoughts back to the mission. My own sword was gone, in the armory I supposed, with the rest. I had a decision to make: go straight to the ship, and possibly face the enemy barehanded, or go out of my way to arm myself first. I chose the latter. The prototype weapon, every bit as good as the others if heavier by a few percent, was still in the engineering bay, closer than the dock by half. "I pulled the blade out of its storage sheath. Even in the dark of this abandoned factory, surrounded by dead and dying stars, the point gleamed brighter than a close planet. I turned, heading toward the dock, and he was there. "I had never seen General Fyxx before, only images, but there was no mistaking him, even without the two writhing masses of tendril behind him. I attacked. He lazily drew and parried. Our blades met with a loud clang, and a sliver of superhard metal went flying, careening off the facility walls. His move had incredible force behind it, and my stance was less than perfect. I went flying backwards, making a hard impact with a far wall. I launched myself off it and at him again. Another careless parry that sent me flying. This time I was prepared, and able to vault against the wall. A swing at one of his underworldly lieutenants severed ichorous tendrils and both of them retreated several feet back. The fight was one on one, and I was outmatched. "With each clash it was only his blade that lost material; mine was harder and sharper and that was my only advantage. I tried to press it, went into a flurry of attacks, whittling away at his weapon. I had one consolation as he toyed with me, that if enough time went by we both would lose and that would be enough. "Another series of attacks, and then, after blocking each one, he made a single strong strike. I drew my sword up to block, but the force behind the blow was amazing, and sent my weapon out of my hand, breaking two fingers on its way. "With me at his mercy he taunted me, told me every cruel step of his plan. I leapt back, toward but not to my sword before he caught me again, this time pointing at my chest, slicing a slash through my armor and drawing a light trickle of blood. "'And now,' he said, 'I will seize this ship you so kindly built me, and find new worlds to conquer.' He did not notice the forms creeping up behind him." "'That was not our deal,' said the two unthings in unison, just as they pierced him dozens of times with needlesharp tendrils. "They robbed me of my revenge, and his death was far too painless. But I will forever savor the surprise in his bleeding eyes. "I grabbed my sword, both handed through the pain, and charged them. The first one's core was ripped apart by the supersharp edge. The other ran, and I let it. I knew what was happening next. "The fractal minds, in their dying act, gave the dead galaxy a warrior's funeral, collapsing it and all the escapees into nothingness, reaching out through spacetime and pulling in every photon it had emitted that was still on its original path, erasing the galaxy such that it vanished at the same time from every night sky everywhere in the universe. All that light, all that energy went to fuel the drive of my upgraded ship, launching me into intergalactic space and towards my destination. To here. To you. "Fyxx is gone, daughter-of-my-choosing. But the prison beneath space remains, and it does not take a hyperadvanced civilization to learn how to open it. We fought one such summoned yesterday. We, and those we train, must root out the summoner and what they have loosed, and must stand wary forever against it. I will not live forever, but your line, in blood or training, must carry these swords for all time."
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Apr 17, 2023 04:52
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submissions are closed
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Apr 17, 2023 07:57
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Slightly Lions posted:Crack open some boys with a cold one and give me your best bar/tavern brawl This was my flash rule btw
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Apr 17, 2023 10:28
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Judgement: Week 558 Thank you to those who submitted for this week of frankly quixotic violence. The final standings are as follows: Loser: Just Like Old Times by WindwardAway Honorable Mention: A Hole in the Sky by Thranguy Winner: Half-Cocked by Admiralty Flag Stern Look of Disapproval: the six no-shows. Congratualtions, Admiralty Flag. You have reached heaven by violence, now ascend the blood throne.
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Apr 17, 2023 22:31
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Crits! New Arrival by Dicere This is exactly as boring as listening to some old dude you don’t know tell you a rambling story about people you haven’t met. Framing it as a play did not help. I thought the stage descriptions were distracting, and didn’t help me picture what was going on. The focus of this story is on the protagonist’s (rather cartoonish) fight with his neighbour, but the story isn’t actually about their relationship or what it means to the protagonist. The meat of the story is really the protagonist’s mental decline after his wife’s death, but this is sort of glossed over. The son turns up at the very end, but he doesn’t add anything to the story. 4/10 Half-Cocked by Admiralty Flag Wow, this story has all the sci fi gun words. All of them. And yet despite that, it’s very boring. Only three things actually happen: 1) the protagonist fights his way back to his squad. 2) The protagonist finds out the army he’s fighting for is going to do something he morally disagrees with. 3) He makes the decision to rebel. Number 3 is the only thing that is actually interesting, and you gave it 72 words. That is less than 4% of the story. On the upside, the action sequence bit (which was what the prompt asked for) was some good pew pew x-ray lasers fun. If you had woven the protagonist’s dilemma and decision-making process through the action, this could have been a good story. And at least the protagonist made sure not to misgender the aliens he was murdering. 5/10 Just Like Old Times by WindwardAway I am very confident that Sebmojo would tell you to delete all the adverbs from your first paragraph. Now, I’m not sure I hate adverbs quite as much as ye olde sheriff, but whenever you catch yourself describing something in a generic way (“stamping his boots briskly”), you should stop and swap that description out for a specific detail, something that tells us about the character. Oh dear, the second paragraph (wtf happened to your line breaks?) isn’t much better. You literally just described three people talking about the weather. “...the big, burly, beer-bellied Bobby…” No. Great, now they’re fighting. I don’t care about this fight, because I don’t care about either of these characters. This story is barely a story, it’s just a description of two drunk dickheads getting into a fight. There’s no stakes, the setting is the blandest pub possible, and there’s only a bare minimum of cartoonish characterisation. And then his dad is a cop so… he’s fine? 2/10 A Hole in the Sky by Thranguy Hmmm, this has a lot of cool mystic sci fi space whatsits but it felt a bit pointless, given that it’s all building up to some girl needing to inherit her alien dad’s ultimate mission to stop the… things that have been summoned by… someone… I think? Unlike the other entries this week though, this was at least interesting to read. I appreciated the very imaginative setting, and was intrigued by what was actually going on in this world. 6/10
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Apr 17, 2023 22:45
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Crits for Week 558 A Hole in the Sky by Thranguy This story had a lot going for it. Your usual clear and descriptive prose, a strong voice from our narrator protagonist, a lot of the high-concept sci-fi flim-flam that is like catnip to me, an imaginative premise, and a nice father-daughter/master-student relationship at its core. I really enjoyed this one, but it missed out on the win for very week-specific reasons. First, the action wasn't really the center of the story, the setting of the falling civilization was. Which isn't a bad thing necessarily, it definitely lent sharpness to the central character and a weight to the stakes, but the swordfight at the end felt a little tacked-on in comparison to the lush realization of lost galaxy. Secondly, it wasn't much of a wuxia story. It was a sci-fi story that had a kind of kung-fu-ish swordfight at the climax. It owes a lot more to Dan Simmons than Jin Yong. It seems like the more traditionally wuxia trappings were waiting the wings for our protagonists daughter to mess around with in the second chapter. In another week this could have easily take the win, and it feels like the prelude to a series I would very much like to read. Half-Cocked by Admiralty Flag This story won because you understood the assignment. The action is the star of the piece, front and center at all times. The pacing crackles, the prose pops, you have a lot of nice texture with all the mil-sci-fi nonsense but don't let yourself get bogged down with it. I like your narrator-protagonist a lot, he has plenty of character and a strong point of view achieved with great word-count economy. The problem is that while the action is great, the whole story ends up feeling like a first chapter of a longer piece. We never get a super clear picture of who the Squibs are and why they're in violent conflict with the humans. I don't know if we need it at this kind of word count, but it would have made the stakes of our real conflict clearer. And that real conflict only happens in the last few lines. A man clearing a sector of insurgents and snipers is some nice plot, but the story is that said man also assaults an officer for doing warcrimes, and while that certainly endears them to me, it feels like it came out of nowhere because we have so little grasp of why our lovely, polished action is happening. Still, you really excelled on the shoot 'em up front and that's what counts this week. Just Like Old Times by WindwardAway This was a bit of a disappointment. I was excited for the bar brawl story, and it started well enough. I liked the initial introduction of our main character, the very generic but comfortable back drop of townies bitching about the weather established a very nice sense of place. I've been to this bar in a dozen different cities. But then it kind of falls apart. There's no real inciting incident other than a drunk guy being drunk and mean, the stakes are comfortably low (which I like), but don't feel impactful. The action itself is kind of muddled and confused with poor geography, and it doesn't feel like our protagonist really does anything. The kind of "twist" at the end didn't work for me because nothing really set it up. I don't really care that Xavier's dad is a cop because we know nothing about the town and its police force, and we don't know all that much about Xavier, either. This one is disappointing in part because you had the words to flesh this out to the point that it could have popped more, but it just feels underdone, and in a narrow field like this week it needed to have some sizzle. New Arrival by Dicere This was, while not really my favorite offering this week, probably the one I'll remember the most. I hugely respect the risk taken by framing it as a play and doing a lot of the story telling through the medium of stage direction. I'm an actor and playwright by training, so I'm always going to be positively inclined towards the form. Tom is a great character, he's got personality coming out of his ears. I've met this guy before. The action, when we get to it, is clear in both his recounting and your stage direction. It accomplishes the rare feat of only using a fairly small fraction of the word count but still being the clear focus of the piece as a whole. And it was hilarious. I actually laughed out loud reading it, which is not what I expected from any story this week. Nor was I expecting to get misty when Georgie died. Your story's big strength was mood, you struck a really nice balance between the comic and tragic while cheapening neither. The problem is that the fight, while fun and central, was also kind of a nothingburger in story terms. There's no established stakes to it beyond the kind of mutual loathing that only suburban neighbors can share. And worse, there's no satisfying resolution. If the community had evicted Tom over it and that's why he had to leave and interview at a new living center, we'd be having a different conversation, but it feels like the fight was more of an amusing piccadilo than a life-changing event. It's the center of the plot, but not the story. The story is about Tom's decline and grief, the fight is just an example of that. But still, I want to commend you for taking a big swing on this one, even if it was more a pop fly more than a home run.
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Apr 17, 2023 23:17
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 to redeem this last week's story before I'm allowed to sign up for next week
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Apr 18, 2023 01:20
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Wait, a loss in a four-entry week? I thought that wasn't a thing! Well, this isn’t the strangest thing I’ve seen in TD. Loser Crits from a “Loser” Week 558: Just Like Old Times I’m thinking the main question that needed to be answered that wasn’t was, “Why should I care?” It had a decent beginning (more on that later), but Xavier just comes off as an unlikable prick. I know there are some stories with an unlikable prick where early on, readers (or in one example that I know of, players) would be turned off. After all, “Why would I want to read a story about some rear end in a top hat?” While there are cases where the prick, “gets better”, Xavier didn't get better. Also, your prose makes it sounded like you were trying to make your story sound more dignified. This kind of story isn’t exactly Shakespeare, so it doesn't need the purple prose. Your words just came off as padding. In a contest for a medium where padding is discouraged. While the beginning part was good, I gotta agree that the swearing is a bit excessive. If you want a good example in the world of plays, look for works done by David Manet. Or if you want a literary example, Mark Leyner. Nonetheless, like the last story I reviewed, I do see some potential.
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Apr 18, 2023 16:41
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I'm honored and amazed to have this view from the Blood Throne. Prompt will be forthcoming later today; thanks for your patience, Thunderdomers.
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Apr 18, 2023 16:56
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Week 559 Love Me, Love My Pet They say, "Write what you know." Well, I'm going to "Have them write what I know," and what I know right now involves a couple of recent months of inconclusive veterinary visits, 2 AM trips to let the pooch into the yard, flailing around with different types of diets, and so on. (Not to worry; she's doing better now.) I would love to read your story involving a pet, preferably including what it means to your protagonist. However, this does not have to be a pet you actually care for IRL, nor does the pet have to fit the bounds of reality or logic. Your story can range from light and cute to Old Yeller. Everyone loves to wax poetic about their pets, so for my sanity I need to keep things to 1500 words. You can get 500 more words if you take a flash rule, which will probably either be some characteristic your pet has or some impact it has on your life. Signups are due by Friday, April 21, 11:59pm PDT. Submissions are due by Sunday, April 23, 11:59pm PDT. No political screeds, no fanfic, and for God's sake no erotica. Judges: Admiralty Flag Thranguy ??? Entrants: Sitting Here Beezus Chernobyl Princess (Flash: your pet is a semi-sentient artificial creature) Copernic Antivehicular (Flash: The creature is not actually your pet, for whatever reason.) Derp Mrenda Slightly Lions Admiralty Flag fucked around with this message at 18:53 on Apr 22, 2023 |
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Apr 18, 2023 18:00
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I'm in
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Apr 19, 2023 16:12
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In.
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Apr 19, 2023 17:13
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In, flash me please
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Apr 19, 2023 17:15
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thunderdome winner
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in.
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Apr 19, 2023 17:36
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Chernobyl Princess posted:In, flash me please Your pet is a semi-sentient artificial creature. Edited because of overspecificity. Admiralty Flag fucked around with this message at 19:10 on Apr 19, 2023 |
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Apr 19, 2023 19:08
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In, flash
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Apr 20, 2023 00:45
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Antivehicular posted:In, flash
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Apr 20, 2023 05:26
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i am in
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Apr 21, 2023 00:46
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in
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Apr 21, 2023 13:32
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Yeah, gently caress it, I'm in
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Apr 22, 2023 02:16
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Slither On the Cross 1,500 Words My pet was my penis. My parents gave it to me when I was young. I think it was a part of me, I guess it still is. I remember it. It used to go slithering around the yard. My parents would yell, “Chase after your penis, it’s getting away!” And I’d go running into the bushes. The doctors tell me this is a fantasy. My father was a flame-keeper. He’d light a flame for the Flame Emporor, Emperer, Empe..king. He was his smoking buddy. He brought me round to meet the Empere-king a few times. I’d do tricks for him. “Flap your hands, Charlie,” he’d say. Both hands. Softly. Just pull. It’s important to spell my name with an E on the end. Something to do with French but I think it’s down to the worm. The slitether. Slitheher. Snake... My penis. CharliEEEEE with an EEEEEE because I’m a boy. And girls don’t have the e on the end like the penis on the end. That’s what separates us. This makes us men. I didn’t know or care. I just liked chasing it. Chasing it wherever it may go with it sticking out in front of me. I’d run and run. I saw pictures from then. Why did they take pictures? Did they like to laugh? Did they laugh at me? I never laughed at my girls. No, I didn’t. I love them. I love my girls but the doctors say I should stay away from them now. It’s so funny. The times we had. As a teenager. Hitting it so hard, but in fun ways. Never really fun but useful, you know? Like homework but with a story. Like when they rolled the TVs into class. It was still school, it counted, but you were cheating in a way everyone was OK with you cheating. You’d be delighted but the other kids would shout for a good film. They’d shout for the teacher to show her thong. Of course I know what a thong is. I don’t care, Christopher. You just really wished they’d be quiet, even talking about the teacher, because anything was better than listening to them scream at you, or the teacher. Or anyone. Any film. Give me any film. Just make them stop screaming. But that’s another delusion. Be aside, I say. That’s what Doctor Sami said. Don’t listen to them. Girls! Inviting young boys. Be aside! I was older then. The ripe old age of 13, I think. Not old enough, I think... they’d say. They were quiet asking if they should say it, but I heard. I wasn’t asked if I had a girlfriend any more. I was told to stay away from girls, unless I was willing to commit. To own a home, and some land. And to work it. And work her, and Dad’d wink. Then he’d grab my Mam’s arse and she’d go bright red and run away. They’d all look. Not at me. That didn’t entertain me, but the things that don’t entertain you aren’t delusions. According to Pastor Sami. If something is happiness ask questions, if something is sadness, find Jesus. BIG JAY JESUS! Doctor Sami would tell me to shout, but only in my mind. So don’t write that down. I imagined I was Jesus, on the cross. You’d think it would be the spear in my side going in, and out, through my wound. Poking organs. Internal organs. But I always ask what then are external organs? Your kidneys aren’t getting dialysis from the outside, are they? Don’t be crazy! Tubes going in and out of you. In and out. In and out... Like my snake. I was the snake. My pet. They call me... I was Jesus. On the cross. I was stabbed like that, just like Judas. I have snakes in and out of me but that’s OK. My girls. Snakes rubbing against them. Cutting everything inside you. Piercing them, straight through. But you don’t die. You bleed all over your Satin RobeEEEs. Your loincloth. No bedsheets. No shroud for me. It was freedom. It was freedom knowing you were dying to save your people. And Jesus in his underwear on the cross like he was a disgusting child chasing it for too long. Slither. Slither... in the grass in the desert. Slither. Slither. Jesus and the Devil. But sshsh. We don’t speak of him. We SPEAK TO Jesus instead. My girls are OK. I shouldn’t ask about them. I know they’re OK now. But don’t ask about them. I know they’re safe now. With my boy, my beautiful new baby boy. How I love him. I call him Charli with no E now. He was so quiet. No EEEEEEE! Can you believe that? No E. She didn’t like it but my wife agreed, then she called me a snake. But that’s a delusion, they tell me. The doctors tell me, but I see others sometimes. The other kind of fellas are nice. Slips of meat. They slip me meat in my soft tower, they say. They say, “Remember. Eat your meat. God forgives. Pray.” I pray every night, if only they knew, but it’s daylight all the time. All the time. So I don’t pray. Jesus isn’t here with me now. The doctors say that. So I tell myself stories. I’m really hungry and hurt. Oh, I told myself all grand kinds of stories. How I was the queen of the castle. Sometimes I’d even be kind, and get to bed the maiden. Both our snakes would slither off and hiss at each other. I’d gently caress her up, proper gently caress her snake up. The little bitch, the little oval office bitch. That’s what doctors do. Inspect snakes, but I’d hiss at them. But that’s a modern day story for my doctor, Pastor Sami. He agrees with me. Pastor Sami said I was the man and always was. You’ve not asked about Pastor Sami. Let me tell you... I’m so hungry. I shouldn’t tell you that. The nice boys told me not to tell you that. You haven’t asked about Pastor Sami. Or is he a doctor? He’s both. They’re nice boys. The ones who slip you meat. They’re nice boys, especially when I’m hungry. I shouldn’t say that. But they’re different. Simple as. No-one is attractive with them. They’re foreign. They don’t care they’re foreign. But they feed me, and tell me to pray. Their men are beastly, and handsome. Some of the boys are nice. The boys shouldn’t be here. Too nice. And the girls are too sweet, but they’re loving hard. Not like my own kind. Not like mine, the slithering snakes. Slithering, leading you out in front of you. Coming before. They feed me. They feed you hope. They bring me food and sneak it in at night. I don’t know if I should tell you. I don’t know if I should tell Pastor Sami. Pastor Sami is South African, he’s one of those people, but different. He’s white you know. You can’t call them anything these days. Pastor Sami is a snake. Pastor Sami is my penis. And the doctors. Another snake. My penis. Be gone. I cut it off. When I... I... The doctors give me pills. And replace the tubes. When I... And I’m hungry... Food is a penis but you need to eat. Eat your Penis, Little Charli WITH NO E. They’d say. Where has my boy gone? I want him here. He was so quiet. He was quiet... And Dr. Sami said I was the man of the house and I should eat. The man of the house eats first. He needs his strength. Live for your girls. I like a good meal. I do... I don’t know why this is. I don’t know why. I’m just hungry. I’m just... I want to eat. Those children put poo in the food. Where are the good boys? Those good foreign boys? I know this, they tell me to remember this. They told me not to tell you this. They said they piss in the food and poo poo in the food and the doctors they cum in me, my tubes, they cum in the food, and they’re not snakes, they’re dragons. They breathe fire right down on top of you. My skin is burnt. I miss I my snake. I remember him fondly. Where has he gone? I’m gone. Why did I kill them? I... I... We’re all gone. I’m so hungry. I have to live on. Say my prayers, if only it was night. I’m hungry. The man of the house eats first. If I don’t eat... I can’t eat. The good boys told me not to eat. They give me food. I’m hungry. These bandages? These snakes? YOU’RE ALL SNAKES! My boy. Where is my boy? My skin... And these bandages. And my child... My girls... My... My... I... ... Charlie... Mr. O’Shaughnessy..? Can you tell me if you had a pet as a child?
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Apr 22, 2023 12:48
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Signups are closed...still looking for one other judge...
Admiralty Flag fucked around with this message at 14:41 on Apr 22, 2023 |
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Apr 22, 2023 14:30
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Old Pavlova By Copernic 1477 Words 1879: “Perhaps the ring is inside of the turtle,” Jenna said. She had put on lace gloves to handle it. “You know they can live for hundreds of years.” “Oh, very exceptionally wonderful,” Eloise said. Robert had handed her a wrapped box. Inside, the turtle – now her turtle – had already worked its way through a handful of strawberries. She would’ve preferred the strawberries. “Yes. Immortal. And science has a lot of interesting things to say about the shell. Culturally, the symbolism is very dense,” Jenna was unsure how encouraging to be. The turtle had turned its hungry attention to the ribbon. “Robert even named him,” Eloise said, and sighed. “Or her. Atlas. He or she or it can hold up the very earth. Robert said.” 1932: They’d clothed the turtle in mourning. The lawyer had explained – this was in the will. Eloise had provided for her most faithful heir. Also in the will, a sterling silver bowl filled with the finest strawberries, so Atlas was not bored during the reading. Clarissa stared at the turtle as the reading commenced. The other grandnieces and grandnephews received land grants and monetary awards, coupled with wry remarks on their personal character from beyond the grave. The others poorly hid their smirks. Clarissa had inherited the Eloise beak and scathing wit. She had inherited the soul of a spinster. They all thought. Eloise had thought. “And to Clarissa… a sum of $150,000 per annum… provided…for the life of…” Clarissa rose, and threw her black veil at the dozing chelonian. “I won’t take the loving turtle!” 1976 “There’s names on the turtle,” Det. Leonard said. Aware that he sounded stupid, he held it up, using both hands. Eloise, Clarissa, Lauren, painted in long-lasting enamel on the pentagonal edges. “Not the killer’s name, probably,” Det. Rogers said. “I mean, that’s Lauren.” She pointed to the outline. The body had been removed. It was a half-hearted effort – Lauren had died on top of empty McDonald’s cartons, her legs propped up on a sofa. The turtle had retracted its head, unhappy about the police, or, more likely, the light and the noise. “There’s no turtle pen. No– you know – lettuce. Or fruit. Or a Water bottle. Turtle care stuff,” Det. Leonard persisted. He seemed to want Rogers to take possession of the animal, but she’d already washed her hands a number of times. This was a messy one. “Are you suggesting the killer,” Det. Rogers considered her words. “FORGOT their turtle here? Are you suggesting that the turtle is a CLUE?” “It’s at the very least a lead,” Det. Leonard insisted. 2023 #strawberries DatingSlime: strawberry strawberry strawberry CumDoctor: yessss StintRack: not time yet! Datingslime: feed it feed it CumDoctor: get atlas on twitch StintRack: no DatingSlime: atlas onlyfans StintRack: NO. CumDoctor: rule 34 atlas the turtle Datingslime: lol geriatric category. CumDoctor: hahaha StintRack: guys just so you know… StintRack: atlas has not been very hungry lately so… StintRack: might not go for it today CumDoctor: wait CumDoctor: what? 2241 Nanoblades had a distinct odor. The polluted ozone stink clung to the clothes of owners. Mai had the usual set of mal-drones watching her back, a full panoply of visual spectra under AI review. And yet, simple, human, sense of smell saved her, not for the first time. She dipped right. Her borne-in muscles ached as more recently installed fibers did the work.. The blade passed just beneath her nose. Small machines leapt off the blade, and her denial field had to activate against them. Mai had bought herself two and a half seconds. Digital assistants broadly recommended drawing her own blades. Instead she reached into her pack – she found it helped resolve situations to have the payload in view. The turtle looked grumpy. She’d only had dried strawberries. Far Distant: “There’s still room,” Kein insisted. Their living canvas ate seaweed, between naps. “Look. Inside other names.” She traced inside some of the oldest names. Owners had to have retraced the lines, in many materials, and in many colors. “Eloise” was in some alloy that defied the elder’s best efforts to name, much less extract. “I don’t want that,” Reeth insisted. “It’ll just be– misspelled. Erleoe– I can’t even say it.” “How about this – binary code, along the bottom edge. You’ll be like a secret code.” The waves lapped at Mauna Kea. They’d cut a tree down to have a fire for the celebration. Kein touched a trio of red berries, drawn on the tip of the shell. “Do you really think we can grow these?” Reeth said. 2241: “Are you really opening negotiations?” her attacker said. It used some sort of voice modulation – an affectation for a killer. It made it hard to tell if they were being sarcastic or not. “Do you think its ever been sold?” Mai said. She admired the interlocking names on the back of the shell. There were over a hundred. Automatic processing logged two dozen languages. “I took it. You’ll take it. Do you think it has ever been just – pieces of eight? Gold for tortoise?” “You think its a stupid thing to fight over?” her attacker said, pointedly. “A turtle?” The blade purred. Whoever was most willing to die usually won. “Oh, I didn’t mean it like that,” Mai said. She shook her head. “Not at all. The opposite.” She had a kill solution ready. She tossed the turtle up in the air. Six second flight time, more than enough. 2023 StintRack: its old.. idk StintRack: its probably nothing CumDoctor: can you take atlas to turtle vet DatingSlime: yeah turtle vet! StintRack: I don’t have the money DatingSlime: we’ll venmo you. CumDoctor: YES. lets get #general in on this. CumDoctor: atlas deserves the best! DatingSlime: custom discord role, Order of Strawberries StintRock: look, if you guys are handing out money… DatingSlime: no. look… i’m doing this for ME. DatingSlime: and atlas. DatingSlime: atlas strawberries are my touching grass. CumDoctor: yeah DatingSlime: atlas is all the grass i’ve got. 1976: The murder was never solved. No – Rogers reminded herself. She was not going to be a passive voice cop. She’d never solved it. She’d kept the turtle as a memento of her own failure. It was named Atlas. Her investigation had found out exactly that much – a turtle’s name. In its role as a good luck charm Atlas had even been present for the big bust at Market and 7th, when a wild spray of bullets punctured her Datsun. She’d told herself: Atlas was armored. More bulletproof than she turned out to be. After a forced retirement a friend brought over a gift – strawberries. “Turtles love strawberries!” she said, and Atlas immediately hauled shell over to them. Det. Rogers stared at it, lost in memory. Had there been a suspect, back then, with a pint of strawberries in the fridge? She felt the faint edge of a memory… But she was just a short-lived human. That night she added her name to the shell. And a few cartoon berries. 1932: The legal battle consumed many years and the bulk of the fortune. In the end the State Supreme Court established that the corpus of a turtle could not be tied to a life estate. The lawyers on both sides went out for drinks. Clarissa had been sternly warned by her attorneys to care for the turtle. Destruction of evidence was fatal to the case, and independently forbidden. So she did. Atlas lived in the garage, in a box, and ate spoil. After the trial she had big plans for turtle soup. But by then the kids were old enough to intervene. It was easier to stare at the animal and assign it blame. She surprised herself when her oldest asked for the thing. Lauren wanted to go west, and seek her fortune, and felt a small turtle should accompany her. “No,” Clarissa had said. Very simply. “Do I at least get it in the will?” Lauren said. Clarissa had no response to that. Her daughter had picked it up, walked away, and Clarissa was two souls poorer. 1879: Eloise kept the turtle. She did try to release it – brought the spheroid down to the river, right on the bank, and waited for it to slip into the waters. To disappear from sight and mind. Along with it would go Robert, the strawberries, and two years of waiting, in vain, for a proposal. The turtle did not move, at all. It wasn’t withdrawn, just immobile, staring at the flow of the water. Like it could do it forever. So she brought it back. There was something about what Jenna had said – about immortality. The eternal turtle. To touch the shell was to commune with something very far and very distant. And Atlas was a little cute. A little. She wrote her name on its carapace.
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Apr 23, 2023 04:20
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In (apologies for lateness!)
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Apr 23, 2023 06:07
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to be in next week
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Apr 23, 2023 16:10
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7 Seconds 1068 words Grete lifted the bowl aloft, "This must be the surprise he mentioned yesterday, what a fantastic gift!" Her mother followed into the bedroom. “A goldfish, how lovely! Make sure to take good care of it!” The fish bobbed placidly, an inscrutable expression written on his face. His eyes gazed ahead without focusing on anything in particular, while his mouth was locked into a permanent “O.” He swam to the base of the bowl, possibly in search of food. ---------------------------------------------------------------- The clear glass walls of the fishbowl seemed to melt under a withering gaze. The view of the fish, once of the room at large, was now dominated by a single eye, cold and dark. The fish darted back and forth, from plant to rock, trying to find a semblance of cover. His scales blistered, his spirit trembled. There was no escape from the scrutiny of the eye, no reprieve from its ceaseless watch. Devoid of shelter, the fish could do nothing but stare back into the terrible and monstrous depths of the eye. The fish felt his psyche pulled from his chest and laid bare in front of him. Every physical detail, every fragment of imagination, every wisp of thought that the fish had was surely known to the eye. This new and terrifying nakedness was now as much a part of the fish as his own tail fin. A pair of shadows darted out, converging just outside the glass. The fish was plunged into sudden darkness, snapping him out of his profane reverie. A peal of laughter rang out as the woman lifted the bowl. ---------------------------------------------------------------- The fish turned in shock at the sudden sound, jolted awake. The door to the room opened and a woman strode inside, bathed in a warm glow from the far room. As she drew closer, the fish could feel the slow and measured vibrations of her footsteps rippling through the water. As her shadow passed through the room, the light filtering through the glass flickered and danced in an otherworldly display. Gazing into the woman’s face, the fish, a creature otherwise predisposed to anxiety, was instantly put at ease. Perhaps it was the concrete proof that he was not alone in the world, or perhaps it was the serene expression she wore. Her warm smile was tinted with fascination. Her soft hair cascaded in waves to her shoulders. She really was blessed with captivating eyes. Was it beauty, or familiarity that drew the fish in so? His recall, as thin and ethereal as the water in the bowl, slipped from his grasp. The woman bent forward to get a better look, her face coming level with the bowl. The fish, taken, wondered why she would take an interest in him, why someone so graceful would ever deign to enter his little world. ---------------------------------------------------------------- Self-consciousness was a novel feeling for the fish. He turned to examine his body. His scales- golden, bright, sleek, and clear- were the most brilliant thing in the bowl, perhaps even the room? Could this be self-confidence? An ebullient joy took hold, driving sleep from his mind. Filled with energy, the fish darted through the bowl, between the stalks of the plant, around the rocky cairn, his powerful tail pushing him along. He could feel his muscles pulse and strength emanate from every part of his body. His mind, curiously unburdened, was completely present in the moment. The stresses and anxieties of minutes and years past seemed far away. The room was still and quiet. Time itself slowed as the fish inhaled the tiniest details around him. He could see the particles of detritus, cast aloft by his swim, flutter lazily back to the pebble-lined base. He could see the grain of the wooden table stretch outwards, spiderweb-like, and converge into knots. He could dare to see the edge of a cloud, peeking past the edge of the window in the room outside. His vision was fueled by an absolute focus, resolute in his mind. He could see! ---------------------------------------------------------------- The fish shook off an idle thought and took in his surroundings. He was perfectly, completely, awake. He could see a pile of dull pebbles at the bottom of the bowl and a green plant swaying back and forth by the glass. A stone cairn stood to the side. Turning his gaze outward, he saw a simple room, bed, table, window, and nightstand. His eyes lingered over a photograph, framed on the far wall. A serious-looking man stared back, alternately flanked by a young woman and an older couple. At first glance, the image appeared to be nothing more than a frozen moment in time, capturing the smiling faces of a happy family. But the fish was instead struck with a profound sense of longing. The grinning faces, once so carefree, now took on a grotesque quality, their joy a cruel reminder of something lost. Thoughts, not quite memories, of the ocean, of a life spent in the company of others, and of possibilities unfathomably vast nipped at the edges of his consciousness, but were held at bay by the proud walls of the fishbowl. There would be no flood of recollection here. This was home now. The fish, despondent, turned inward, to his own form, body and mind. ---------------------------------------------------------------- He was enveloped. Was this the comforting weight of a blanket, or perhaps, the embrace of a lover? No, the pressure the fish now felt came only from the cold depths. His eyes, blinking, fogged, struggled to distinguish blur from blur. He felt the chill reach inside him, icy fingers gripping his shallow heart. Summoning his strength, the fish flapped his tiny fins languidly, pulling into a slow and ponderous swim. Suddenly, he smashed headlong into a glass wall, cold and hard. Tendrils of pain ricocheted through his head, followed by a crushing sense of grief brought on by what the feeling of pain could only mean. This was no nightmare. Visions of his family entered his thoughts. How would they survive without him? While his shoulders were now unburdened, the weight they once bore would surely crush his mother, father, and sister. Only poverty, starvation, and ruination were left for them. His sacrifices would amount to nothing now. He reached for breath, but his mouth was filled with water. He could not scream. ---------------------------------------------------------------- As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams, he found himself adrift, in a bowl, transformed into a goldfish.
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Apr 23, 2023 19:26
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a beautiful host 1500w removed derp fucked around with this message at 00:57 on Dec 15, 2023 |
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Apr 23, 2023 22:22
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I'll judge if you need one still.
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Apr 24, 2023 00:14
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Dicere posted:I'll judge if you need one still.
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Apr 24, 2023 01:18
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Jack and the Boxes 1490 words It’s morning again, which is great because that’s Jack’s favorite time of day. This is the time when Mother will open the door to his little house and he is free to zoom around the Small World and then sit on the couch and watch Uncle Bob, who’s Jack’s best friend. Today, though, Father is on the couch. This is unusual, but it’s time to go to the Big World and pee with Mother and Brother, who are Jack’s best friends. Jack loves to go out to the Big World, it’s his favorite thing. Brother does not always like to go out, he is lazy and Mother and Father yell at him about it sometimes. But never Jack, he is a good boy. They come back inside and Father is eating his breakfast. The Bowls have been filled with Boy Food, which isn’t as good as Parents’ Food, but is still tasty. Brother goes and begins to eat, growling whenever Jack tries to get some food. This happens, it’s usually best to just let Brother eat his fill and eat your own breakfast when he goes to the Frog House to nap. Jack sits with Father, who is staring at the Medium Rectangle. Jack jumps up beside him and wags his tail. Father is his best friend. He smells sad, but Jack kisses him to make him feel better. This is Jack’s Power, he has found. Father’s face tastes like salt, which is a nice bonus. Father finishes his own breakfast, puts on Uncle Bob (Jack’s best friend), then leaves for the Big World forever. This happens sometimes, and is sad, but Father always comes back. It’s always Father who takes Jack for the Long Walk, every afternoon. And sure enough, Father comes back after forever with a bunch of folded up boxes. But that’s unimportant, it’s time for the Long Walk. This is Jack’s favorite time of day. There are many smells to smell and many friends to play with or who will give Jack his favorite thing: Attention. The sun is bright and cool today, which is Jack’s favorite weather. Jack and Brother do their Business and return home. Father begins to unfold the boxes and put things into them, which seems weird to Jack, so he takes a nap about it. Mother comes home after forever, but she and Father don’t talk much, they just watch the Big Rectangle and look at their Small Rectangles then put Jack and Brother to bed. +++ It’s morning again, which is great because that’s Jack’s favorite time of day. Father is on the couch again this morning, which is curious, but it means Jack can snuggle up after going out to the Big World with Mother, which is Jack’s favorite thing. Father stays asleep longer than usual, but Jack doesn’t mind. When Father gets up he still smells sad and spends a long time staring at his Small Rectangle before he makes breakfast. Jack hops up on the back of the couch and puts his head on Father’s shoulder, to better sniff the Parents’ Food. Brother might try to steal sausages, but not Jack. Jack is a good boy. Father spends forever putting more things in the boxes. Jack does not like the boxes. They’re taking up too much of his zooming space and, more importantly, Father’s attention. Jack fetches his favorite toy, the duck, and brings it to Father so they can play. Father loves to play with Jack, and Jack loves to play with Father. It’s his favorite thing. But today the boxes get in the way. Jack will be glad when they’re gone and he has more space to zoom in pursuit of thrown ducks again. That afternoon Father takes Brother down to do his business separately, then takes Jack for an especially Long Walk, which is Jack’s favorite thing. They sit on a bench in the sun for a while, which is unusual, but Jack doesn’t mind. Jack doesn’t mind most things. Father takes out one of his bitter plant sticks and lights it on fire. He doesn’t do that much anymore, now that Jack thinks of it. Usually he only does it when he smells sad or stressed, or has drunk a lot of the sharp smelling water he likes. He talks to Jack, which Jack likes even if he doesn’t understand most of the words. There’s a few he knows, like “Jack” and “good boy” and “walk,” but more he doesn’t. He wags his tail anyway. It’s good to be encouraging, even when Father and his friends do silly things like use words Jack doesn’t know. That night Jack gets to go out to the Big World again, which is a treat. He and Father go over to Uncle Scott’s house, which is Jack’s favorite place. Uncle Scott is there, who is Jack’s best friend. Uncle Scott always has treats for Jack, and sometimes he or Father will pick Jack up and hold him up around Parents’ height while they talk. It doesn’t help Jack understand more words, but he likes to feel included. Father and Uncle Scott stand around forever drinking their sharp smelling water and talking. At one point Father does the strange kind of yelping that makes his face get wet and taste like salt. Jack hops up on the couch and gives him many kisses, to help. Jack loves to help, he is a good boy. They go home after, and Jack goes to bed. Father stays up a long time, though. +++ It’s morning again, which is great because that’s Jack’s favorite time of day. The boxes have multiplied over the last few days, which Jack views with suspicion. There’s less and less space around for a boy to play in. Even when he plays the growling-and-wrestling-game with Brother, which does not take up much space, they can hardly begin before they run into a box that Father has loaded down with things. Mother hasn’t put anything in the boxes, which is strange to Jack. Usually when they’ve engaged in mysterious box-filling activities both parents put things in them. This is a mystery to Jack, but he doesn’t mind. Father takes him and Brother out for Long Walk that afternoon, as he always does. It’s Jack’s favorite thing. Father smells sadder than ever, even though the sun is bright and warm, which is Jack’s favorite weather. This is not Jack’s favorite thing. Jack wants to cheer Father up with games and kisses, but when they get back to the Small World Father leaves forever. Mother comes home after forever and begins to move the boxes over to the front door. She smells sad, but also angry? And relieved? It’s a mystery to Jack. There are many mysteries today. She sits down on the couch when the boxes are all out of the way. Jack wants to snuggle up with Mother, but Brother is being territorial and snaps at Jack so he can have all of Mother’s lap to himself. Jack is annoyed, but he doesn’t mind too much. Brother and Mother have a special bond, like Jack and Father. Mother is, obviously, Jack’s best friend, but Father is his best friend. After forever, just before dinner, Father comes home. This is very exciting. And he’s brought friends, which is even more exciting. It’s Uncle Scott, and Uncle Max, and Grandfather! Jack wags his tail so hard he can’t keep his feet still. He does his back leg dance, and his big jumps, and runs in circles. Parents and their friends love it when he does this. But today it doesn’t seem to register. No one pays him much attention, which is Jack’s least favorite thing. But Father and his friends do take the boxes away, which Jack approves of. They were annoying and Jack is glad to see them gone. Then Father comes back in and picks Jack up like a baby. This is not Jack’s favorite thing, but he puts up with it. He is a good boy. He gives Father many kisses on the face, which still tastes distantly of salt. And then Father leaves forever. This is not unusual, Father often leaves at night. But tonight he doesn’t come back, even after Mother puts Jack and Brother to bed. This is not unheard of, but it is unusual. Jack is sure that it will be fine, Father always comes back after forever. +++ It’s late afternoon, which is usually Jack’s favorite time of day. It means it’s time for Long Walk. But Father hasn’t been home all day. This is unusual. Usually if Father has been gone for the night he comes back in the morning. He wouldn’t miss Long Walk with Jack. It’s their favorite thing. So he must be coming home soon. Jack sits by the door. Father will be home any minute now. Jack will wait for him. He’s a good boy. He can be patient.
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Apr 24, 2023 02:03
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He's Just Spicy 1499 words It’s late. Late enough that there are hardly any other cars on the road when we roll through the last intersection. My husband sits in the passenger seat, blood dripping down his cheek as I pull into the urgent care parking lot. “I’m going to kill him,” I say as I put the car in park and rip the keys out of the ignition. “And then I’m going to wear his skin like a hat.” “Don’t say that.” My husband slides out of the car and shoots me a look that’s a mix of pain, irritation, and exhaustion. “He’s just a cat. He doesn’t understand.” The automatic doors whoosh open and I’m hit with a feeling of deja vu so strong that I forget what day it is. How many times have we come here this year alone for cat bites? The first time it happened, I was terrified for Dave. I had a teacher in middle school whose husband was killed by her cat. He contracted a blood infection from its bite. Dave’s immune system has never been good, but Dave’s still here, alive and kicking. Meanwhile, I’m livid and hungry for blood. Cat blood. It feels so stupid to be this furious with a cat, but I can’t help it. “He’s put seven holes in your face. Unprovoked.” My husband shrugs. “He’s just a little unpredictable. And stupid.” “He’s a dick,” I grumble as Dave shuffles toward the counter to check in. I flop down in a vacant seat. The lobby isn’t full, but there are plenty of people who look worse off than Dave. People are hacking and sneezing, or nursing broken limbs, but I don’t see anyone else who looks like they were mauled by their sixteen-pound pet cat. Dave and I have done this enough that it feels like routine inconvenience; we don’t get the adrenaline surge after Grover’s attacks anymore. Dave gets annoyed. I get pissed. I don’t follow Dave into the exam room; I know what’s going to happen. It’ll be another round of antibiotics at home; the doctors take facial bites pretty seriously. Dave will answer some questions, show them the wound, and we’ll leave with a prescription. Then we’ll go home, walk through the door of our apartment, and find Grover nestled between the couch cushions, purring like a dump truck at the sight of us. As if he hadn’t sunk his teeth into Dave’s face hours earlier. We won’t let him in our room at night for a week or two. Then he’ll look at us with those huge eyes and that bottom snaggletooth as he makes biscuits in the hardwood like a little weirdo, and he’ll beg to be let in so he can snuggle between us under the sheets. Then we’ll let our guard down, and the cycle will continue. I don’t mind Grover when he’s asleep. He’s cute when he’s not trying to eat us alive. That little snaggletooth became more pronounced with age; it constantly juts out. I know Dave’s right; Grover can’t help himself, and we don’t know where things went wrong. Maybe the fever really had scrambled his brain as a kitten. Could fevers do that to cats? The vet gave him a clean bill of health after that episode. I’ve never really understood cats, and I only had one before Grover. I grew up with dogs. Dogs are easy to love. But Grover? I’m pretty sure I hate him. — My knuckles are white as I grip the steering wheel and drive into the sun. I’m clenching my teeth so tight, I must be doing some serious damage to a tooth. But I can’t unclench. Not while Grover wails in the backseat. He loving hates the car. The sound wreaks havoc on my brain and I know loud music won’t be enough to drown it out. Dave’s voice is gentle as he promises Grover that it’s going to be okay, that he’s going to feel better soon. The sunglasses hide my tears as I speed along the highway to the only open emergency vet I could find online. Nothing in town is staffed well enough on weekends. We have to cross the state line to take Grover to a clinic my friend works at. That snaggle-toothed monstrosity has me in a state. He’d stopped eating. Couldn’t walk straight; he’d take a few steps and fall over. Something about his breathing wasn’t right, either. Too fast, too uneven. Dave’s a right mess back there and I can’t afford to come unglued yet, so I just cry in silence as I drive as fast as I can. I don’t even know why I’m crying. Maybe because I’m somewhere else. I see a different road in front of me. I hear a different cat from another life meowing in the distance, crying out in pain that I can’t take away. Then I’m in an airport terminal, bawling into my phone as I listen to Nemo howl on the other end. They’re asking me what I want to do and I don’t know what to tell them; I can’t see him, I don’t know what to do for Nemo. I’m heaving in some dark corner across from my gate, hundreds of miles away from the disaster I am powerless to fix. But I don’t have Nemo anymore. I have Grover. I hate Grover. And I will do anything to save him. Dave’s voice snaps me back to the present. “This is the exit.” I nod and flip my signal as I change lanes. I feel Dave’s eyes on me as I take a slow, shuddering breath. — Dave and I both stew in silence while we sit in the waiting room at the emergency vet. I can’t turn my brain off. We turned our lives upside down to accommodate Grover, but at the end of the day, it never stops feeling like we’re being bullied by a cat. It drives me insane. But gently caress, he’s just a cat. A huge cat. I wish he was different, I wish he was easier to love. It doesn’t feel like it’s been six years since we brought Grover home. It feels like it was just yesterday that Dave and I started dating and picked out a kitten together. We had no idea then what Grover would become; we didn’t know better. But we did our best. He’s not Nemo and never will be Nemo. He’s just Grover. Big, violent, idiot Grover. My friend the vet comes out after about an hour to sit with us. He runs a hand through his hair, looking calm. There’s an odd pull to his mouth as he speaks. “So I can’t find anything wrong with him. He seems weird, but not medically weird.” I frown. “What does that mean?” My friend shrugs. “He’s very okay with being here. More okay than most cats are. I put him on his back for x-rays, and normally we need to restrain cats for that. But he just sort of… laid there, purring the whole time. He actually hasn’t stopped purring since he got here.” None of that makes a lick of sense to me. Dave gives me a look, his frown deepening. He turns to my friend and asks, “What about his breathing and all that?” My friend the vet scratches his head. “That all looks normal now. His pupils are blown out, though, so…” The bench he’s sitting on creaks as he leans forward. “I have to ask: do you keep drugs in the house? Marijuana or anything?” My brows knit together. Weed’s legal in this state and ours, but I haven’t bought any in ages. Dave, though. I don’t know about Dave. I look at him, and Dave looks at me in turn, his features drawn, eyes wide and full of guilt. I know exactly what he’s going to say before he opens his mouth. I cut him off, my answer coming out on a groan. “Oh god, Grover’s just high, isn’t he?” My friend is losing a fight with his own face; I see a smile break through. “It’s highly plausible given the symptoms, especially if you think he had access to it and would ingest it. Would he eat it if he found it?” Dave and I nod in unison, but Dave speaks first. “Oh yeah, he’s a garbage cat.” “He likes to lick soap.” My friend looks mildly shocked by my statement, but the expression fades quickly. “What a funny cat. Give me a few minutes and I’ll have you guys out of here.” I make Dave drive us home while I sit in the passenger seat with Grover, too high on my own relief to drive. Grover looks at me and opens his mouth. A creaky little chitter comes out. Grover never really meowed like a normal cat. He sounds like a miniature xenomorph queen from Alien. I look into Grover’s ginormous eyes and sigh. “You’re a real piece of work, buddy.”
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Apr 24, 2023 02:53
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Cheeto 1310 words Flash: your pet is a semi-sentient artificial creature Dan returned to his Powers University dorm room after Chemistry lab to see his roommate frantically packing their bags. “There has been an emergency. I have to go back to Sybla,” they said through the translator attached to their collar. Sabers Gleaming In Darkness could speak English perfectly well when they were calm, but by the way their wings were buzzing while they frantically flung books and articles of Syblid clothing into a case, calm hadn’t been an option for a minute. “What? You’re going offworld already?” Gleam’s wing covers rattled, which was probably a nod but could just be more nervous noise. Dan caught a folder full of crumpled looseleaf notes before they scattered across the floor. “Hey, slow down. What happened?” Gleam pressed a very human-like hand to their forehead, or whatever the equivalent anatomy was called on a pony-sized praying mantis. “My hatch-parent has done something foolish. They’re standing trial for it. I don’t have much information.” They stared at their desk, suddenly still where they’d been all motion before. “I don’t know what to do, but their pair-bond told me to come home. So. I’m going home.” Dan sank down on his bed. “Holy poo poo, I’m so sorry, dude. Is there anything I can do?” “I do not think so. Wait. Yes. Can you look after Cheeto for me?” Hearing its name, the softball-sized silver orb chirped in its cradle. Suppressing a wince, Dan said: “You can’t take it with you?” Gleam shrugged, a complicated gesture for a being with two sets of shoulders. gently caress. “Uh. Okay. Can you set it to speak English? My Syblid is…” “Getting better,” Gleam said, diplomatically. “And yes. Of course.” They spoke in a series of trills and staccato clicks from their mandibles, and the little lights that banded Cheeto’s equator blinked orange. ”Ownership transfer complete,” it said in a cheerful, slightly stilted voice. ”Language settings updated. Hello, Dan.” —- Cheeto was named after the two syllables that appeared in both English and Syblid. Dan had found it funny at first. The little orb would spin and chirp, and it could change its shape depending on what task Gleam set it to. It was like having a parrot that could also be a flashlight or a soldering iron. Unfortunately, it was almost exactly like a parrot that could also be a soldering iron, in that it simply did not shut up. Worse than that, it followed him everywhere. On Sybla, things like Cheeto would be used like watchdogs. They were meant to keep close to their people. But most Syblids who were wealthy enough to have a… whatever Cheeto was… had some kind of implant in their central nervous systems that let them control their weird orb friends. Without a way to control it or communicate silently, Cheeto commented out loud on everything he did. “Your route would be 6% more efficient if you cut across the quad!” “Scans indicate that when speaking to Lyra Kroll your heart rate increases in a manner consistent with fear or arousal!” “You have answered question 7 incorrectly! The amygdala mediates fear, not hunger!” That last one got him thrown out of Psychology 102. “You appear upset,” Cheeto burbled as Dan fumed back toward his dorm room. “Would you like me to play some media? Sabers Gleaming in Darkness has uploaded many popular human songs.” “Go away.” Cheeto hovered in front of him, just out of reach, little lights winking on its surface. “You are upset. Upbeat music will help. THIS IS MY FIGHT SONG. PROVE I’M ALRIGHT SONG.” People were staring. “Shut up,” Dan hissed. If anything, Cheeto played the song louder, bobbing above his head like a tiny disco ball. “Shut up!” Dan jumped up and swatted at the bot. It zipped out of the way and chirped reproachfully, but stopped the song. “There is no need to resort to physical violence, Daniel.” Dan covered his face with his hands and let out a loud groan. “Oh my god, go away!” The little orb dipped. “You do not like me.” “No! I don’t like you! I’m not surprised Gleam didn’t want to take you back to Sybla, you’re the worst!” “I am sorry, Dan.” “Just… go back to the dorm. Sit in your cradle. Don’t talk to me. Please.” Cheeto hovered for a moment, silent, then zipped away, leaving Dan to feel outraged and stupid and guilty in turns. ____ Dan awoke to frantic pinging. He groaned and opened his mouth to cuss at Cheeto again, and then immediately started coughing. His eyes stung when he opened them, and he realized the room was full of smoke. “What…” he tried to say, but the air was thick and choking. He stumbled out of his bed to the window. He couldn’t seem to work the latch, his hands didn’t want to work. Cheeto’s lights blinked at him from its cradle. “There is a fire,” it said, its tone neutral. “You must exit the building immediately.” “Cheeto… the window. I need the window open.” It extended a pair of arms and pulled the window open. Dan stuck his head out, gulping air. The building was on fire. Someone had set the building on fire. Why weren’t the fire alarms working? Where were the trucks? “Cheeto call 911.” :”Emergency services is on the way,” Cheeto said, primly. It paused. When it spoke again its voice was higher, almost panicked. “Oh. They may not be. This is not the only building on fire in the city.” “gently caress! Cheeto, is anyone else awake? The alarms aren’t on…” “I don’t know. My scans are limited to this room.” “We gotta wake people up. We gotta get people out. You gotta play the loudest song you’ve got, okay? Follow me.” Cheeto did. A crashing, shrieking noise that made Dan’s whole body flinch away emitted from its speakers as it played a Syblid opera at top volume. Dan grabbed a dust mask off his desk, figuring it would be better than nothing, and ran down the hallway, banging on doors, yelling “Fire! Fire! Everybody out!” People fled. It was chaos. Dan did his best to keep everyone moving in one direction, but people kept trying to go back to their rooms to grab one last item. Cheeto would dive in front of them, lights flashing red with various spiky implements extended. “Returning to your room has an 85% chance of death or dismemberment,” it intoned. “Exit the building immediately.” The evacuation took minutes. It felt like hours. It felt like seconds. Dan collapsed on the ground, his mask a wreck, his skin covered in soot. The fire was greasy, more smoke than inferno, but by the time the fire trucks arrived it was licking out the windows of the top floor. Cheeto hovered over Dan’s chest. “Scans indicate symptoms consistent with smoke inhalation,” it said. “You will need medical support.” “Lot of people will need medical support.” Something was wrong in his lungs, Dan could feel it. He hoped that the smoke wasn’t laced with anything weird. “gently caress. What happened here?” It beeped. “I’m a companion bot. Not an analyst. I am not equipped to provide that information. I am not equipped for any of this. I am sorry.” Dan closed his eyes. “I’m sorry I tried to hit you. That was hosed up.” “It’s okay. I was being very annoying. I was angry with Gleam for leaving me.” It shifted forms, transitioning from an orb to a silvery beetle, and landed on the grass next to Dan. There were things Dan could have said to that, things that he wanted to say. Instead he had another coughing fit. The little beetle crawled onto his shoulder. He put his hand over it, stroking its gleaming shell with his thumb while everything else he owned went up in flames.
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Apr 24, 2023 04:01
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Responsibility 1538 words Flash rule: The creature is not actually your pet, for whatever reason. The ground floor of Leslie's son's condominium was more aquarium than home. From the moment Leslie set down her bag in the foyer and caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glassy far wall, she knew her plan of sleeping on Henry's couch wouldn't work; there was only barely a living room, with a single recliner and lamp facing the floor-to-ceiling tank. The aquarium ran along the hallways, the inner walls of the condo surrounded by planes of glass and water, with even one wall of the kitchen consumed -- a labyrinth for man and fish alike. How did Henry live like this? Leslie wished she'd had a chance to ask him, but all she'd gotten was an address over text and out of town, feed my fish pls. Five years of silence, and now here she was, alone with an aquarium and its sole occupant. The goldfish was gigantic, at least eight feet long from nose to tail, and its eye was fixed on Leslie. What was its name again? Snappy? Yes, that was right; Henry had named his goldfish after turtles, an act of protest after his father had decided there were to be no reptiles in the house. Boxy and Slider had died quickly, but Snappy had lived, and Henry had doted on that last survivor. They'd intended for the fish to help teach Henry responsibility, and it had clearly worked too well. How many years had it been -- forty since that day in the pet store when Henry insisted on feeder goldfish, because they needed a chance? Thirty since Henry had left for college with a suitcase and Snappy's panoply? And here Snappy was, making slow circles around the living-room tank, that same black-mantled gold as had caught Henry's eye in the pet store. Wait. Were those white spots? Leslie barely remembered her goldfish husbandry now, but she remembered the white-spot disease: something with a long name, shortened just to "ich." The closer she looked, the more white spots she could see. Snappy didn't seem particularly ill otherwise, but how could she possibly tell? Maybe Henry had left a care guide somewhere. Leslie headed towards the kitchen, hoping for something on a counter or stuck to the fridge, but found only clean countertops and a fridge bare of even magnets. The cabinets were full of tank-cleaning supplies, and the fridge was stocked with labeled plastic containers full of brown slurry that must have been fish food, but there was no trace of medication. Had Snappy gotten sick just in time for Henry's departure and her arrival? Well, this late at night, there was nothing for it. Leslie pulled out what seemed to be the last fish-food container of the day ("Evening" -- had Henry been there for "Afternoon?") and turned to the aquarium wall of the kitchen, looking for some sign of just how Henry fed his Leviathan. (For that matter, how did he clean the tank? How did any of this work, and how much had it cost to install this system? What did Henry do for a living, anyway? Too many questions, she thought, and no answers forthcoming.) Snappy had followed her to the kitchen, still swimming tight circles as its enclosure allowed, but circling a fixed point: what looked like some sort of airlock system. Leslie dumped in the slurry, pressed a button to eject it into the tank, and watched as Snappy fed. Its appetite was all right, at least. Wasn't that a good sign? "You're trapped in here with each other," she muttered. "My son and his only friend." Leslie resigned herself to a night on the recliner; the living-room tank lights dimmed, at least, but there was still a dull blue glow in her vision, along with the steady chug and whine of aquarium filters. She dreamt herself trapped in a factory, watched by huge round eyes, as she searched for Henry's office. He'd said he'd meet her at the gate. Why wasn't he there? *** The next morning, the spots had spread, and Snappy looked listless, lingering in the living-room tank even as Leslie walked to the kitchen to feed it. When it finally made its way to its meal, it scraped against the walls of the tank: another ich symptom, Leslie remembered faintly, almost able to hear Henry's voice at the kitchen table reciting his latest goldfish fact. Skin irritation would make goldfish scrape themselves raw against anything in the tank they could find, and Snappy's aquarium labyrinth seemed to be furnished only with aquatic plants and a few small rocks -- no castles or sunken treasure chests, as if Henry had decided Snappy was too grown-up for whimsy. Perhaps it was. Leslie had never seen an animal so solemn. After the morning feeding, Leslie did another thorough sweep of the apartment for any clues, trying to keep the worst-case scenarios out of her mind. Snappy was not dying on her watch. Henry hadn't asked her for anything in so long, not since the month in college that he'd fallen short on rent and she'd been positively gleeful to wire him money, and she refused to fail him now. It was absurd and selfish to expect gratitude, but even a "thx" over text would be something. All she needed was some guide, some clue, the medication or a card for a vet or anything, even the barest scrap of a lifeline. What she found was a receipt from Al's Aquatics, with an address downtown. That was a start. Al's Aquatics was a corner store filled with tight aisles and sprawling tanks, precisely as Leslie had expected. She went straight to the back counter, where the clerk regarded her with a bland smile. "Forgive me," Leslie began, "but I need help and I'm not sure where else to go. I'm taking care of my son's fish while he's out of town, and I think it has ich." The clerk's smile shifted away from customer-service towards actual-friendship. "Oh, are you Hank's mom? He said you might come by. He thought Snappy was looking a little off, but he didn't have time to do much before he had to go back to the hospital. White spots, right? Scraping the glass?" "Yes, that's it," said Leslie, even as all thoughts of fish retreated from her mind. "Pardon me for prying, but did you say he's in the hospital?" "Oh, yeah, just his usual," replied the clerk breezily. "He usually has Al come fish-sit for him, but it's convention week so Al's down in Florida. We can get you all set up with ich stuff, and I'll just put it on Hank's tab, okay? Don't worry about Snappy. He's a tough little guy." Leslie let the clerk lead her around the store, still chattering about Snappy's usual regimen, and found that the panic in her heart was cooling into something like acceptance. Her son had a nickname here. He had people here, and from the sound of it, so did Snappy. Whatever was going on, at least the two of them weren't alone in the world. *** The ich treatment was a multi-front war: careful adjustments to the tank temperature and filtration (via the control console in the condo's gleaming crawlspace, where the console squatted like a mid-century supercomputer), careful addition of aquarium salt to various chemical ports throughout the house, and a thin green liquid that she poured into Snappy's food airlock along with its meals. The condo felt hot and muggy, and the air smelled of salt even with the AC blasting, but the white spots began to fade from Snappy's scales within a day or two. Snappy was soon again on the move, anticipating each meal, even as the prepared contents of the fridge began to dwindle. Surely there would be word from Henry soon? Leslie tried not to think of the hospital, tried to treat it all with the same easy cheer the clerk had shown. It was just his "usual," after all, whatever that meant. Surely it meant normalcy. After the next-to-last evening feeding, with one day's worth left in the fridge, Leslie awoke from a recliner nap to find a text on her phone: OMW, home in 30. Henry. 20 minutes ago. Hardly enough time to pack her things and vanish, but did Henry even want that? Leslie realized she had no way of knowing; there'd never been a falling out or a heart-to-heart chat, just Henry leaving and not coming home. Besides, there were several days left on the ich protocol. Better to hand that off in person, surely? Leslie rose to her feet and locked eyes with Snappy, which had kept up its vigil in the tank all the while. She was starting to understand how one might live with this fish, how its presence might be a lifelong comfort and not a burden. Whoever her son was now, he had seen a feeder fish through forty years, and might well see it through forty more. She put her hand slowly and carefully to the glass -- no sudden movements, she remembered, and no tapping. It frightened them, even if Snappy seemed far beyond fear now. "He'll be home soon," Leslie said. "Let's wait together."
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Apr 24, 2023 05:24
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Submissions are closed. Judgment to fall later today, once all three judges have reviewed and pronounced verdicts upon the texts.
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Apr 24, 2023 14:34
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Judgment: Week 559 I would like to thank everyone who submitted this week, and let's have a special round of applause for my co-judges, Thranguy and Dicere. Loser: Slither on the Cross by Mrenda Dishonorable Mention: a beautiful host by derp Honorable Mentions: Jack and the Boxes by Slightly Lions; Responsibility by Antivehicular Winner: Old Pavlova by Copernic Disqualifications: archduke.iago (late signup, but you'll still get a crit from me); Sitting Here (no-show) Congratulations, Copernic! The throne is yours! Crits to come shortly.
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Apr 24, 2023 20:30
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Week 559 Crits (Admiralty Flag) Just a reminder to reach out in Discord and not in the thread if you have questions! Slither on the Cross - Mrenda: 1/5 Your prose has lots of energy, I have a good picture of your narrator, but your story needs boundaries of some sort. It's like a coked-out version of Portnoy's Complaint minus an effective punchline. It's needlessly vulgar (though I understand that you were character-building with this, but I found it shocking for shock's sake). The pet theme...ahem...barely slithered in. I believe stream of consciousness writing really needs something special to work as a story, and, I'm sorry, I didn't see it here. Old Pavlova - Copernic: 4/5 You've written a challenging and deft intertwining of fractured vignettes spread over a long timeline. The atmosphere and flavor were distinct in each timeslice, and there was nice worldbuilding in the future scenes (e.g., "waves lapping at Mauna Kea"). The characters were drawn about as well as they could be considering the format. You produced a nice, solid, well-told set of stories braided into a coherent strand, and in doing so, you kept an appropriate focus on the pet and its impact on the people in its life. The only significant criticism I have is your story lacks the emotional heft one would like, not to say that it's totally absent. Naturally, it's more difficult to incorporate this when you've got a series of vignettes rather than a story, but there should be a satisfying emotional "so what" to the whole thing as well, and you come up a little short here. 7 Seconds - archduke.iago: 2/5 - DQed I applaud your effort to sneak in late, and admire the guts you have to skirt the line on the no fanfic rule. You have a good concept and plan, but it's lacking in the execution. There's a lot of telling instead of showing going on here. You also have a problem with distance in sensory passages (e.g., "The fish felt his psyche pulled from his chest" should usually be "His psyche was pulled from his chest", because the first distances us from the text, and I'm not counting the examples in your "He could see!" paragraph). However, that's not as much of a killer as usual because you're using a 3rd person omniscient narrator, which is itself difficult to pull off well in this day and age, the overall effect of which is I'm disconnected from your story, because I'm being told things are happening rather than getting to experience them more viscerally through the narrator's point of view. Additional comment after checking the archive: A decent effort for an initial TD entrant. Keep at it! derp - a beautiful host: 2.25/5 You have a clearly drawn, though dislikable, main character, and the bee lady is vivid as well. I thought the italics were too much at first, but then I got into the swing of them, hearing them accentuate the voice of the main character. The July 12th part of the story is fairly deftly told; I had a good feel for her place and the action. It's unfortunate, then, that I think the July 14th and July 17th sections significantly detracted from the whole and made you fail to stick the landing (though I did chuckle a bit at "open up"), and the pet theme barely slid in at the end (in a sharp little scene that was orthogonal to the rest of the story). Overall, I was left wondering if I missed something. Was she supposed to be a literal wasp lady herself spreading her progeny through the neighborhood? (He admired her waist and curves; I thought perhaps this was a reference to a waspish waist.) Had she adopted the social mannerisms of bees? But wasps are natural enemies of bees. Is something bad going to happen to this would-be Don Juan because of these hatching insects?...I was unsatisfied and felt the story was unresolved, which is a shame, because you started off with something strong and vibrant. Slightly Lions - Jack and the Boxes: 4/5 Delightful yet sad story skillfully told from an unexpected POV. I didn't read with a supercritical eye -- the flavor of the story dissuaded me from getting out a microscope, which is a point in its favor -- but I didn't catch any slips in your narrator's voice or perceptions. Lots of little laughs throughout. You psyched me out in the second section, where I thought the story was going down an even darker path. Your ending is poignant without being maudlin. The simplistic, repetitive phrasing throughout the story isn't detrimental as it would normally be, as it reflects your narrator's POV. A good, solid story that focuses on the week's theme from a different yet appropriate angle while having a strong emotional core. But perhaps the very charm and nature of the story prevents it from being deep and saying anything beyond "pets love us unconditionally" and "breakups hurt everyone, even the dogs." Beezus - He's Just Spicy: 3/5 Your story brings a strong feeling of mise-en-scène, with vivid descriptions that bring it to life. However, I feel its main weakness is it spends over a third of its word count establishing the superficial reasons why your protagonist 'hates' Grover in the first section, while relegating the real reasons to a short, though effective, passage in the middle of the story. I mean, I see what you're trying to do, but it's a lot of words to get the point across; perhaps the urgent care intro scene might have been better handled by a mid-story flashback interwoven with Nemo's story? I'm not sure of the best solution, but it made the story feel disjointed. The ultimate cause of Grover's issues was worth a chuckle, but also reinforced the theme of your story: pets are unpredictable and uncontrollable. An enjoyable story, but I felt it was ultimately nothing more than a slice of life with a heavy sprinkling of the often paradoxical emotions that go hand-in-hand with pet ownership. Chernobyl Princess - Cheeto: 3.5/5 One of my biggest TD problems is verbosity, and I'm always impressed when someone with a flash rule comes in under the base word count with a good story. You incorporated the flash rule well, and covered the pet theme thoroughly. Cheeto was well-drawn and distinctive, rather than being a clockwork cat or Sony Aibo or whatever, which was a nice surprise; he reminded me of a factory second drone from the Culture, which I wasn't expecting in these stories. You have nice worldbuilding at the beginning with Gleam; a lot was accomplished there with good economy. However, as we get to the meat of the story, Dan vs. Cheeto is very in-your-face/on-the-nose, and I think you could have leveraged your unused word count to make the conflict a bit more subtle. The climax of the story felt a little forced and out of left field; yet, there was a gleam (get it?) of heart in the reconciliation of the two, but it was a flash and that was over. A competent, well-told tale. It's a little soft at the end, but that's mostly redeemed by the final line. I feel like another pass or so could have really made this shine. Antivehicular - Responsibility: 4.25/5 I'll start with the gripes. My biggest problem with the story is imagining the ribbon of aquarium stretching throughout the condo. I had some disbelief imagining Henry had problems finding other people besides Al to watch Snappy, considering he's well-known and liked at the store, but I can set that aside. The nature of the estrangement begged belief with the ask (five years of silence, then watch my fish?), but you at least covered well on Leslie's side with her understandable wish to do anything to reopen lines of communication with her son. With those out of the way, I'll start by acknowledging the flash rule and pet theme were front and center throughout the story. Interesting questions were raised throughout and, if not answered, addressed later (e.g., where was Henry? Why contact his mother?). We see character development on the part of the mother as those mysteries are lifted and as her presuppositions are challenged. The whole story holds together, is well-told, checks all the boxes, and tells us a lot about its two characters, one of whom doesn't even appear directly in the text. I think that if I hadn't had to have stretched so far to believe some of the things at the beginning, I would have loved the story all the more.
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Apr 24, 2023 21:25
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Week 560 Young Hello from Disneyland. Its so easy to be overwhelmed here, and especially so if you sit and watch all the families go by. What's going to happen with all these many kids, including my own? Should I, at any given second, be looking to their future, holding on to the moment, or making memories of the past? Look at someone with sixty-seventy years to go. How to feel about that? Envious? Hopeful? Pity? In these stories we often cram as much of our own anxieties and regrets as we can into one single, small package. So how appropriate that this week we are writing about children. Your kids, someone else's kids, yourself as a kid. You get 1000 words. 500 more if you take a flash rule. I will assign you a classic children's book to work in... thematically. Signups are due by Friday, April 28, 11:59pm PDT. Submissions are due by Sunday, April 30, 11:59pm PDT. I have never judged before and appreciate any tips. Judges: copernic chernobyl princess Entrants: flerp chili violet_sky thranguy [flash: GOODNIGHT MOON] admiralty flag archduke.iago Copernic fucked around with this message at 05:01 on Apr 29, 2023 |
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Apr 25, 2023 00:54
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In and flash.
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Apr 25, 2023 01:16
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In
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Apr 25, 2023 02:09
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Thranguy posted:In and flash. your book is GOODNIGHT MOON.
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Apr 25, 2023 04:26
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