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Slightly Lions posted:I love action movies. They're often denigrated as "low art," relegated to summer popcorn fare, but I think some of the best films ever made are in the action genre. Die Hard is a masterclass in pacing and character, Hero balances historical context with otherworldly visuals, and John Wick has some of the most interesting and effortless world building and cinematography of the 21st century. I love the balletic quality of good choreography and the efficiency of plotting and character exposition a good, tight action movie requires. There's a level of craft required at every level of the film-making that I think gets unfortunately overlooked when your Drunken Masters and Speed's get lumped in with Transformers and the like. while i definitely like my quieter (and more boring) stuff over action, i do think there is a lot of value in action movies. honestly, if anybody considers a work "lowbrow" as a way to diminish the value of the work, theyre kind of an idiot lol. anyways, what i really enjoy is the summer! tbh i feel like this is maybe a bit of a hot (lol) take but i dont like the winter. i like warm days, i like the sun being out for longer, i like wearing less clothes, i like it being brighter, i like drinking cold things on hot days. maybe its just because im awfully skinny so i cant handle the cold well, but the summer always just feels like a better time.
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May 10, 2023 07:10
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I love board games, and in particular, board games about railroads, which, admittedly, is an unexpectedly large portion them. From the abstract network building games like Ticket to Ride to pickup and delivery games of complexity through the Empire Builder series (which has entries that let you build railroads through not-middle earth or Mars, which is cool) to Railways of the World and on to economic simulation games like Steam or the 18xx games (well, it's been a long minute since I've played an 18xx, but I have and enjoyed them.), and even odder ones like On the Underground and Russian Railways, fun times. And the odd thing is I don't geek out about actual railroad engines at all.
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May 12, 2023 07:11
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Thranguy posted:I love board games, and in particular, board games about railroads, which, admittedly, is an unexpectedly large portion them. From the abstract network building games like Ticket to Ride to pickup and delivery games of complexity through the Empire Builder series (which has entries that let you build railroads through not-middle earth or Mars, which is cool) to Railways of the World and on to economic simulation games like Steam or the 18xx games (well, it's been a long minute since I've played an 18xx, but I have and enjoyed them.), and even odder ones like On the Underground and Russian Railways, fun times. And the odd thing is I don't geek out about actual railroad engines at all. one of my favorite things is my dog, Charlotte!!!  she's a weird little dog that is incredibly scared of everything and doesnt like anybody except me and a few other people. she barks a lot and her bark is annoyingly high pitch and she'll just do it randomly. but she also loves to jump in my arms and sometimes she'll even chase some toys and she's very adorable and very stupid and i love her even though she kinda sucks sometimes.
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May 12, 2023 08:02
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Hello, here are some 3 month old crits. TD 548, the Round the Twist fanfic week I'm gonna grab my comments from judgechat back in the day but then also reread the stories. Staggy - Rent Free Judgechat comments OK I have read Rent Free It's competently told and has a good voice but something about it just doesn't excite me that much idk OK reread time. Yeah OK it just wasn't that interesting. The dialogue was kind of decent I guess but it wasn't quite funny enough to overcome the sheer absence of anything really happening. Yoruichi - I love my axe as much as I love you JUDGECHAT OK I love my axes as much as etc etc is kinda a nothing story, it's fun but that's about it OK time for a read over. Like a do over, but with reading. OK first of all, there is a goblin, which is good. OK there's some accent tomfoolery that I don't know if I have the patience for. Hmmm, feels like I should like this more than I do. I think the accents kinda took me out of it, and the fake tension with 'will the protag fulfil the contract to murder someone who, a. they're in love with and, b. is their best source of weapons, just seems a bit weak. Also I guess I wasn't able to empathise with the protag deciding 'nah I'm gonna do nothing about this crush I have on a person, my happy ever after is with this new axe'. IDK the ending just felt a bit flat to me. Admiralty Flag - Radio Da Da JUDGECHAT COMMENTS Radio Da Da was fine I guess Nothing's overly excited me so far Reading again. OK so this leaned too hard into the radio gimmick, for me, and a story which is mostly a guy listening to a bunch of different songs is, imo, not that interesting a story. Felt a bit cliched as well, and didn't really care about Sammy's dad getting his second chance or whatever because we didn't spend any time with him knowing he was his dad or caring about his character. Pham Nuwen - Ula JUDGECHAT Hmm. Ula is the best so far, IMO, even though it lost me a bit with having the narrator describe what they're saying instead of just saying the dialogue. OK so I read it again and it's still good, but I also found myself not caring that much about the characters. I think part of it is that a lot of what feels to me like the important plot stuff - Ula losing her skin, the main character having to look for it - takes kind of a back seat in the narrative. Thranguy - Monkeyshines Hmmm what did I say about it the first time, let's see! Monkeyshines is kinda pleasant. Even though it's similar to a bunch of the others in a not much substance kinda way, I prefer it to all the others that aren't Ula. OK time to read again! OK yeah, it really was kind of a nothing story, not sure why last time it was my second favourite up to this point, other than it had a goblin and was light and breezy and good natured I guess, which goes a long way. Caligula Kangaroo - The Kenning House Previous judgechat: Kenning House is a little frustrating because it felt like there was something there but it wasn't clear enough OK I think I got it a bit more this time, seems like Albert's kids sold him to fairies or swapped him with a fairy child or something, IDK? Anyway, still felt like you could've brought that point out a bit more. Bad Seafood - The Kennel Judgechat comments: OK Ula and the Kennel are my two picks I'm fine with Kennel for win. So I guess I didn't make any specific comments except for I had it in my top two, let's go for another runthrough! Hmmm, couple of errors I don't remember noticing last time. OK yeah, quite a lot of errors, but really well told, with the added benefit that it felt like there was something significant going on, and I cared about the characters. I started remembering part way through what it was about, but still kinda cared about what was happening.
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May 13, 2023 13:09
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sign ups closed
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May 13, 2023 16:54
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a bundle of papers in an attic box 1200w removed derp fucked around with this message at 00:58 on Dec 15, 2023 |
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May 15, 2023 05:14
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First Loves 1995 words The sun hung low on the horizon casting long, black shadows of trees and telephone poles, limning the sere late summer landscape with gold. The air smelled like crushed grass and baking earth with a slight salt tang carried by the sea breeze from the east. It was quiet, save for the rustling of the leaves and the distant warbling of birds in the conservation land to the north. It was one of those days when the world itself seemed to bask in the heat like a lizard sunning itself on a rock, slow, languid and content. All God’s creatures were at peace with His creation. Except Jake Lipton. Jake stood by his bike, trying to lean nonchalantly against a telephone pole by the roadside. He checked his hair again in the compact mirror he’d swiped from his sister. His mouth was dry with road dust and nerves and his palms were sweaty. He knew, with the desperate certainty only available to 16 year olds, that this was the most important evening of his life to date and he was realizing he had absolutely no idea how not to blow it. He checked his watch for the fifth time: ten til seven. Sara Trainor would be there any minute. Definitely. Probably. Maybe. He checked his watch again. When he looked up a new shadow was reaching over top of the shallow hill. Jake’s heart lept a little in his chest as Sara hopped off her bike. His stomach flipped when she smiled. She was a year older than him, and while his growth spurt had started, she remained a few inches taller. The gangliness of the early teens had melted away into a confident, long limbed grace that made him feel even more awkward than 16 year old boys usually do. She had an oval, sharp featured face dominated by large eyes the deep blue-gray of the open ocean and a wide mouth that sported an easy smile. She was beautiful, even with her short, sandy-blonde hair stiff with salt and the beginnings of a sunburn blossoming across her shoulders and arms, beautiful in ways Jake struggled to articulate through the cloud of hormones drowning his brain. “Hey,” he said. “Hey yourself,” she replied, and laughed. He thought it sounded clear and lovely as struck crystal. Jake smiled back at her, feeling foolish, feeling nervous, feeling brave. The moment stretched. “So,” she said, “Do you want to get going? The movie’ll start at sundown.” He shook himself and nodded, mounted his bike for the short ride down to the drive-in. Jake had known Sara since they were both little kids. Their families had been vacationing in the same southern Maine town every July for years, and the two had been inseparable every summer. Then puberty had raised its sweaty, pimply head and Jake had started to notice girls, and there was no girl he noticed more than Sara. He worried it had made things awkward, that their easy camaraderie might be damaged by his crush. It never occurred to him that the awkwardness might coming from two directions. After all, he was just Jake, the small, quiet boy with the unruly dark hair and coke bottle glasses. Who’d be stiff or nervous around him? They’d spent most days together this year, as usual. She’d gotten a part time job lifeguarding at the beach and he’d spent much of the time sitting under the lifeguard chair, talking listlessly about a lot of nothing much, carefully avoiding anything that sounded like feelings. But they were nearing the end of the month and his family would be going back to Boston soon. So he’d plucked up his courage and asked if she wanted to see a movie, just the two of them. She’d given him a shy smile, her zinc-painted nose crinkling in a way that made his breath catch, and said “Yeah Jake, it’s a date.” He’d floated his way home to dinner on that sentence, then spent the night staring at the ceiling and pondering the many meanings of the word “date.” They hitched their bikes to an old wooden fencepost just out of sight of the drive-in and continued on foot. They were going to sneak into the movie, his idea. He didn’t have any money and he couldn’t ask her to pay for him, that would be mortifying. She’d seemed to find the idea amusing. He’d decided to try being a bad boy on for size, but his imagination on the subject was still limited. He tossed his backpack over the fence and offered his hands, stirrup fashion, to boost her over. She snorted at that, but graciously accepted his very unnecessary help, then he clamored over in what he hoped was a cool, debonair fashion. At least he managed not to land on his rear end. The two teens crept as quietly as they could to the back of the crowd of picnickers surrounding the actual screen, stopping well short of the pool of lights staked into the ground. Sal’s Theatre was nominally a drive in, but few people in the little vacation town of Spinnaker Point actually drove anywhere once they got in, so most of the movie-goers were settled on blankets and lawnchairs in a broad semicircle between the projector and screen. Jake hauled a blanket out of his backpack and spread it out the ground and gestured gallantly for Sara to make herself comfortable. She offered a mocking curtsey as she settled in on the blanket and then patted a spot near her where she thought he ought to sit. It was awfully close. He sat down next to her, knee nearly touching her thigh. They were close enough that he could smell her, a melange of sunscreen, sea salt, sweat and something floral and earthy he could only think of as the smell of her. It made his head spin. He wondered if this was what being drunk was like. “Have you seen this one?” she asked, turning towards him. He shook his head, too distracted by her proximity to form actual words. He wasn’t usually this tongue-tied when they were hanging out, she wasn’t intimidating in the way his crushes at school were, but here in the warm, breezy night as the sun disappeared and the stars began to twinkle above them it felt different. “Well, you’re in for a treat. It’s amazing.” In an effort to bring some culture to the extremely white vacation spot Sal’s had managed to score some foreign language movies for their Friday night showings and that night they were playing that year’s Oscar winner Hero. It had come out over the winter but Jake hadn’t managed to catch it. “That’s what I’ve heard,” he said, trying to keep up his end of the conversation. “It’s gorgeous, it really is. And that Jet Li is a fox.” She made a growling sound in the back of her throat, then dissolved into peals of laughter at his consternated expression. “Don’t worry, Jake,” she said, bumping him with her shoulder “You’ve got no competition tonight.” He was saved from fumbling his way through a reply by the dimming of the ground lights as the projector behind them whirred to life. And for the first time that week Jake found his attention directed entirely away from Sara. From the opening credits on he was transported. The wide, sweeping shots of an arid desert and a rattling coach and the imposing edifice of the Imperial Palace made him feel small. He didn’t know much Chinese history, but the visual storytelling made him feel like he didn’t need to. He was delighted by the twists and turns of the plot and enraptured by the rich color palette that kept its dense narrative intelligible with nothing but the eye. And violence had never looked so pretty. He’d seen other action movies, but for all that they’d been fun their approach to combat had been workmanlike, even a little clumsy when gunplay wasn’t involved. He’d never seen anything like the lightning ballet of sword strokes, kicks, and punches that unfolded before him to bring to life the tragic romance of Broken Sword and Flying Snow, or the doomed and pragmatic heroism of Nameless. He’d never known movies could be like this. He hardly even noticed when Sara leaned over and put her head on his shoulder. And then it was over, the final credits rolling as the film’s enchantment slowly dissolved like fog in the morning sun. And as he came back to himself he very definitely noticed Sara’s head on his shoulder. They looked at each other and smiled. “You were right,” he told her, “That was stunning.” “I’m glad you liked it,” she said, standing up and offering him a hand to pull himself up, “Now let’s skedaddle before anyone notices we didn’t come in through the front gate.” “Sure thing, grandma,” he chuckled as he stood up, “Who the hell says skedaddle in this day and age? Are we gonna go down to the sock-hop and dance the Jitterbug?” Sara looked back and stuck her tongue out at him as she jogged away. He packed up the blanket and they legged it over the fence and back to their bikes grinning like idiots at having pulled off the crime of the century. With part of his mind back in ancient China, puzzling the mystery of why he’d liked the movie so much, Jake felt more relaxed than he had all night. When they got to the fencepost he hardly even hesitated to ask if she wanted to stay out longer and go to the town’s main beach. They walked their bikes over in the cooling air, Jake gushing all the while about the film. Sara nodded along, offering some insights about the use of color and the difference in effect of close up and wide angle shots. She’d taken a film class last semester, she explained, and he immediately pressed her to tell him more. They left their bikes by the lifeguard tower and went to sit on the jetty of rough hewn rocks still warm from the day’s sunlight. They sat shoulder to shoulder as Jake rapidly exhausted Sara’s knowledge of film theory. He kept right on opining about the fight choreography as she fell silent, resting her head on his shoulder again. Finally she heaved an exasperated sigh and turned to look up at him. “Jake, do you just want to talk about that movie all night?” He looked down at her and realized, really realized, that their faces were inches apart as they sat on a deserted beach with nothing but the soft susurrus of the surf for company and he decided that no, he didn’t. There was actually something else he very much wanted to do. He made the boldest move of his young life and cupped her jaw in his hand and leaned in to meet her lips. Her mouth tasted like sea salt and cherry lip gloss. After a long moment that went by far too quickly they broke apart, both of them grinning. “It loving took you long enough,” she said, punching him in the shoulder. He caught her hand before she could pull it back and hauled her into his lap, her body warm in the night air, and kissed her again. They stayed there a long time, until the moon started to dip towards the horizon. A month later, at home in Boston, Jake got a package from Connecticut. It was from Sara. It had a note in it with the number to a cell phone she’d bought with her summer job money, and a book on film theory. “Read up,” the note said, “And pick a movie. Call me and we can talk about it. It’s too long until July.” The book smelled of fresh paper, cherry lipgloss, and an earthy, floral scent he thought of as her.
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May 15, 2023 06:18
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Crystal Tunnels and Floating Shards 1090 words The conductor announced "Next stop, Shard Daleth," and we knew that we were screwed, one ticket-check away from a life-wrecking experience, but what else were we supposed to have done. Scraps needed us. Scraps was why Jianni and I were friends, really. He's a high-strung little mutt, doesn't like anybody but us. Not a biter but a hell of a barker. And just before our stop he slipped his leash and ran off up the train. So we ran after him, but he seemed to get lucky with someone opening the inter-car doors every time while we had to push around other standing passengers. Now, if we had managed to find him while the train was still in Gimel we'd have been okay. Getting home from the far side of our Shard would have been annoying, but not a huge deal. Once we passed through the Crystunnel, though... "Well, it's been nice knowing you, C.," said Jianni. I punched his arm. "Your uncle lives on Nun, right?" "That's, like, fifty stops away," he said. "You seen it go more than five without a check?" We'd both been raised on stories about what happens to runaways in Daleth or Zayin or the other distant shards. Stories about young people forced into prostitution, or getting arrested by police who assume that's already happened. We found Scraps in the next car, a luggage car, making more trouble. He had torn into a bag and started pulling stuff out. A steel necklace with small black gemstone studs. A pair of sandals he had already savaged. And an envelope, unsealed, with what looked like tickets. "Who," I asked, "Keeps their tickets inside their bag?" "Denitha of Sardia Tower, and companion," said Jianni. "First class. We could-" "Get arrested for impersonation when the real Denitha sees us trying to get into their cabin?" "How would they be there without a ticket?" "He's obviously rich," I said. "And rules aren't for rich people." Jianni was trying to take the necklace away from Scraps, who wouldn't let go. "Okay, okay," he told the dog. "It's yours, okay?" Scraps unclenched, and Jianni put it around Scraps' neck, a good fit, and clasped it shut. "Do you have any better ideas?" "Why did you do that?" I asked. "He wouldn't have let it go if I wasn't going to," said Jianni. "You're telling me that you can't even lie to a dog," I said, "And you want to pull this kind scam off?" "Scraps is a great judge of character," I said. "Scraps is an idiot," I said. "But no, I don't have any better ideas." We put Scraps back on his lead chained to the necklace, which we found out was locked down with a tiny keyhole, and we had no time to see if the key was in there, just enough to stuff everything back in and turn the case around so the hole was facing the wall, and walked up the train. There was an attendant at the first class car. "Who are you?" he said. "The Lord of Sardia Tower," said Jianni, handing over the ticket. "Indeed?" He turned to me. "It seems congratulations are in order, Lady Danitha. The honeymoon suite, then?" I nodded. Jianni and I weren't a couple. We'd never... Well, once, when we were both buzzed on Trinity Syrup, out in the meadow on the southern edge of Gimel Shard, just in front of the drop, where you could see the sunrise before it happened down on the planet's surface. We almost. But it was just too ridiculous. We kissed, and it wasn't even like kissing my brother. It was like kissing my elbow. "Do you think the people down there want to leave home and go up here?" Jianni had said, after we got over the giggles and went back to enjoying the view and the high. "They say the groundlings want to bring down the shards, chain them and reel them in," I replied. "They say a lot of things," he said. "Not all.of them are true." "Maybe Aleph," I said. "Maybe they all dream of flying to Aleph on chrome dragons. But not here. Not this one." That was when we swore to get away, if not to the surface then at least to a better Shard. But with enough to get started. With a plan. Not like this. The honeymoon suite was tiny. Most of the time in first class would be spent in the lounge car, or at the buffet or bar. Only these hours, when everything was closed, were to be spent in the room that was barely more than a bed and drawers. Which had clothes, close enough to our sizes to aid the deception. But one bed. And barely big enough for two people. "Do you think they bought it?" whispered Jianni. "I don't think they're paid enough to ask questions," I said. "Do you think they're listening? Expecting a show?" His face was blank. I started moaning, loud and, I thought, fairly convincing. He tried to shush me for a few minutes, then gave up and joined in. We went at it with fake noises while laying back to back for half an hour before Scraps started howling and we couldn't help ourselves and started laughing, stifling that as best we could. That was how it started. Then the next morning we got drawn in to a breakfast invitation from another couple, the next car, in fact, and since we were ostensibly going to Qof we couldn't extract ourselves at Nun and had to keep up the pretense the whole ride there. Or that was the plan, but that afternoon the real Danitha turned up dead on another car and we just barely made it off the train in Aleph, which was a whole other bag of troubles, since we had no money. I managed to pick the lock on the necklace and, to Scraps' objections, pawned it, then had to steal it back from the pawnbroker the next day after the assassins showed up looking for it, and that, as they say, was where our troubles began. But it did get us here, the long way around, after about a year in or out of some fix, weaving in and out of what the history books are going to say about the revolution, each of us falling in love a few times along the way. Even Scraps, who's not a very good dad. Can't even look at his pups without barking.
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May 15, 2023 08:14
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Emo mum and the Orange Blobs from Space (1966 words) At thirty five, she owned a cracked-leather trench coat, and a black muscle car (which had a welded chain for a steering wheel). It thundered down the motorway, pinning her two teenagers to the back seat with sheer acceleration. Amy, the elder of the two teens, was tapping away at her game. Patrick was on his tablet reading some engineering textbook. In the centre of the motorway, the monotony of grey concrete was broken by the twisted pinkish-red splatter of a former deer. “What a beautiful reminder of life’s frailty,” said Sarah. Amy said, “Fatality,” like the voice in an old game she’d seen. “They should really build a nature path over, or under, the motorway,” said Patrick. With the engine growling through its chrome pipes, a smile crept across Sarah’s jet-black lips. “You know, Kids, I’m really proud of you.” “Yeah, I know, mum: you hype me at every esports tournament.” “You also expressed pride when I applied for the engineering scheme.” “I know: You kids are rebelling against me so well, and it’s just loving awesome to see you getting as far away from me as you can.” Their car joined the back of a stationary string of traffic leading half a mile ahead. There, a grey wall stretched as wide as the eye could see left and right. The colossal structure blocked the road, and painted a grey line across the horizon. “Ugh,” said Sarah. “Oh well, guess we have to turn back and miss the concert,” said Amy, smiling. "We're getting to that concert," said Sarah. She created her own Sarah-lane between the two static lines of cars, flipping-off and ramming people as she squeezed past. “Mum, you’re so embarrassing,” said Amy. “Good,” said Sarah, “you need to feel that disdain for your mother, and really use it, so you can find the impetus to drive your life forward in your own direction.” “Ugh, shut up.” Sarah’s lane stopped near the barrier. The endless wall stood on a ramp of earth some twenty feet high. She hopped out of the car and scaled enough of it to see the wall slicing through every road and town in its path, with no regard for the disruption it’d cause. There were buildings cut open like doll houses. Stranded emergency vehicles strobed away, caught in the building traffic. “Alright, I’ve seen enough,” said Sarah, “I’m getting my kids to this concert.” She leapt back into her car, ripped a sick burnout, and surged at the earthen ramp. The car rose through the air, over the wall, throwing clumps of earth behind it. Midair, the weight of the roaring V8 in the front began to pitch the car nose-down. From their vantage point, they could see the wall was the nearside of a gutter several hundred yards across. It was made from something like concrete. Inside, countless orange spheres 10ft in diameter zipped past at jet-fighter speeds. They had no lanes or sphere traffic buildup, just balls shooting across the endless gutter in either direction, somehow avoiding one another. The car crunched into the centre of this gutter, amid the dense ball stream. One sphere slammed into the car’s rear-side, sending the car twirling and screeching across the floor. It was splayed out against the farside barrier when it came to a halt. Sarah said, “everyone alright?”. The teenagers groaned, which was good enough to get them out of their seats. A few hundred yards away lay the thing that had hit them. It deformed into a half-sphere, half-blob, as though it had begun to melt from the bottom. A shapeless ooze poured out from the inside, like the innards of an egg from its shell. From it, the orange glow emanated, and the spherical vehicle showed itself to be transparent and colourless. The light from the ooze pulsated, flickering throughout the gutter. With this light, a voice could be heard in the minds of Sarah, Amy and Patrick. “Hello overmind,“ it said, “I am requesting replacement transport. My current module is inoperable due to a collision with endemic life forms in our newest colony. I hope to return to full productivity soon.” The reply shot as a beam of white light down the gutter. “Hello unit,” it said, “Your proposition will almost certainly restore lost productivity: Your new transport has been dispatched.” Two empty spheres came hurtling past. One absorbed the orange being that had requested transport. The other lifted the steaming wreck of Sarah’s car, hopping over the barrier to dump it on the other side. Sarah and her two teenagers were left stranded on the very edge of the alien motorway. “Times like this are wonderfully dark,” said Sarah, “so why don’t we take a moment just to savour that uncertainty.” “Hey mum,” said Patrick, from the site of the crashed transparent shell, “It’s so weird: their cars are made out of a viscous elastic membrane.” “Can you figure out how it drives?” asked Amy, tracking the ultrafast movements of the spheres with her eyes. “No, I can’t drive it, but I think it might be adhesive enough to let us climb over this barrier if we put it on our hands and feet.” They had climbed halfway up the wall, with blobs of goo surrounding their hands and feet. The winds channelling through the gutter had picked up, and the constant roar of balls hurtling past began to hurt. Patrick had taken to peeling pieces of goo from his left hand. He wondered roughly how much force each square metre of goo could hold on a vertical wall like this. The only way to find out was to reduce the amount until he slipped. “Just a little slip,” he told himself, but his left hand peeled from the wall before he could stick his right hand down. He didn’t have the time to approximate the remaining stiction on his feet before the experimental data were in: his foot goo was running like a snot trail down the side of the wall, his feet were barely cradled in what little goo remained. He fell no further than his sister’s lightning-fast grip on his wrist. She was beginning to peel from the wall, as was their mother. "This goo is getting dirty," said Sarah, patting her blackened hand-goo on the wall with no effect. When both her hands came free, she tumbled down the wall like a sticky toy. Her daughter grabbed on, only to find herself stuck to her mother on one hand and her brother on another. Sarah’s tumbling caused her, for a moment, to be extended horizontally into the gutter. At that moment, a sphere swept into her path. Sarah was taken halfway into the goo vehicle, her body half immersed in another of those beings. Amy and Patrick flailed behind the sphere as it ripped down the gutter. “Hello, Overmind,” said a voice. “Due to a collision with an endemic species in our newest colony, my vehicle has gained unexpected mass. This has reduced the energy efficiency of my system, and its maximum velocity. This may therefore affect productivity. Please advise.” “Hello, Unit,” said the reply. “Please expel the foreign mass in a location where it will not cause collision with other vehicles. It will not be necessary or productive to decelerate first.” “poo poo,” said Sarah, “It’s going to throw us to the dirt.” “Hey, blob guy” Sarah yelled, “what you’re doing is really hosed up!” “Hello, Overmind,” said a voice, “The creature emits a psychic contagion. It hosts strong desires in opposition to our productive efforts.” “Unit: proceed with expulsion.” Sarah could feel the blob squeezing either side of her, and she began slipping on the creature’s ooze. Patrick held his head in fear, and could feel his hand’s ooze adhering to his face. His panicked breaths fired four-to-a-second. “Uh, actually, I think your engineering is phenomenal,” said Patrick, “you p-put this road up in a day, and that’s amazing.” “You move at lightning speed,” said Amy, “I’d love to see what you are capable of.” “Nah,” said Sarah, “the fact you orange blobs don’t want to host thoughts about how you suck tells me you’re really full of yourself.” “Mum, you’re going to get us killed,” said Amy. “Mum, just agree with them,” said Patrick. “Selling out never helps,” said Sarah, as she lit a cigarette. “Seriously, Mum: That’s so unhealthy.” “Hello Overmind,” said the voice, “As I am proceeding with the expulsion, I must inform you that the species contains a physical neuroactive contaminant: Likely a defence mechanism against parasites.” “Nope,” said Sarah, “it’s just a thing.” The sphere rose to the top of the gutter. Sarah slipped from its membrane, with her teenagers still chained to her in goo. Roaring through the air, Patrick stretched goo between his hands in the hope to blow a bubble-like parachute. Amy was looking to find something, another sphere perhaps, that she could grab in a split second. “This could be the end,” said Sarah, calm, laying. Patrick’s bubble inflated to the size of a football field, and they drifted through the breeze. They soared above the endless alien road, looking down at the severed world below. “I really want to see what they’re up to,” said Patrick. “I know,” said Amy, “I think I could grab another sphere if we drop back into the gutter.” “Nope,” said Sarah, “you’re going to a concert, remember?” Amy threw a string of goo at the edge of the wall. They landed on top. On one side was the zoom of productive spheres. On the other side, Earth had come to a standstill. “I’m going to that concert,” said Sarah. “Okay mum, but I’m going to check out what the orbs are up to,” said Amy. “I need to know how they construct roads this fast,” said Patrick. “You do realise these guys are loving everything up,” said Sarah, “you just going to sell out to them?” “Mum, I thought you expressed pride in us rebelling against you?” “Yeah, mum: You always say that you’re a useless sadsack and it makes you happy to see us make something of our lives.” “Besides, maybe I could convince them to elevate their road so our civilization passes under it,” said Patrick. “Maybe I can learn how to control their cars, so we can fight them from the inside,” said Amy. “That’s really unlikely,” said Sarah. Her children folded their arms. “It’s not like you have any answers, is it, mum?” “Yeah, you’ve been capitulating at every possible challenge.” “That is the answer,” said Sarah, “when things are hosed, you have to feel that, and understand it, and sing it from the rooftops. That’s what the emo movement was all about.” “If the orange blobs could just chill for five minutes,” Sarah added, “they might actually understand why they’d want to build your underpass.” “I thought the emo movement was all about gently caress you and all that,” said Amy. “Yeah,” said Sarah, “if that orange blob could think for itself, it might have actually helped us instead of doing everything the overmind says.” “We’ve got to convince the blobs,” said Amy. “We have to see if there’s some way,” said Patrick. “I’m not going to stop you,” said Sarah, “but I need you to understand that it’s okay to waste your energy.” “What?” “I don’t want you, after whatever happens here, to think it was wrong to waste your effort or wrong to be sad about it. It’s important, as a life lesson.” “We’re not wasting our energy, mum.” “Wow, mum, that’s crass even for you.” “Yeah: gently caress you, mum.” So they parted ways, with Patrick and Amy straddling the orange blobs, and Sarah hitting up a skate store. “I’m so proud,” said Sarah, “and terrified.”
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May 15, 2023 10:28
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The Next Witch Of Freevale 1677 words, gardening and raccoons Tania arrived in Freevale to sullen, rain-soaked protests. The handful of villagers who felt strongly enough about her presence huddled beneath a single black umbrella, clutching soggy signs that said things like “NO FORRAN WITCHES” and “WE REMEMBER THE WAR” in dribbly paint. Tania didn’t remember the war. Tania hadn’t been born until after the armistice had been signed and all witches agreed to be bound by the laws of the Council. And the Council had declared that, after graduating from the College of Outer Mysteries, all witches shall be placed in residencies in villages across the country. The idea, as far as Tania understood it, was that witches would be far less likely to do another civil war if they were scattered throughout the land. “It’s a nice place, really,” the cab driver said. “Don’t mind those folks. The war never even came this far north.” “And I’m not foreign,” Tania said. “I was born here.” He winced, tried to hide it with a cough. “Of course.” Tania chewed her lip and looked out the window. She knew what he meant. They all spoke the same language, used the same money, and saluted the same flag, but she was from the Capitol, and this was the absolute rear end-end of nowhere. Her accent marked her as a city-dweller, and that was foreign enough. She missed her city. She missed her apartment. She missed her roommates and the camaraderie and the late-night libraries where they’d go to drink wine and argue arcane theorems until the bouncers chased them out at 3am. She didn’t know what she’d do here. Her familiar, Preston, climbed into her lap, demanding scritches. He, at least, had no worries about the future. _____________ The cottage was less bad than she’d thought. It was twice the size of her apartment, so still a postage stamp but, like, an international postage stamp. There was a tiny black fence that she could step over and a wrought iron arch with roses growing up it and a little brick path and little garden beds and whitewashed walls and green storm shutters and it was all just so postcard-perfect rural idyll that sometimes Tania wanted to scream. The last witch that lived here had been old and unable to manage the stairs, so everything important was crammed onto the first floor. Preston immediately disappeared up the cluttered steps while Tania maneuvered through the piles of the dead woman’s stuff into the kitchen, where the prior resident of the cottage had left her a note. To the next witch of Freevale, Welcome! I hope you enjoy your time here as I have. Freevale is a wonderful village and the people are quite nice once they warm up to you. That can, admittedly, take some time. They are suspicious of magic but appreciate good sense and strong character. I found that the more I looked like a storybook witch the less afraid of me they were, which I suppose makes sense in a roundabout way. But there’s nothing for that but time, and I suspect you will be young. I hope you can reclaim my garden. The house has several spells on it to facilitate the summoning of certain spirits and prevent the materialization of others. In order to refresh them, you’ll need… And on it went. Tania was far more comfortable with cleaning house and maintaining spellwork than she was with the idea that she might have to dress up in a costume to deal with people, so she dove into that. She spent the entire first week cleaning, eating out of the ample stores the last witch had left behind, letting Preston fend for himself. He was an animal, after all. Surely the raccoons of Freevale figured out how to eat. Back in the Capitol she’d have fed him herself or he’d go find a handy dumpster to rummage in. Here, at least, there were clear springs for him to wash his food. Once the house was clean enough to live in Tania considered the gardens. They were clearly once the crowning glory of the house. There were raised beds, in-ground beds, fruits, vegetables, and exotic flowers that shouldn’t live at their latitude. There was a chicken coop in the back, reinforced like a prison, with a mulberry tree growing next to it. There was a little greenhouse and a hoop house and a shed filled with frankly dangerous looking garden tools. Tania had no idea where to start. “Weeding,” she said out loud, despite the fact that Preston had waddled away last night and not yet returned. “That’s what people do in gardens, right? They pull up the weeds?” She looked over at one of the raised beds and pondered how to tell the difference between a weed and a flower. Many weeds were quite useful. You could eat dandelions, for example, but, and this was an important point in Tania’s mind, why would you ever? She had just decided to start yanking any dandelions she found out the raised beds when she heard the sound of an ATV approaching. Tania stood, half terrified of her first visitor and half grateful to be pulled back into a world she actually knew. The gratitude faded when the visitor, a youngish man with a red beard, unstrapped a cage from the back of the ATV. “This yours?” He called out, holding up the cage while Preston screached and chittered within it. “Preston!” Tania raced down the brick path, casting a spell to unlock the cage even as she ran. The door popped open and Preston’s round, grey body shot out like a cannonball as the fat little raccoon raced into his mistress’s arms. The young man sighed and put his cage back on the ATV. “Thank god,” he said. “If he hadn’t been yours I was going to need a spell against rabies. He bit the poo poo out of me.” “Serves you right, putting him in a cage!” Tania said. Preston hissed. He gave a short, disbelieving laugh. “You’re lucky he’s just in a cage, ma’am. He’s been terrorizing every farm in five miles since you got here. Folks here don’t cuss at a raccoon for knocking over their trash cans. They shoot ‘em for killing their chickens. And Mr. Bitey here isn’t just any raccoon, he’s a familiar, so he’s smart.” Tania stared at Preston, who looked like the picture of innocence, if your idea of innocence wore a little black mask and sharp little teeth. He pushed his muzzle into her shoulder like a baby. “So he’s been killing chickens?” “No,” the man laughed again, this time honestly. “He stole John Mason’s keys right out of his pocket. Rolled up into his house and started eating his lunch at the table. The way I heard it told, he was holding the sandwich all proper too,” the man held up his hands, miming holding something flat, his pinkie fingers extended. “Smart critter. But not smart enough not to get caught doing it.” “Why is this the first I’m hearing of it?” Tania demanded. “If my familiar is causing problems someone should tell me.” The man rubbed the back of his neck and considered the house behind her before answering. “Well, see, everybody liked the last witch. She was from around here, you know?” “She couldn’t have been. The Council never places witches close to home.” “Yeah, sure. But she was from a place like here, then. She was always at the feed store or at the Mill or in the square just hanging out. You could always find her. When she died it was like a piece of the town died. And then they told us they were sending someone straight out of the College and it broke some people’s brains. I’m guessing you didn’t get much of a welcome.” “Just protestors.” “poo poo. I’m sorry.” He genuinely looked distressed. “I’d hoped the rain would keep ‘em home. I’m Cory, by the way. Hi.” He held out a hand. Tania shook it, cautiously. “Tania. Hi.” Preston hissed at him. “I’ll put a bell on him. Or keep him here.” Cory nodded. “And come to the feed store,” he said. “I work there, I’ll make sure the old cranks stay in line.” _______________________ It was another week before she took him up on the invitation. This week was more eventful. The mayor stopped by, finally, to formally welcome her to the village. That seemed to open the floodgates, and suddenly her home was visited by every person with a runny nose, twisted ankle. What finally drove her from her home was the first serious incident: a woman with a completely pulverized leg from a rolled tractor. “Get her on the table,” Tania had said. And the people had done as she commanded. The woman was in her forties and had the shocked, empty expression of someone injured beyond their bodies capacity for pain. Her leg was a swollen sack of tissues, leaking toxins into the rest of her bloodstream. A spell to prevent infection first. Then the spell to quiet the pain and let the woman sleep. A spell to mend the bone, cast over and over and over again to catch every shattered piece. Another spell to repair the muscle fibers, another to prevent the nerves from wiggling out of their assigned pathways, and a final spell to prevent any of the little spirits and demons that frequented human habitations from taking all this magic as an invitation to make trouble. It took nine hours. At the end of it, the woman’s family took her away, nodding their thanks to Tania but saying nothing. She’d saved the woman’s life and her leg and all she was left with was a filthy kitchen table. Plenty of places had the superstition that you never thanked a witch, but Tania couldn’t imagine the last witch of this place being treated so coldy. She approached the store with trepidation, praying that Cody was inside.
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May 15, 2023 11:52
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May 15, 2023 17:46
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 results 5 stories but a good spattering of different ideas and quality. winner goes to derp for their somewhat disjointed look at the consequences of death that captured the mood of sh2 well nothing truly bad but dm to azza bamboo because while there was something there, the weight of its weak prose dragged it down too much
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May 16, 2023 02:34
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Travel week - what happened while you were gone? One thing most people have been missing out on these past few infectious years is TRAVEL This week give me travel stories. Whatever style genre or etc, but one rule: your story takes place on a journey, departure and arrival NOT included. It's not about the destination, as they say. Your story should start with the characters already on their journey and end before they complete it. It's something that happens along the way, a story to tell when they get wherever they are going. If you ask, when you sign up i will provide a destination, and/or a mode of transportation. But they will be mostly real, so scifi/fantasy writers be warned. General TD rules apply. 1300 words DEADLINE: whenever i wake up monday morning, probably around 7am pst Judges: Me ?? ??? Entrants: my shark waifu chairchucker azza bamboo rohan curlingiron antivehicular derp fucked around with this message at 21:45 on May 21, 2023 |
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May 16, 2023 04:15
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In, destination please!
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May 16, 2023 06:45
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My Shark Waifuu posted:In, destination please! Machu Picchu
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May 16, 2023 06:50
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Hello please give me some transportation.
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May 16, 2023 08:17
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In. I'm assigning myself MOTORCYCLES
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May 16, 2023 12:48
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Chairchucker posted:Hello please give me some transportation. Rickshaw
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May 16, 2023 15:42
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in and 
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May 19, 2023 00:13
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also in, also
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May 20, 2023 00:12
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Sure. In, give me a destination and mode of travel
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May 20, 2023 00:19
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Antivehicular posted:Sure. In, give me a destination and mode of travel the bar at the front of the 'boat' on top of the marina bay sands hotel in singapore skateboard
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May 20, 2023 04:06
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can I have a destination too please
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May 20, 2023 10:10
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Chairchucker posted:can I have a destination too please St Peter's basilica
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May 20, 2023 16:01
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Signups closed
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May 20, 2023 16:02
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https://thunderdome.cc/?story=11225&title=A+Walk+in+the+%28Enchanted%29+Woods
curlingiron fucked around with this message at 01:52 on Jan 2, 2024 |
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May 22, 2023 03:08
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Wiñay Wayna 1300 words Flash: Machu Picchu I ran. Hours before, the sound of the pututu had roused me, its sonorous blast so familiar that I was dressed and on my feet before my mind had fully awakened. My fellow chasqui arrived, relayed his message, and I began. Running through the night, on the road towards Machu Picchu. Normally, I ran with pride. The messages I carried, knot-coded in a quipu, were not simple missives that might be carried by any fleet-footed boy, but information of great import to the Empire itself. When I passed travelers on the road, they pulled their llamas and children to one side to clear my path. Their reverence lightened my steps. But tonight, each step felt like running through cloying mud. Tonight, I ran with fear: the pale-skinned invaders had landed on our shores. The fields of maize, nearly full-grown, whispered in the night wind. A half moon lit my way. My feet barely touched the paving stones placed there to speed my journey. What would become of all this? As privileged servants of the Empire, us chasquis had heard secret rumors from far-off lands about the pale invaders. Wherever they went, cataclysmic change followed. My message to the general stationed at Machu Picchu was to abandon the city immediately, pulling his resources north to meet the invaders. Change was coming to these mountain valleys, and the harbinger of change was me. The thought made my head pound. I took a sip from my water flask, but the ache did not subside. Given the importance of my message, I couldn’t stop to rest, even as the stars above faded from my vision, constricted by pain. The next tambo was only another hour away; there I could pass the message to the next chasqui and lie down until morning. I hadn’t felt this weak since the long-ago days of my training. But I did not allow weakness to slow my pace. As I approached the small tambo, I summoned a breath and blew my pututu. I knocked on the door, trying to remain upright, but no one opened it. My chest tightened in panicked confusion. Where was the next runner? In my disorientation, had I gone to the wrong building? I paced anxiously, taking the chance to sip more water and eat some food. The sustenance calmed me and alleviated my headache, allowing me to think. There was not much choice: I had to continue carrying the message, though Machu Picchu was many hours away. The Empire would not fall because of a missing chasqui. I ran. The road climbed from the valley into the foothills. My headache returned dishearteningly quickly. The tightness in my chest had not completely faded, making each breath difficult. I no longer heard the breeze, only the pounding of my heart. I no longer saw the night scenery, only the paving stone where my leading foot would land. In a small corner of my mind, I recognized that this was not normal, that I was running beyond my capacity. But I didn’t need my mind to run, and I knew, at my core, that if I stopped, I may not start again. If I stopped, I would die in the cold mountain air. I kept running. As I ran, I dreamed. I saw great boats sailing on the ridges, hundreds of times larger than a canoe, with equally huge sheets of fabric billowing like a woman’s skirt caught in the wind. Men clad in dull metal streamed from the boats, carried by grotesquely muscled creatures. One shouted and thunder rolled. This was the message I carried, the information contained in the knots of the quipu, come to life. I didn’t fear these visions, as I didn't fear my quipu, but I was terrified of their meaning. Blood streamed down my face as the men in my vision marched up the mountain; it took long minutes before I realized it was a nosebleed. My body unconsciously carried me along the road. Through my visions and pain, I spotted a building in the distance with a light shining from inside. I latched onto it, grasping at the sight like a drowning man. There was a tambo. There, my mission would be complete. But too relieved to know that they could stop soon, my legs began to fail. I fought them with each step, even reaching down to move them with my arms. The building was still a toy on the road when I collapsed. Lying on the cold paving stones, I used the last of my strength to blow my pututu. Some time later, I woke. Even before I opened my eyes, I could feel I was in a bed, in a small, warm room. I relaxed into this comfort for a moment, then forced my eyes open. I needed to pass on my message to the next chasqui. But what came into view wasn’t the clean quarters of a tambo, it was the homely clutter of a farmhouse. A tired-looking woman, holding a wide-eyed infant, said, “He lives.” A wiry man sprang to my side and helped me to sit up slowly. My muscles were spent and my headache stubbornly remained. Hearing these symptoms, the woman told her husband to prepare me coco tea. As I drank it, I came back to life. Immediately, I looked for the precious quipu. The woman pointed to it, safely next to her chair, then carefully touched the knotted strands. “What message is so urgent that you almost ran yourself to death?” she mused, then ducked her head in apology. Chasqui messages were meant for their recipients only. In my exhaustion and gratitude, I nearly told her anyway. Then I looked around the small room, the humble conditions. What good could come of telling them? Even a general may not be able to change the Empire’s fate. This hesitation allowed time for the tea to fortify me, giving back some of my professional pride. I shook my head, but felt this response inadequate even though it was her who had overstepped. Instead, I said, “What are your names? I will mention your service to the general.” It was the only way I had to repay their kindness. The couple exchanged a glance. “Forgive me,” the man said. “My father farmed the terraces from this house, and his father before him, and his father’s father. I want my son to do so too. We do not want any changes to our circumstance that might come with the general’s favor.” My heart ached, in a way that had nothing to do with my exhaustion. How many people throughout the Empire thought the same? “Change is coming,” I warned, breaking my vow of discretion. The man recognized and honored my sacrifice. With another look at his wife and child, he told me their names. “If things will change, we would appreciate any advantage we can get.” I nodded and he helped me to my feet. The woman stood and handed me my bag. I walked unsteadily to the door and was surprised to find it was dawn. The city of Machu Picchu sat above the house, hidden by the morning mists, but I knew it was there. Only one more mountain to climb. Though I was no further than an hour’s walk away, I resolved to run. After the first agonizing steps, my body remembered its training, remembered that it was made for this. As I rounded a bend, I looked back at the house. The family stood in the doorway, awe visible on their faces even from this distance. Yupanqui. Izhi. Sunqu. I ran, the lingering traces of my infirmity fading with each step due to their kindness. I ran not with pride or fear, but with their names in my heart. I ran.
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May 22, 2023 05:47
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And Now, For The Main Event. 1295 words The story starts where it will end: airborne above ten school buses, all parked nose-to-tail. This is the main event: the world record attempt for the longest motorcycle jump ever witnessed. All Michaela sees from her vantage point, astride her motorcycle, rising through the air between those two ramps, is the exit ramp —and the world record waiting ahead. For her, there is no glittering audience, or television camera, or purple twilight in the sky. She can only see the end of this attempt: a wooden ramp on steel scaffold. So focused is she, that a glaring red energy wells within her eyes, from which two lasers beam onto the exact point she intends to land. Anything outside of that exact path is oblivion to her. The audience feels her engine roar. These crowds surround her, their cameras strobing. Each brilliant white light catches Michaela’s face, and the dome of her open helmet. The fringes of her leather jacket flail away from her, as she ploughs through the air. Through her aching ankle, and that knee which always clicks, she feels the apex of her climb. Her thundering machine grows lighter and lighter, until it is weightless. Her stomach rises. Motes of dust suspended in the air, illuminated by her lazer gaze, seem to rise from below the lazer’s path. Staring at the landing ramp, these static motes of dust pass above her lazer line. Time becomes slower the closer she is to knowing what this means. With a twist of her grip, the engine note climbs. With no ground to beat the wheel against, only the most minute of changes takes place. There is no height to be gained this way, just the slightest raising of the bike’s nose, and a falling of the bike’s rear wheel, as though it were dipping its toe into what lay beneath. An icy chill rises up her spine, freezing time. “poo poo,” says Michaela Schulz. She can see the lightspeed tail of her eye-lasers sinking into the landing ramp, as she sinks below its level. The once glittering audience now freezes into a collection of static lights shining in the distance. Her motorbike holds in place, inches above the sun bleached and rusted roof of the condemned schoolbus below. Stuck in the air, astride her machine, Michaela breathes. The air is fuel scented, with a hint of hot metal, and distant concessionary wiener. Ahead of her, the solid scaffold of the landing ramp waits in her path. She pulls her right leg, hoping it will rise above the saddle, and let her climb away onto the schoolbus. “Nope,” says a voice beneath her. Each foot pins to its footpeg. Each hand remains wrapped around its handlebar. She tugs with all of her might, but the steel will not release her. “Just let me off, please,” she says. “I am your bike,” says the voice, “as time goes forward from here, I can only take you into that scaffold.” “gently caress.” “But,” says the motorcycle, beginning to rumble its chrome v-twin engine beneath her, “as long as we are held in this moment, I can show you something.” “Why?” says Michaela. “Brrrmm brrmmm!” exclaims the bike, as it begins to strobe in all manner of colours, makes and designs. “I am your bike,” says the bike, which rapidly flickers from Harley to Honda, tourer to scooter, into all manner of bikes big and small. It says, “I am all of your bikes!” then pop-pop-pops into the orange clouds, as Michaela’s tiny CB50 super cub. As the cloud clears around Michaela, the road home from her old delivery job surrounds her, at 11PM, as it always was. Around her are the same sleeping houses among the same amber lamps. Her eyes peek through her heavy eyelids. “Remember this?” says the bike, with its tiny engine purring, and its wheels rattling at the slightest bumps in the asphalt. “Kinda: It’s just another ride home,” says Michaela. She turns left into Oakwood Drive, past the bar on the corner, as though by automation. “Did you ever know what this bike is capable of?” says the bike, with its engine straining, and forty on the dial. “It’s my super cub: it delivered pizza, and got me home.” “Did you know,” says the bike, “that you can pop a fat wheelie on a little thing like this?” Michaela stifles a yawn with the words, "why would I do that?" "I don't think you're getting it: how about this?" "Vroom vroom!" Screams the bike. Michaela's eyes open to the sight of the quarter mile stretching ahead of her. Summer sun glares from the asphalt. This is her green Hayabusa: A space-age bike that hides its rider behind sleek bodywork, like something from a jet fighter. Underneath her sits an engine big enough for a car, tuned like a sports car, and weighing a third as much. “So, why did you buy a Hayabusa?" "To break two hundred miles an hour," says Michaela. The machine asks, “did you ever take it out on a long drive?” Despite no licence plate, wing mirrors, or even functioning lights. “Shut up,” says Michaela: “We’re about to go!” The amber lights flash, and Michaela drops her clutch. The wailing bike launches down the strip at the green light’s shining. It screams to the top of each gear, then lurches under braking at the end. Carried as though by automation, she gets her ticket. Time: 12.8s Top Speed: 199.8 mph. “poo poo,” says Michaela, “but we can go again?” “No: you’re not getting it,” says the bike. “Even now, you’re too focused.” “I don’t know what’s worse,” says Michaela, “The fact I’m eventually going to bounce off a school bus into a ramp, or the fact you’re holding me in time with this nonsense!” “Okay, what about that time you were getting railed over the back of your old Kawasaki?” “Who cares?! It was disappointing.” “Tell me why.” “Don’t take me back there, you metal weirdo.” “I won’t: there are rules about that. Just try to see what I’m telling you.” “That life is disappointing and that you don’t get what you want: a world record, a speed record, or even good sex?” “Not that.” “Ugh! Just take me back to the stadium, so I can finish this.” “That’s your problem,” says the bike, “you’re always rushing to finish!” “Vroom,” says the bike, landing back above the schoolbus, suspended in time, where the scaffold waits ahead. Michaela breathes fuel scented air, catching the slight hint of wiener, with fried onion, and sweet curry sauce. Somewhere in the back of the stadium, near the car park, those wieners lay amid suspended splatters of oil. “Before we do this,” says Michaela, “can I just grab a wiener?” “Yes,” says the bike, “I think you’re getting it: the universe will now grant you one wiener!” “Brum brum,” says the bike, levitating the wiener with its magic motorbike energy. “Brum brum,” says the wiener, launching upright on its hind end, like a fat wheelie, sweeping left and right like a mountain ride, yet saving each drop of sweet curry sauce, and each square of diced onion. It rises over the stadium, down to the landing ramp. In front of Michaela’s face, it halts. She bites through toasted bread, thick curry sauce, crispy onion, and sausage that bursts from its skin. She swallows. A ketchup smeared smile beams across her face. “Do you get it now?” says the bike. “Mmm: It’s good wiener!” This story ends as it began: airborne above ten school buses, all parked nose-to-tail. This is the main event: the enjoyment of one really great wiener, and enjoyment of the air rushing past, the glittering of the crowd, and the sensation of weightlessness.
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May 22, 2023 06:52
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On the Ascent 1188 words Flash rules: traveling to the bar at the front of the 'boat' on top of the marina bay sands hotel in singapore, by skateboard There's a broken window on the twenty-sixth floor of the Sands, and Zane figures that's as good a sign as any that it's time to take a break. Once she's secure on the flat part of the scaffolding, she flips her skateboard up into her hands, then carefully reaches in to unlatch the broken window -- funny, how cheap and easy the security on super-luxe places always ends up being. Zane's been out of the urbex game a while, but nothing changes. Zane isn't expecting much inside the Sands, but at least it's a chance to change up her stance for a minute. The abandoned construction project left decent ramps of scaffolding around the building, but it's grueling stuff, steady uphill with no chance to recover on a descent. Even if all that's left in the hotel is tap water, it'll be a moment off her board and a chance to save her own supply. She clambers through the open window, expecting an empty room, but all the furnishings are still in place. It makes sense once she thinks for a moment; ever since the evacuation announcement, cargo hauling's been at as much of a premium as passenger transport off the island, and used hotel furniture can't be worth the cost to take it away. Better to leave it to rot where it sits. Handy, Zane thinks, if she needs to overnight on this one. The beds look intact, and the water's still on -- in fact, someone's running the bathroom sink. Zane freezes, half-expecting some lingering hotel security, but the figure that steps out of the bathroom is a Tamil kid in street clothes. "poo poo," the kid says, guilt creeping across her face. "Am I busted?" "I thought I was busted," replies Zane. "We're good, we're good. What are you up to in here? Urbex?" "Just killing time." The kid flops down on a couch, then sits forward in a hunch, still clearly keyed up to Hell and back. "Our flight doesn't leave until tomorrow, and I'm out of things to do. My uncle used to work security in here, so I thought I'd see if his keycard still worked. Now I just want to see how far up I can go. What about you?" There's an edge of skepticism in her voice, and Zane's not surprised. She's gotten too old to go unquestioned as a thrill-seeker, and she can't blame the kid for looking at her and seeing an undercover cop. "You won't believe me," says Zane, sitting down in the desk chair -- not too close, not too far. "I'm Zane, by the way. You want a snack? You look like you've been at it a while." "Um, something sugary, maybe? I'm Anjali." The kid's face softens a little as Zane hands her a candy bar. "And look, you can't just say I wouldn't believe you and not tell the story, right?" "Fair cop." Here's the moment Zane should have known was coming: the part where she has to explain herself to another person. "I'm skateboarding up to the SkyPark." "What? How? If you want to get to the SkyPark, the lifts are still running." "I'm using the scaffolding outside. Lifts are cheating." Anjali raised an eyebrow, and Zane sighed. "It's a long story, okay? When I was a kid, I used to ramble like this with some friends of mine. I'd just been learning to skate, and I must have been pretty obnoxious about it, because someone dared me that I couldn't skate to the top of the SkyPark." Zane can still see her: Lillian, always the best put-together of their crew and absolutely sick of Zane's poo poo, dropping the crazy dare hoping it would kill the conversation. "And, I mean, I coudn't. Duh. Especially not back then, when the place was so drat new that the glass all but squeaked. But I riffed on it, started talking terms. Going in and taking the lift was cheating, obviously, even if I did it on the board. So was anything with getting flown in and dropped. Soon it was just kind of a joke, but now they left all the construction scaffolding here, and I realized, I can do it. Miles of ramp, no security, no cops. So why the hell not?" For the first time since Zane met her, Anjali cracks a smile. "Yeah. Okay. Why not? It's so quiet now. When they started talking about evacuations, I thought everyone'd be going crazy, but instead it's just so silent." "Lot of people got out early," says Zane, remembering the years of decay so slow that they'd all been able to pretend it was normal, that friends just had better places to be, that the streets were just clean and not empty. "Most of my old crew got out years ago. I'm the last one of them left. Never had a good enough reason to leave until they ordered me out, but now this is all I've got left to do." "Take lots of photos." Anjali sits up, then leans in again, closer to Zane: conspiratorial. "Get to the top of the SkyPark and take all the pictures you can. Show your friends. Show that one who dared you. Do you guys still talk?" "Not for a long time. She went to the mainland in college, really got her poo poo together." "So send her the photos and surprise her. I bet she'll freak. And you'll win the bet, right?" There'd never been a real bet, but the kid still had a point. Zane wasn't sure she was doing it for bragging rights, but why not brag? "Yeah, sure. Tell you what -- you think you can get to the SkyPark with your uncle's card? Meet me up there, at the bar. We'll take some photos. Souvenirs of the last adventure." "First adventure," says Anjali. "I've never done anything like this before. I just thought, well, like you said, why not? So... yeah. I'll meet you at the SkyPark." "You got it. Have fun, and I'll see you soon." It won't be that soon, Zane thinks as she climbs back through the window and out onto the scaffolding. She's still got twenty-nine floors of ramp to skate up, assuming there's even a clear path, and then there's the SkyPark to traverse. Anjali's uncle's keycard might not even take her that far. There's still every risk of failure. But that's adventure for you, right? Without the risk, there's no thrill. Taking the lift up is cheating. At least taking the lift down won't be, Zane thinks as she hops onto her board and starts up. She loves a good descent, but 55 stories down on tired legs might be a little much.
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May 22, 2023 08:19
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OK But What if God Wants the Pope to Die? Rickshaw to St Peter's Basilica, 1218 words “There appears to be an altercation occurring over there. Should we intervene?” Hiro looked over where Rocky was pointing and sighed. The altercation was three inquisitors giving a nun a hell of a kicking. He couldn’t afford delays, and she was technically in the employ of his enemy, but… “Yes, but let’s make it quick.” Rocky changed directions and jogged towards them, his heavy feet thudding louder as he got closer. One of the inquisitors turned their way. “This doesn’t concern you! Stay out of it, you don’t want this kind of trouble!” Hiro jumped from the back of the rickshaw and ran towards them. Rocky parked it and followed. All three inquisitors had stopped kicking the nun and brandished clubs in their direction. Rocky overtook Hiro, and his giant fist crashed into one inquisitor, sending him flying into another. The other, seeing this, turned and ran. Hiro picked up one of the fallen clubs and threw it at the retreating man; it hit him in the head, and he crumpled to the ground. “What should we do with her?” asked Rocky. Her eyes were closed, and her face covered in bruises. Hiro sighed again. “Put her in the back with me. I’ll patch her up as best I can.” “So, she’s with us?” “For now. We’ll drop her at a hotel or something.” ~ “Where am I?” Hiro glanced over. “Don’t try to get up,” he said. “You’ve taken quite a kicking.” “Huh,” she said, and fell back into unconsciousness. ~ It was a couple of hours before she woke up again. “Where am I?” she asked again. “In a rickshaw,” said Hiro. “We’ll drop you off at a hotel on our way. Didn’t seem like a good idea to just leave you there. Could’ve been more of those bastards waiting to finish you off.” She felt her face with her hand and winced. “Yeah, that might have happened.” “I must admit, it surprised me to see inquisitors attempting to kill a nun. Thought you were both on team Jesus.” She shrugged. “We may have had a minor theological disagreement. So, where are you headed off to?” “Heading towards the Vatican.” “St Peter’s Basilica!” said Rocky. She looked out the front of the rickshaw for the first time. “Huh,” she said. “Never met one of you before.” “I’m Rocky! Nice to meet you!” “Please to meet you, Rocky. I’m Maria.” She turned to Hiro. “Rocky? Not a bit on the nose to give a name like that to a golem?” Hiro shrugged. “He named himself.” “All right then,” said Maria. “So, what are you doing at St Peter’s Basilica, just some sightseeing?” “Something like that,” said Hiro. “Also assassinating the Pope,” said Rocky. There was a period of silence, during which Hiro threw his hands up and stared at Rocky’s back. “Were we not sharing that?” asked Rocky. “I thought she was with us.” “Oh dear,” said Maria. “Does this mean you have to kill me?” “I hope not,” said Hiro, “would feel a bit counter-productive after stopping those inquisitors from killing you.” “I hope not too,” she said, and they sat in silence for a few minutes. “So, who’s paying you?” she asked. “Hmmm?” “Well,” she said, “I suppose the Vatican has a few enemies who’d like to see a change of leadership.” “No one’s paying me.” “No pay? What country isn’t paying its assassins?” “I’m doing this for myself.” “Right, right.” Some more silence, and then, “You know, I was always a bit uncomfortable about some of the war bits in the Bible.” “What?” “It’s like, yeah I get it, war happens, and sometimes you have to fight for your country, but the bits where God tells them to go into towns and kill women and children, I still don’t know what that was about, you know?” Hiro shrugged. “His holiness doesn’t seem to share your doubts on this matter.” She shook her head. “Neither do his inquisitors.” “Was that the disagreement that led to the kicking you received?” “Among other things,” she said. “Anyway, what’s your take on those bits of the Bible?” He shrugged. “I never read it.” She sighed. “I just wish I could reconcile it all, you know?” “Sure.” “My superior says I just need more faith. I try to have faith, you know?” “Really think you’ve picked the wrong person to have this discussion with. I don’t believe in your book and I’m about to assassinate your boss.” “Well, you can try,” she said. She thought for a moment, and said, “Did inquisitors come to your town?” “We’re not talking about this.” “Sorry.” There was silence for a while longer, then she said, “So what I wonder is, are those parts of the Bible supposed to mean that sometimes God is fine for us to kill children? Because I really don’t feel like that’s right, but why would he tell his people to do something that’s never fine?” “Maybe it’s made up,” said Hiro. “Maybe someone just wanted to genocide some towns, so he told everyone God told them to.” “Part of me prefers that idea,” she said. “Is that bad, that I want bits of the Bible to be made up, because I find the alternative unpleasant?” “You are, again, asking entirely the wrong person.” “Right.” “I don’t think it’s bad,” said Rocky. Maria laughed. “Thanks, Rocky.” She paused. “So, do you really think you’re going to get away with your life after assassinating the Pope?” “I’m not trying to live forever,” said Hiro. “I’m just trying to outlive the Pope.” “I think I’ll get away with it,” said Rocky. “I’m hard to stop.” “Speaking of stops, is that some of your mates up ahead, Maria?” asked Hiro. “Not my mates,” she said. She sat up and peered ahead. “Bit late to go around,” said Hiro. “Hope we don’t have to punch our way through.” “Shouldn’t be a problem,” said Rocky. “We don’t want to push our luck,” said Hiro. “You’re not as indestructible as you might think.” “Never been proven wrong so far.” “And no one’s quite managed to prove I’m mortal either,” said Maria, “although they’ve come close. But there’s quite a lot of them; maybe you should let me talk to them.” “I’m not sure,” said Hiro, but they’d arrived at the checkpoint, and Maria was already talking. “Good evening gentlemen, just escorting a diplomat.” The inquisitor who leaned into the rickshaw stared at Hiro, then looked back at Maria. “Why is a diplomat coming to the holy city?” “I think they’re talking surrender,” she said. He grunted, then leaned back and motioned for them to pass. ~ “You could’ve had them stop me,” said Hiro. They had almost reached the hotel where they’d decided to drop her. She shrugged. “Someone who knew the Bible much better than me once told me that, because God is sovereign, nothing happens without him letting it. No ruler gets to be where they are without his authority, and if they’re removed, he meant for it to happen.” Hiro raised an eyebrow. “Do you believe that?” They pulled up to the hotel, and she climbed out. “Not really,” she said. “But if you manage to succeed, maybe I’ll start to.”
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May 22, 2023 10:56
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Murder on the Orbital Express 1300 words Hannah and I never had a proper honeymoon—what with the Martian spacepox and all—so once things settled we planned a do-over, booking the best cabin we could afford on the famous Orbital Express. Sure, there are quicker trips to Venus, but for all the close-quarters canoodling of hyperspeed shuttles, there’s no romance; and we’re both in need of some proper downtime. The thrum of century-old thrusters, attendants affecting Martian accents; you know the drill. Nevermind that her idea of romance involves plump, mustachioed detectives investigating murdered heiresses. The allure of being found strangled on crisp linen sheeting, hands obliquely pointing to obscure clues, probably inspired more enthusiasm for the trip than all the glossy panoramic scenery could hope to. ‘I hope there is a murder,’ she breathes, returning to our cabin after the first night’s formal dinner; a little drunk on space-port and some authentically temperamental artificial-gravity. ‘And I hope it’s that Colonel.’ ‘What, because he took the last caramel pudding?’ I tease. ‘And he was obnoxious,’ she hisses. ‘Three planets! We get it, you’re loaded.’ ‘Come on,’ I say, as the door slides open with pneumatic obeisance. ‘Let’s not let some rifter ruin our honeymoon.’ ‘You’re right,’ she smiles. ‘I’ll just—I’m going to freshen up. Won’t be a minute,’ she winks, and then trots off toward the shared bathrooms. I watch her go, then stagger into our cabin, still a little woozy. Collapsing onto our bed, with the hypnotic whir of the recyc unit above my head, I’m almost asleep before I hear the scream. # A cacophony of doors echo up and down the hall: a clamour of voices, high-pitched questioning and baritone complaint. Hannah rushes back past each door, taking inventory of our fellow passengers. ‘It’s the Colonel,’ she murmurs sotto voce, falling back to my side. ‘Of course. They clearly—oh, I shouldn’t break character—oh, thank you!’ she finishes, in one breathless rush, before stretching up and pecking me on the cheek. ‘Now, not a word about what happens next, okay?’ ‘Hannah, I didn’t—’ ‘Distinguished guests!’ We turn to look: a broad man in a double-breasted jacket, cheeks puffed, moustache quivering from the sheer force of oration, awaits our attention. Hannah squeals briefly before gripping me tighter, near-vibrating apart from excitement. ‘There has been the misfortune of a death aboard—’ Polite gasps ring out, before the detective raises a hand to summon hushed anticipation. ‘Ordinarily, this is a matter for shuttle security; however, there are certain … extenuating … circumstances, which have compelled—’ ‘Is it murder?’ a lady’s voice calls out. ‘Well,’ the detective demurs. ‘It would be premature to ascribe—’ ‘Who has been murdered?’ a voice squeals; followed by a haughty ‘well, I think that should be ob-vious,’ and nervous chuckles. The detective, in danger of losing control of moustache and case alike, raises his palms and waits for the intrigue to die down. ‘Colonel Southwark has been—discovered deceased,’ he announces, and Hannah punches me softly in the arm. ‘I will ask, first, to speak with his companion. And then—well. You must understand, given circumstances, you may each possess information necessary to an informed conclusion.’ ‘Or be the murderer,’ Hannah murmurs. The detective glances our way, frowns at Hannah. ‘That—may be, Ms… ?’ ‘Mrs Thornbury,’ Hannah beams, clutching my arm. ‘It’s our honeymoon! I’m so excited to be—oops, sorry! I mean—it’s so tragic. Oh, how dreadful!’ and swoons so theatrically I barely catch her in time. Around us, the other guests devolve into murmuration, and Hannah’s clearly fighting to keep a grin off her fainted face. ‘Indeed,’ the detective intones, clapping his hands together. ‘Now, I should first like to speak with—’ # With the bar closed and nobody in the mood for karaoke, there’s not much else to do that evening. Hannah, impatient, heads out for a walk, but I stay to watch the scenery float past our cabin. An hour later, she returns, dumping an armload of polaroid holos onto the bed. ‘I think this is everyone,’ she announces, rifling through and sorting headshots. ‘Bellhops; kitchenhands; guests; victim,’ she says, holding the Colonel between thumb and forefinger. ‘Come on. Help me set this up.’ ‘Set what up?’ I ask, but she’s tearing down the evacuation map and fixing the colonel’s face to the bare wall. Below, she scrawls “MURDERED???” ‘Start with staff,’ she says, sorting through the pile. ‘Housekeeping arrived first — and they have bleach. Which … seems too convenient. Are you allowed to say how difficult this should be?’ ‘What? A murder investigation?’ ‘Of course,’ she nods, smiling to herself. ‘You can’t break character, can you? Alright — let’s go with not housekeeping — seems too obvious. Now, last night I noticed he and his plus-one shared a bottle of 2043 Gewurtz,’ she continues, rifling through the pile before settling on the somm. ‘Hannah,’ I say. ‘This isn’t—I’m sorry. I didn’t get you some sort of murder mystery experience as an anniversary gift.’ ‘Don’t be silly!’ she laughs, smiling back. ‘Of course you didn’t.’ And then, after a furtive glance back to the door, ‘I love it. It’s perfect. Oh! But they’d been seated next to the Hawthorns …’ Before I can respond, our door bursts open and the detective’s there, holding an evidence bag with Hannah’s eyeliner inside. ‘Hannah and Ryan Thornbury,’ he announces, moustache bristling, ‘you’re under arrest for the murder of Colonel Southwark!’ # ‘Look,’ she says, leaning forward on the brig’s metal bench. ‘I know you can’t break character. But would it kill you to at least pretend to be enthused? Are you upset because I didn’t get you anything for our honeymoon?’ ‘What?’ I ask. ‘Of course not—we said no gifts.’ ‘And yet!’ she says, stretching her arms out. ‘You went and organised this whole murder myst—’ ‘No!’ I say, leaning back against the wall. ‘I didn’t!’ She rolls her eyes, lets her hands drop to her lap. ‘Whatever, Ryan,’ she says. ‘You don’t have to ruin it just because you’re upset. I didn’t let it be ruined when the Colonel spoiled it before it even began. I played along the whole time, just to keep you happy—’ ‘Hold up,’ I say. ‘The Colonel—spoiled it?’ She shrugs. ‘I saw him getting the “corpse” ready in the bathroom. He wasn’t very good at it, though … if he wanted it to be a surprise he shouldn’t have done it where anybody could just wander in. I guess maybe he thought I was the actress, and I was just early? Anyway I ducked back out and waited a few moments, and then—’ ‘Oh, for god’s sake,’ I mutter, head in my hands. # We spend the rest of the trip in the executive suite, by way of apology for wrongful incarceration. It only took the crew half an hour to find the Colonel’s identical twin, hiding out in some maintenance hutch accessible only through the recyc ducts from the bathroom. ‘An inheritance dispute, of course,’ the detective tells us, moustache fluttering. ‘He was hoping to steal his brother’s identity and become the son favoured by the will.’ ‘Of course,’ Hannah nods, knowingly. ‘Just like Jupiter’s Jury season three.’ The detective and I share a glance, and he chuckles. ‘Well,’ he says. ‘Have a happy honeymoon, you two. Apologies. Again,’ and leaves, the door sliding gratefully shut behind him. Hannah squeezes my hand, leans in to rest her head on my shoulder. ‘This was perfect,’ she says, smiling. ‘I loved it. Especially the last-minute twist. That was some clever thinking, Ryan,’ and pecks me on the cheek. I open my mouth, think better of it, and pull her back into bed beside me. I’ll let her have this. I should probably cancel the event I’ve booked for the return trip, though; one murder is enough for any honeymoon.
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May 22, 2023 12:55
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Submissions closed
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May 22, 2023 16:10
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---Judgement--- in a split decision, shark waifu gets the win for a cool story full of historical detail and energetic writing HMs to antivehicular and rohan loss goes to curlingiron for a story that, while not terrible, was at the bottom of both judge lists. crits to come later tonight or tomorrow
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May 23, 2023 02:51
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judgecrits for week 563 A Walk in the (Enchanted) Woods by curlingiron: A goofy adventure with my DND friends, this could be fun in principle, but I found myself becoming annoyed along with Mira as I read it. The end, when the forest basically gives them the finger, got a chuckle out of me and redeemed the story by a lot, but not enough to bring it up from the bottom in a pretty strong week. Wiñay Wayna by Shark Waifuu Yes, this is good, great attention to history and great writing which had me glued to the page. A window into the past that I greatly enjoyed looking through. I felt his pain and his determination very vividly. This really is the kind of story I enjoy, an internal battle with the self, but one that has big external consequences too. My heart was pounding along with his as I read. Great! And Now, For The Main Event. By azza bamboo Interesting concept, like the ghost of motorcycles past, made me think about death, and made me hope that I too could have a chance to look over my life before the final curtain drops. I enjoyed the prose here, but I didn’t get a sense of the stakes for Michaela. Is she trapped there until she figures it out? Is there anything else, in all her entire life, that she might want to go look at or redo before the end, other than eating a hotdog? On the Ascent by antivehicular I was expecting someone skateboarding through Singapore on their way to the bar, but you took the prompt literally, a seemingly impossible task, but you found a very creative way that turned out really fun and heartfelt, and did capture the spirit of the prompt as well. Even the character’s reasoning for doing such a thing, and the way the bet came about, it all felt very believable, I didn't even narrow my brow once. Enjoyable story. OK But What if God Wants the Pope to Die? By chairchucker Fun story with a splash of philosophy/theology. The conversation with the nun about the atrocities in the bible was great, and somehow you made it fit perfectly into a wacky adventure. There was just enough info given about each of the characters to make them seem realized and real. Murder on the Orbital Express by rohan I love all the tropes! This was a fun read. As someone who has watched every murder mystery anywhere on tv, I am very familiar with all the cliches, and I love them. The details aren’t super important in this case though, because the fun is slowly realizing it’s a real murder, which Hannah refuses to believe. The only issue I had was the space stuff was very distracting. Since it played no part in the story, I found myself imagining them on a present day train for most of it, and getting bumped out of the story by all the space related stuff. Very fun story, contender for the win.
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May 23, 2023 03:36
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Crits for Week #563 curlingiron - A Walk in the (Enchanted) Woods: Very arch dialog in the opening, setting some rules. And it gets more arch as it goes; having the characters complain about lazy tropes doesn't ever help. My Shark Waifuu - Wiñay Wayna: Okay opening. Flashing back to the start of the journey may be being cute with the prompt. Does that overall. But it's a solid little story. I could see it in a grade school textbook, with translations and illustrations in the margins and questions for discussion at the end. Azza Bamboo - And Now, For The Main Event.: Not how I would punctuate that. Opening sets up a tightly constrained bit of business. "And that knee which always clicks", I don't think which is right but I do understand not wanting to double that so close together. There are ways to recast and avoid either trap. Also, she should have had some mustard on that bike. P. Good. Antivehicular - On the Ascent: Solid setup. And it's a solid little piece, too. I don't like the unresolved eerieness to it, and it's tough to conceive of a Singapore evacuation where the cops leave before enforcing it on everyone else, the social terror of disorder and looting would seem to ensure that. The slow evacuation of the city is evocative while minimalist; my guess is the city is slowly being claimed by the sea, a few centimeters of ocean on the streets already. Chairchucker - OK But What if God Wants the Pope to Die?: The tone here goes with a story with considerably more humor than we get here, rather than a bit of dry theodicy with violence. rohan - Murder on the Orbital Express: Decent opening, sets thing up Okay and establishes a character and their critic. And it's fun and mostly fair with itself throughout, with the one hole being why they were suspects. (Just her weird comments? Seems slim for an investigator.)
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May 23, 2023 09:22
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Week 564: Beautiful and Useless Words I hope you unclubbable goons are feeling particularly scripturient this week, since I want you to show some love for obscure words. English has a lot of words, but not all of them are winners: some of them are overly-specific, redundant, or just plain useless. Your story will need to include one of these weird and wonderful words, such as from the lists here, in as natural a usage as possible. If you ask for a flash rule, I'll assign a word to you. Alternatively, you can choose your own, just post your choice when you sign up. The usual rules against Merriam/Webster fanfics, etc. apply. Word count: 1,500 or fewer Deadline: 28 May 2023 11:59:59 PM PDT or thereabouts Logomachists: Me ? ? Anonymuncules: You ? ?
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May 23, 2023 10:48
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in, flash
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May 23, 2023 11:10
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In; gimme a word.
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May 23, 2023 11:40
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Word me please
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May 23, 2023 13:03
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| # ? May 28, 2024 21:46 |
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In, word me.
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May 23, 2023 17:05
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