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in with SOLIVAGANT
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May 23, 2023 17:17
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rohan posted:in, flash Groak: to look on silently—like a dog—at people while they are eating, hoping to be asked to eat a bit Azza Bamboo posted:In; gimme a word. Ultracrepidarian: giving opinions on matters beyond one's knowledge Chairchucker posted:Word me please Imparadise: to make supremely happy, transport with delight or joy Thranguy posted:In, word me. Mundivagant: wandering over the world
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May 23, 2023 22:07
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In, word me.
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May 24, 2023 00:33
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DigitalRaven posted:In, word me. Filipendulous: suspended by or strung upon a thread
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May 24, 2023 00:53
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In me, flash me
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May 24, 2023 05:48
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Fuschia tude posted:In me, flash me Cachinnate: to laugh loudly or immoderately
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May 24, 2023 09:36
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In, word me.
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May 24, 2023 12:20
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crimea posted:In, word me. Matutinal: of, relating to, or occurring in the morning
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May 24, 2023 21:25
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Can I get in with filipendulous?
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May 25, 2023 16:36
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Armack posted:Can I get in with filipendulous? You can! Note that DigitalRaven also has "filipendulous"; I'm OK with the double-up but if either of you wants to switch words, that's cool too.
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May 26, 2023 01:14
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In, word me
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May 26, 2023 02:02
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Dicere posted:In, word me Spoilsmonger: one who promises or distributes public offices and their emoluments as the reward of services to a party or its leaders
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May 26, 2023 03:19
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My Shark Waifuu posted:You can! Switch me up!
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May 26, 2023 12:27
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DigitalRaven posted:Switch me up! Cicatrizant: promoting the healing of a wound or the formation of a cicatrix
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May 27, 2023 02:02
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Sign ups closed
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May 27, 2023 23:59
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Rapture 1498 words October 11, 1898 My Dear Frederick, Your disquiet is understandable; I have tarried overlong in responding. I am unsurprised to hear rumors have reached you on the Pacific coast of my latest invention, though I suspect their accuracy be scant. Permit me, then, to impart the truth. When I emerged from my tenement onto the bustling cobblestone streets of New York, an autumnal zephyr swept through the alleyways, rattling the shutters and sending a shiver down my spine. But this was mere prelude of the horrors to come. I wandered the streets, contemplative, until I reached the stone walls of my laboratory. Oh what esthesis, to be alive in this modern age! With each new invention, my heart swelled with delight—to this day, the satisfaction of discovery and accomplishment assuages and contents me like no other—steam-powered dynamos, wheeled umbrellas, self-blowing trumpets—all farrowed and midwifed under my watchful eye. Shivering, I unlocked the heavy oak door and stepped inside. There in the main hallway stood my magnum opus, the object of my feverish attentions these many sennights, a vision of hissing pistons and illuminated glass tubes that filled me with pride and apprehension. The fateful hour had arrived. Summoning my courage, I strode forward and flung down the golden lever. At first, mere chuckles percolated from the machine, then a rumble, until uproarious guffaws shook the very foundations of the structure. The cachinnation induced by the device echoed through the streets, drawing citizenry from far and wide to bask in its radiating exultation. The Giggle Engine—as I christened it, hoping you would enjoy this mild jest—soon proved itself the brightest star in the pantheon of inventions that dotted the firmament of my life’s work. Yet as word spread of its miraculous properties, certain quarters raised dissent. World-renowned researcher Victoria Silverman was first to voice her objections. “Arthur, my dear fellow,” Dr. Silverman said as she strode into my workshop, brow furrowed with concern, “Your invention is a wonder, but have you considered the potential consequences of loosing such a powerful device unto the world?” “Consequences?” I somewhat bristled at the question. “The Giggle Engine brings joy to all who encounter it. That, surely, is a worthy pursuit.” “Indeed it is,” she replied, not insincerely. “But I fear unleashing such unrestrained gaiety upon the public could bring unknown dangers. Pray proceed with utmost caution.” Though she admires me for my peerless intellect, Dr. Silverman is quick to forecast an unsavory end to my every endeavor. But I thought the laughter the Giggle Engine provoked too pure, too innocent to augur the least disquiet, so I dismissed her apprehensions. Meanwhile, the hapless figure of Mayor Langdon sowed discord. That stalwart bastion of our city, in his infinite wisdom, elected to convene a public meeting, requesting input from citizens and experts alike on the matter of my Giggle Engine. The assembly attracted individuals both advocating and objurgating my machine’s continued functioning. "Enough!" Langdon declared, silencing the cacophony. "Clearly, there is some merit in allowing the use of this contraption, but only in controlled settings." Yet Langdon’s decree had little effect, as the machine’s reverberations now became manifest. The streets around my workshop, once effervescent with joy, became a charnel house of panic as the laughter decayed into chaos. Some laughed until they choked, their visages taking on a profane purplish hue; certain unfortunates lost control of their bodily functions; others collapsed in agony with pounding headaches or suffered violent fits, even total paralysis. It was not until the riots had overtaken half of New York that I began to apprehend the enormity of my mistake. The laughter so unleashed now holds a maniacal edge, engendering in the populace fits of hysteria from which there seems no escape. I fear my pertinacious smithery has forged a monster beyond my capacity to restrain. The thought terrifies me; my hands tremble; my soul is caught in the icy clutch of torment. Oh Frederick, what have I done? Yours, Arthur Van der Grave October 17, 1898 My Ev’r Faithful Frederick, As I pen these words, the atmosphere in our fair city has taken a somber turn. It was as if Pandora’s box itself had been flung open, releasing the very demons of which Dr. Silverman had warned. Though my decision haunted me, I could see no other course. Girding myself, I set forth into those riotous streets, making for the diabolical machine inside the looming stone cathedral of reason at the epicenter of the pandemonium, each peal of laughter a dagger in my heart, aide-memoire of my hubris and maljudgment. There I found it, vandalized but intact, its exposed pistons and appurtenances still churning with terrible purpose. I advanced, and the machine seemed to leer at me with a sinister grin. As if sensing my intent, it emitted a caterwaul of laughter booming through the desolate streets. "Silence!" I roared, raising my wrench above my head, and struck the hated contraption with all my might. Each connection was met with a crescendo of laughter, first resounding and triumphant, then attenuative, fading until nothing remained but silence. I surveyed the wreckage, qualmish with remorse. The once brilliant aureate façade lay shattered, fragments of a broken dream. Outside, the streets were strewn with rubble, broken bodies, and the detritus of lives torn asunder by my ambition. “As I warned you, Mr. Van der Grave, advances must be ever-tempered with caution,” a voice spoke from behind me. I whirled to behold Dr. Silverman, her countenance evincing both sympathy and reproach. I bowed my head, humbled. “You are right, of course. I see now mere genius is not enough. Yet from these ashes shall I forge new purpose.” Dr. Silverman and I vowed to atone, proffering our sagacious aid to City Hall in whatever capacity necessary. But this aldermanic synod did not proceed as envisioned. Decrying the damage wrought by my opprobrious creation, Mayor Langdon accused of me deceit and negligence, for failing to apprise in him the perils aforetime. I argued I had scarce perceived them myself ‘til it were too late, but he was unmoved. “Should you create anew, without the express permission and oversight of the City, expect the full force of justice upon you,” warned he. Regretfully, then, I must depart, leaving to others the arduous task of restoring our great metropolis to its erstwhile magnificence. May history judge me kindly for the part I played in its downfall and redemption. In penitence and hope, Arthur Van der Grave December 2, 1898 My dear friend, I write you now from my new laboratory, nestled away in remote countryside several days’ ride from the city. Here, my work may continue without scrutiny or interference. The quietude has done much to revive my injured spirits, though I cannot but feel a pang of guilt at abandoning New York in its time of need. Having seen the destruction wrought by my machine, I swore to destroy every record of its existence and start afresh. But here, in this bucolic land, I realize the fault lay not in the machine but in the hand that wielded it. Science is but a tool, and like any tool, it can be used for good or ill. To forswear invention altogether would be an infinitely deadlier mistake. I have embarked upon a new design, one that induces not laughter but tranquility. Should I perfect a machine that spreads calm and peace as effectively as its predecessor spread chaos, I could right my past wrongs. The people of New York, understandably full of uncertainty and fear, would much profit from such a development. I expect to have a prototype ready within the month. Dr. Silverman, I again impetrate your counsel with this new enterprise. You alone have the wisdom to guide my work to precipitate the greatest good. Let us join together in the labor of birthing a new epoch of peace and prosperity. I remain, now as always, your friend, Arthur Van der Grave December 6, 1898 Dearest Victoria, Your words, I trow, evince the best of intentions, but I reject indolence rooted in undue caution. The world cannot afford to be paralyzed by tragedy—it demands action! The tranquility generator is my key to redemption. I tell you this marvel will bring true peace and calm. With precise manipulation of sonic frequencies, it can quell anxiety, subdue violence, replace hysteria with harmony. Envision a world with war evanesced, violent crime a mere distant memory, the most trivial of conflicts silenced by the rhythmic thrumming of my magnificent creation! Utopia itself is within reach, if only you would lend your aid. Bid me not remain idle while good may yet be done. The masses may shun progress now, too myopic to recognize its beneficence. But you, of all people, should believe in me, as I had faith in you. Sincerely, Arthur December 9, 1898 Victoria, You are a child and a simpleton. Do not write me again. Arthur
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May 28, 2023 17:46
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and my word wasMy Shark Waifuu posted:Cachinnate: to laugh loudly or immoderately
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May 28, 2023 17:47
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paths 1275 words removed derp fucked around with this message at 00:58 on Dec 15, 2023 |
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May 29, 2023 04:36
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My Shark Waifuu posted:
Stranger Imparadised 1486 words The stranger entered the saloon with a jingle of spurs, tall hat tilted down in front of them so as to obscure their face in a very mysterious fashion. The saloon went quiet, as saloons do when strangers enter looking all mysterious. The stranger stomped and jingled their way over to the bar. “I don’t want no trouble,” said the bartender. “Um. Okay?” said the stranger. “We’re a god-fearing town, and we don’t take well to strangers. So, if you’ll just be on your way, I think that would be for the best.” “All right,” said the stranger, tipping her hat up and peering out from under it, “well, my name’s Hazel, so now we’re not strangers anymore, right?” “Well,” said the bartender, “I’m not sure it’s that simple.” “What’s your name?” asked Hazel. “Well, I,” and the bartender blushed, “no one usually asks me my name. I’m Glen.” “Lovely to meet you, Glen,” said Hazel. “So now that we’re friends, I’d like a mug of your finest, please, and a room at your fine establishment.” Glen pulled her a drink and pushed some keys across the bar, and she handed him some coins. The other saloon-goers, having decided the situation was resolved to a satisfactory standard, ceased their silence and went back to chatting and carousing and gambling and all the other things you do in a saloon. A black cat climbed up onto the bar and purred at Hazel. “Hey there little buddy,” she said. “What’s your name?” “Huh,” said Glen. “That’s weird, Purrbon doesn’t usually like new people.” “Oh, I have an affinity for cats,” she said. “Also crows. And ravens. Most birds, come to think of it. Also, frogs, toads, rats...” “Huh,” said Glen. “You’re a regular Davy Crockett.” “Is he renowned for his affinity with animals?” Glen shrugged. “I’m not sure, I don’t know many famous people names, just said one of the first that came to mind.” “Well, Purrbon sure is a beautiful little boy,” she said, and petted his furry head. “He doesn’t really like – huh, well I guess he does,” said Glen, because Purrbon was purring with all the satisfaction of a cat that had knocked a bunch of really expensive stuff off of a high shelf and onto the ground where it had smashed. Hazel’s bonding session with Purrbon had to be cut short, because at that moment, the saloon doors were kicked wide open, and someone wearing a sheriff’s badge strode in. “You know, I just replaced those hinges from the last time you did that,” said Glen. “Is it really that hard to open them normally?” The sheriff pulled out a six shooter, fired two shots into the chandelier, and returned it to his holster, all in one swift movement. “Your point is taken,” said Glen, and went back to cleaning classes, but also distanced himself from Hazel a bit. The sheriff jingled and stomped over to Hazel. “We don’t like strangers here,” he said. “Oh, how rude of me,” she said. “I’m Hazel, so now we’re not strangers anymore.” He frowned, then turned to one side and spat a glob of something gross and sticky onto the floor. “You’re a lady? Ladies don’t belong in a saloon.” “Um,” said Glen. The sheriff waved a hand. “Them ladies don’t count, they’re working.” “Where do I belong, then?” asked Hazel? “Don’t care,” said the sheriff. “Not here. Not in this saloon, not in this town.” “Well,” she said, “it’s a bit late for that, I’ve already booked a room, and it’s a bit late for me to travel to the next town over. You wouldn’t kick a lady out into the cold dark night, would you?” He spat again. “Seems like you ain’t no lady.” “Right,” she said, “well does that mean I’m fine to be in this saloon after all?” “What?” The sheriff paused and appeared to ponder for a moment. “That’s it. I’ll show you what happens to people who tangle with the law around here.” “Hmmm, I didn’t realise that’s what I was doing.” “Outside!” he yelled. “Ten minutes! We’ll settle this like men!” “Like men?” she said. “This is a very confusing conversation.” “Ten minutes!” he yelled. She sighed. “Fine.” He stomped and jingled back out of the saloon, and she continued drinking her drink and petting Purrbon. “Glen,” she said, “how is that men settle things? Is it too much to hope for that he means a pleasant discussion over whatever this-” she motioned with her glass – “excellent drink is?” “He means a duel,” said Glen. She sighed again. “If men are always settling things by shooting each other around her, I’m surprised there’s any left.” Glen shrugged. “All right,” said Hazel. “Guess I’ve got this stupid duel to do. Can you hang onto my drink for me?” “Sure,” said Glen, and tucked it behind the bar. Hazel stomped and jingled out of the bar. The sheriff was standing at the other end of the street. “Didn’t think you’d show!” he said. “Oh, was that an option?” she asked. “I’d be happy to just go back inside and finish my drink if we can do things that way.” “What?” he asked. “No, that’s not an option. We’re going to duel, and I’m going to show everyone what happens to people who upset the natural order of things.” “Like, by clear felling forests to build big towns?” “What? No, why would you think that?” She shrugged. “You said something about natural order, I thought this was a nature thing. I’m totally supportive if you’re a nature lover. I love trees and animals, they’re all beautiful.” “No,” he said, “nature has nothing to do with the natural order of things. Now, get ready to duel.” She sighed. “So, what’s the rules, do we count to three? Does someone yell go?” “Well first,” he said, “we need an audience so that everyone can see this is a legal and fair duel.” He raised his voice to a shout. “Everyone get out here in the streets right away to witness the law and order that I’m about to administer!” So, everyone got out of the nearby buildings and lined the streets. “Glen,” said the sheriff, “you start us off. Count down from three.” “Do we go on one, or on zero, or what?” asked Hazel. “I’ll count down to one, and then I’ll say ‘draw’,” said Glen. “Gotcha,” said Hazel. So, Hazel and the sheriff faced off. “Three,” said Glen. The sheriff drew and shot in one fluid motion, but the bullet missed Hazel to the left. “Sorry, I must’ve misunderstood,” said Hazel. “We were waiting for Glen to count down to one and then say ‘draw’, right?” “All right,” said the sheriff, “that’s right. Do over.” This time, Glen counted down to two before the sheriff shot, and this time missed to the right. Hazel frowned. “Just so we’re clear, it was definitely the full countdown, then ‘draw’, right?” “That’s my mistake,” said the sheriff. “Third time’s the charm.” “Right,” said Hazel, but whispered to herself, “certainly will be the charm.” So, they lined up again, and Glen counted down to one and shouted, “Draw!” The sheriff drew and fired six bullets. All six bullets buried themselves in the dirt around Hazel’s feet. “What?” yelled the Sheriff. “How is this possible?” Hazel started to walk towards him, and he quickly grabbed more bullets to try to put them into the gun, but as she got closer and closer, he fumbled them, and they fell into the dirt next to him. By the time she was next to him, he still had an empty six shooter. He raised a fist, but she touched him on the forehead with one finger, and he froze in place, then began to shrink and grow fur. After a couple of seconds, he had transformed fully into a cat, and she had scooped him up. She walked over to Glen, carrying the former sheriff. “I think Purrbon could use a friend, don’t you?” “Uh, sure,” he said. “You’re not going to turn me into a cat as well, are you?” “Of course not,” she said. “I only did that because it seemed nicer than killing him.” “Right,” he said. He thought for a moment. “You know, if you don’t have any need to move on, it seems like a sheriff spot just opened up.” “Hmm, I don’t know,” she said. “It’s been my experience that all sheriffs are bastards.” “Ah,” he said. “Well maybe not sheriff, but perhaps we could think of something.” So, after much discussion over beers, it was agreed that she would stay as the town witch, which involved much less shooting than the sheriff had done, and she got to stay in the saloon free of charge, with a steadily growing number of cats, and excellent ale on tap. Also, strangers were always welcomed.
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May 29, 2023 05:50
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Prompt word: Filipendulous The Criterion (975 words) The line to Heaven had stalled long enough for my paranoia to catch up. Why this slow? It's Heaven. The line should move as quick as it needs to. There I waited on paradise's spiral, red garnet staircase. Water flowed gently down its inner helix rim. Daylight and open sky poured in from without. I felt silly worrying so much. Sure, the slow line might bode ill for Heaven's management. But if ever there were a time to hold firm to one’s faith, it was after death. I looked down to my yawning chest wound, and tried to shake from my mind all concern for the slow line. It did no good. As though to taunt me, my misgivings rattled in their place. So I optioned for distraction by chit-chat. "How do you think people without legs get into Heaven?" I asked Derek, the guy standing a couple steps just behind me. Derek looked gaunt. He was bald, wearing a hospital gown, and had only just abandoned his I.V. four flights back. He stared blankly for a moment. “Buh?” “This staircase,” I said. “It doesn’t have a ramp or anything. How do people in wheelchairs get to Heaven?” “Dunno,” said Derek. “Maybe the angels carry them?” “I haven’t seen any angels? Have you?” “Not yet.” Derek thought a while, then offered, “Maybe there’s no ramp ‘cause of posterity. Like at world heritage sites.” He shrugged. “Have you tried asking the lady?” Derek gestured at the woman ahead of me, slightly higher up on the staircase. She looked like some kind of monk. Her hair was thick. She wore flowing yellow robes and coke-bottle glasses. Her face was so thin, I wondered if she’d died from fasting. I thought back to meeting her at the beginning of the line. “She doesn’t speak English,” I told Derek. I refrained from admonishing him that he really shouldn’t assume. Then I went right back to waiting in silence. After six days, the line’s plodding movement brought me to the spiral staircase’s landing, and onto a floating island. There, sand dunes and dozens of palm trees surrounded a large oasis, whose waters flowed down the staircase inner-gap. Behind the oasis, there was an arched, metallic tunnel. And swinging by a golden chain, filipendulous above the tunnel’s opening, an angel. Wild eyes fluttered, inlaid, along the angel’s four concentric outer bands. At the center, a giant, polychrome eye, its sclera comprised entirely of down. I greeted the angel, and it replied in thunderclaps and shed down. ”Proceed through the tunnel.” I proceeded. The tunnel was smooth steel on all sides. It was well-lit by skylights, but its single path bent so often enough, it was easy to lose track of the people I’d met in line, especially Derek, who was slow moving and who’d developed a wheeze these past few days. Venturing deeper, I found the tunnel narrowed. Further, then further still, the walls closed in so tightly, I wasn’t sure I could proceed further. Most people would never fit through here. What are they supposed to do? I could see no other path, so I turned sideways and tried to force my way, only to get stuck between the steel walls. I hollered, hoping the robed lady somewhere ahead would hear distress in my voice and turn back to help. But she did not come. When Derek caught up to me, he said with a smile, “You’re blocking my way.” I was too nervous to laugh. Was body shape really the criterion for getting into heaven? Derek kindly tried to dislodge me, but he didn’t have the strength. Before long, someone else arrived behind Derek. A young guy in what at one time might’ve been a jersey or a uniform of some sort, and now was mostly a mess of sooty rags. Wordlessly, he helped Derek pull me out of the narrowed corridor. Derek and I found we couldn’t communicate with the burned fellow, but he led us back to the tunnel’s entrance. On the way, we collected three more people, all of whom, thankfully, were very patient with us. Underneath the angel, we rearranged ourselves and the three proceeded, one-by-one, back into the tunnel. For my part, I stood there at the entrance, about to question the angel, when I noticed an average-sized person reach the top of the garnet staircase. I waited for her to approach. “You’re not gonna fit,” I warned, with a thumb pointed over my shoulder toward the tunnel. The lady made a face at me and walked on though. I turned my attention to the angel. Falling on my knees, I asked, “Mighty angel, by what name shall I know you?” The angel replied, “Kimberley.” “Kimberly, I beseech you. I, a good and devout servant of the faith, cannot fit through the tunnel despite my being not at all that large, really.” “If you are too fat for the tunnel, you get the oasis,” said the angel. I might have taken offense, but in truth I was mostly relieved there was an alternate path. I walked into the oasis and let the current rinse me down through the center of the spiral, red garnet staircase. It brought me to the bottom, where I started back in line. In the days it took me to reach the top again, I was that much more wasted away. My next time around, I fit through the tunnel, and made it into Heaven. Which is really nice in so many ways, I could say a decent number of positive things about the place. But I’m at a loss. I don’t know how to enjoy a place I wasn’t trim enough to get into the first time.
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May 29, 2023 06:28
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Prompt word: Spoilsmonger Bylines (1,498 words) Jonathan Chauncey Fitzwilliam died [--date--]. You may contact The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette regarding memorial services. Mr. Fitzwilliam was a writer, a journalist, a poet, an actor, a lover of nature, and a student of history and the arts. His written works can be found in the pages of The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, The Columbus Dispatch, The Kenyon Review, Ms., The Village Voice, and (the now sadly defunct) Poetry Quarterly. Born of Archibald and Dorothy Fitzwilliam of Bangor, Maine in 1901, he and his kin survived some of the continent's harshest winters and worked as stable hands after school. His parents nurtured his scripturient temperament by keeping him enrolled in school and having him write exegesis on scripture every Sunday after church. During The Great War, young Mr. Fitzwilliam taught himself Morse code and found employment manning the telegraph lines in Bangor. Mr. Fitzwilliam attended the University of Maine and graduated Summa Cum Laude, earning a Bachelor of Arts in History. A notorious raconteur, he could often be found occupying the taverns of Orono, relating the bawdy and titillating details from the lives of history's personages. After college, he relocated to Ohio where he wrote bold truths of the Taft family in the pages of the Columbus Dispatch. A friend to working people and enemy of every gangster, demagogue, and spoilsmonger eroding the public trust, Fitzwilliam is remembered fondly by his colleagues at that august publication. During World War II, Mr. Fitzwilliam served as a war correspondent, chronicling the Allied victory. One of his dispatches was read by the beloved Walter Winchell. In 1968, Mr. Fitzwilliam found himself in the employ of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, where he reviewed the visual and performing arts. A lover of life, he prayed for fascism's defeat in Westminster, danced the Lindy in Harlem, rode Mustangs in Arabia, and surfed the Pacific. He is predeceased by his mother, father, brother Penrose, and sister Harriet. He is survived by friends, neighbors, and his art. Jake put down the copy and blasted smoke from his nostrils. "That's a lot of words for some geezer who wrote a food column." "Yeah, he didn't mention the restaurant column. Maybe he wrote his obit before he was put on it," guessed Barbara. "It's a lot of words." "Well, his estate paid for it," Barbara said as if to say You really have to print it. "The hell does he get off on putting his funeral on us?" Jake howled. "And how the hell does HE want US to put it in the paper he's … uh you know." Jake laid a flattened hand out and wiggled it back and forth to try to convey the words he wouldn't say. "It doesn't say that, Jake." "Oh come on, man lives to 80 and doesn't have a wife?" "That's not a crime and that doesn't have to mean what you think it means." “Well, he never talked about women in the office,” Jake intimated. “Some men don't,” intimated Barbara in kind. Jake softened a bit. "The man's entitled to live his life, but he should have ran this by me." "Nobody else runs their obit by you, Jake." "He's survived by his neighbors? What's that poo poo?" "I think it's nice," Barbara confessed “I'm putting YOU in charge of the funeral.” *** Jonathan Fitzwilliam fell from his second storey balcony to his death on a Tuesday morning. In addition to the funeral (held at a VFW in West Mifflin), Barbara was put on Fitzwilliam's beat: 1,200 expertly chosen words for Carmen's on the North Shore. Deadline Thursday evening. Barbara was not a homemaker and her mathematician husband was of less help. She couldn't tell you if a sauce was too creamy or not enough. She didn't know the French and Italian words for these dishes and could only identify wines by color. She had arranged with Jonathan's attorney, also the executor of the estate, to see if she could root around the old man's bureau and see if he had any notes. Besides, she was fond of Fitzwilliam. She might catch a wild hare and posthumously submit something of his to a magazine if any of it was worth the time. Hopefully the lawyer will call her back tomorrow with the green light. For now, she might as well get a free meal. “Dining alone, ma'am?” “Yes, that's right.” Carmen's was low lit, smokey. The booths were made of dark wood – cherry? Mahogany? The Fitz would know. The tablecloths were red. What's another word for red? “Right this way.” The lasagna was unmistakably good, but Barbara hadn't the faintest idea how to write about it. Barbara wrote about school boards and city council meetings. Those things write themselves because something (very little) happens. What happens at dinner?? As she panicked, Barbara noted a familiar face sitting in a booth across the restaurant. A young man with longish, soft hair and round John Lennon glasses. That's Steve Olenchech – assistant to the mayor's chief of staff. Must be on a date. Lucky him. But Steve wasn't on a date that night. Instead, he then was joined by two men in tailored suits and inky black hair, combed back. Is this a mob joint? poo poo he saw me. Look at the plate. Drink a glass of wine. gently caress this tastes awful. The mafia was off limits to Post-Gazette reporters. Get the quotes and report the facts. Leave the investigations to the FBI. This isn't Columbo. Breathe. Breathe. “How was everything, ma'am?” “Exquisite! I can't say enough good things about this sauce!” *** “Mr. Fitzwilliam's desk is in here.” The ancient bureau was piled high with file folders of photographs, poems, articles, and correspondences. Harvey Obenhaus was eager to let someone, anyone, into the house in the hopes that somebody would haul away all of the papers. It was too much for him to throw away on his own, but not really worth the effort of paying people to move. Doubling as a licensed realtor in the employ of the estate, he knew the house would sell for more if it remained furnished (the man had taste), but all the bric-a-brac needed sold and his papers hauled off. As Barbara searched, Harvey sat and read filings from other cases. Barbara found herself taken with Fitzwilliam's writing style. His poems were sometimes beat, sometimes lyrical. His photos displayed competence with composition. And of course HUAC, in its heyday, had taken an interest in him. As she plummed the depths of the desk's drawers, she groped a button. “What's this?” A mechanism clicked and, suddenly, Fitzwilliam's attorney found an interest in whatever this woman reporter was up to in his deceased client's house. Barbara pulled a brown envelope from a false bottom in one of the desk drawers. “What are those,” Harvey asked, standing up. Barbara removed two dozen dated, black and white photographs from the envelope and began fanning them across the cleared space on the desk. “I'd like to see that, please.” Harvey grabbed some pictures out of Barbara's hands as she fanned them out. Harvey noticed the man immediately: Tony Grosso, the noted Pittsburgh bookmaker who had been busted for racketeering in '73 and was now back on the streets. “I'm taking these,” Harvey said coolly as he reached for the rest of the photographs. Barbara took a step back and held the photos high. “Like hell you are. The Will says the Post-Gazette gets his papers and this counts.” Barbara didn't know where her nerve came from. She was certainly fed up with pushy men. “Who are these people?” “You give me those pictures or bad things are gonna happen.” Harvey wasn't in the mob, wasn't Italian, but happened to be representing a member of the Pittsburgh crime family - a wealthy new client he was told could lead to more. He saw opportunity. “Are you threatening me?” Not waiting for an answer, Barbara made a break for front door. In a panic, Harvey lunged in pursuit. He wasn't sure exactly what he would do or what he could do, but he had exposed himself too much and had to make sure nothing from this woman's visit left the house. Harvey grabbed the woman's blouse in his lunge and they both went crashing to the floor. Barbara tried to scream but her throat was caught in an attacker's hand. She kicked and kneed and pushed but was clearly overpowered. Barbara got to her feet to try and slip away but was caught on her ankle, sending her crashing into a small table by the front door. The clang of the letter opener against the tile floor was unmistakable. Harvey's eyes widened as she grabbed the blade. *** PITTSBURGH REPORTER ACQUITTED IN MURDER CASE, SEEKS FEDERAL PROTECTION By: Jacob Schoenberger October 13, 1982 Barbara Cizenski exited the Allegheny County Courthouse flanked by her husband and attorney. Officers of the Pittsburgh Police Department stood guard as Mrs. and Mr. Cizenski entered a black sedan … SEE PAGE 4 - ACQUITTAL
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May 29, 2023 07:24
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an english teacher with a gun at the end of the world Groak: to look on silently—like a dog—at people while they are eating, hoping to be asked to eat a bit 1500 words The constancy of Marian’s matutinal routine survived the pandemic, her husband’s death, and atomic bomb alike. She woke at dawn, padded out to the kitchen; slippers slapping against linoleum as she put the kettle to boil and opened the wide doors to the deck and its commanding view of the valley. Nearby, the kookaburras’ cachinnations rose above the the forest; far off, plumes of black smoke cartographied depredation, dissimulations of mynas rising above the canopy to wing their way from flame. The kettle chimed. She marked the calendar; today was a new bag day. Humming to herself, she set teabag in mug, then reached far into her freezer for bread to toast. She would need another supply run soon. She hoped, this time, they wouldn’t be gluten-free. “Constancy”, of course, had its limits. Until recently, she would have had to contend with their adopted labrador groaking by the counter. Harold, ever the capitulant, would sneak jentacular morsels to the slobbering smell-feast; the furthest Marian could ever be swayed was to let him catillate the plates en-route to washing up. Now, the both of them were gone: Harold before the bomb, Montresor—the dog—some time after. Being able to prepare breakfast without interruption was a novelty, and not a particularly welcome one. Tea: steeped. Bread: toasted. Marian had never been abliguritive — had once penned an entire doctorate fuelled only by rice, beans, and enough coffee to pernoctate days in succession — but this was a diet to inspire violence. What she wouldn’t do for a ham-hock— A tapping at the window disturbed her imaginings, and she turned to see Quoth waiting for her own breakfast. Sighing, Marian crossed the room and opened the window, the raven hopping in and onto the plates in her drying rack, casting imperious looks about the kitchen. ‘Yes, yes, one moment,’ Marian said, shuffling back to fetch the jar of seeds. Harold had been the one to keep the bird-feeder stocked. ‘You wouldn’t be so daring if Monty were still here.’ The bird cawed, and Marian returned with seeds in calloused palm, letting the bird take a beakful before turning the rest over into her dish. ‘No, you’re right, of course. You were only doing him a favour by staying clear.’ Quoth, hopped onto the back of a kitchen chair—her kitchen chair, the bird had practically moved in—and waited for Marian to join her, equally a routineer. The newspaper lay where Marian had left it previous morning, open to the finished cryptic and the half-complete “quick” crossword she’d started from sheer necessity. Something else to add to a scavenging list: this was her last newspaper before they’d stopped arriving, close to the beginning of it all. ‘Right, then,’ she announced, joining corvid companion at the table, letting the tea cool slightly before taking that first tentative sip. ‘Four down: “to defeat in a contest”. Seven letters: D-dash-P, dash-dash-dash-T. Hm.’ Marian abhorred the “Quick” Crosswords. The cryptics, at least, encouraged wordplay, lateral thinking, ingenuity; they were traps of coiled wire and sharpened stake, violent epiphanies buried in quotidian undergrowth. In comparison, the “quick” were artless, a bludgeoning fist, and you were either quick enough—strong enough—hungry enough to overcome, or you were not. Usually, she had been. Forty-five years of teaching had maintained her hold on the classics—her mordacious mind would not easily rust to anecdotage—as well as keep up with the shifting tongues of the youth, the TikToxicon of the schoolyard filtering into setters’ diction. Just last week, she had suffered to pencil Y-E-E-T into a row, and then have a good lie down afterwards. D-dash-P-dash-dash-T. Quoth tilted head in thought, and for a moment—not the first—Marian recogitated her stance on reincarnation; had Harold returned solely to help with the puzzles? Even beyond theological concerns, it didn’t seem credible. Harold, he of the yellow sweaters and burgundy corduroy, was too psittaceous to ever return a raven. A sound from outside startled them both. Marian dropped her pencil, which rolled underneath the table, and Quoth hopped onto the table and moved before her adopted mother, feathers swelling in antipelargic protection. ‘Yes, you’re terrifying,’ Marian muttered, lifting herself from the chair and pandiculating joints on her way across the room. ‘But if there’s trouble afoot, we’ll need something more ugsome.’ Rifle in hand, she crept down the stairs to the front door, barricaded and set with a steel-jaw trap against incursion. Parting the drapes of her sitting room, she saw a man skulking about the wreck of her car outside, and her heart stilled. The fires hadn’t seemed near close enough for the marauders to have reached here so quickly. Any trouble should still be days of hard travel away, if approaching at all: low temperatures made the mountains an unattractive prospect outside the estivo-autumnal raiding season. He looked alone. Which wasn’t a comfort: he could be a scout. It would explain the binoculars around his neck; the notepad and folded map stretched out on her car’s bonnet; the sense he was built not flight over conflict, peristeronic in subdued grey and brown, head bobbing as he limbered into relevé to better survey his surroundings. Or perhaps she was being apophenic, and he was simply lost. Marian hesitated. There was a reason she only used pencils for a crossword. And yet— She unset the trap, unlocked the door, slipped outside; rifle cold and heavy in her hands. ‘Ahoy,’ she called out, levelling the gun. ‘You look lost.’ He spun, his eyes widening. ‘Oh!’ he started, stumbling backwards with hands raised. ‘You—ah! Sorry, I’ll—I didn’t realise—’ ‘You thought I was easy takings,’ Marian mused. ‘You’re only lucky my man’s out hunting, or you’d be dead already. Now, why all this solivagant jackassery?’ (Harold would have invited the man in for tea and scones, but you didn’t get far as an English teacher without an imagination.) ‘Soliva—’ the man squinted, and then lowered his hands. ‘Mrs Fenton?’ Marian lowered her rifle, stepping forward to better see the man. ‘Oh, for the love of—’ she muttered. ‘Patrick. I’m surprised you recognise me, from all the attention you paid in class.’ ‘You remember me?’ he gushed, coming closer. ‘Wow. It’s been—’ ‘Don’t,’ she warned, raising a hand. Either her tone, or the rifle, stilled his step. ‘It was before. Let’s leave it at that. Don’t need to make me feel older than I already do. But, yes. I remember how much time you spent staring out the window, if nothing else.’ He shook his head. ‘Wow. What are the—wow. Wait’ll I tell Loree.’ ‘Why are you here?’ she hissed, ignoring the implication that the dux of his senior year might possibly now be his wife. ‘It’s not safe.’ He shrugged, shoulders insouciant. ‘Guess I did get a bit lost. Started wandering to get the little one to sleep, spotted something to track, then ended up on this trail—’ ‘You have your baby with you?’ she goggled. He gestured over to the bonnet, and she now noticed the bassinet pinning down one corner of the map. ‘Not so loud,’ he told her. ‘He’s asleep, now.’ ‘What were you tracking?’ she hissed. She didn’t think she could have shot him before, as an intruder; now, it took control not to strangle him. ‘Game?’ ‘No, no,’ he shook his head. ‘It was—ah! There!’ Marian turned, to see Quoth preening herself on the windowsill inside. ‘A bird?’ she asked, eyebrow raised. ‘A corvus corax,’ he breathed, skulking forward. As if summoned, Quoth raised her head and settled a single beady pupil on the approaching ornithologist. ‘For heaven’s sake,’ Marian muttered, nodding toward the door. ‘Get inside. I’ll make you a tea and you can see the bloody thing up-close. And—don’t leave the baby behind! Honestly. You were a terrible student. I wish I could be surprised.’ Patrick blushed, and doubled back to fetch the bassinet. ‘You were my favourite teacher, Mrs Fenton,’ he gushed. ‘You taught me the most important lesson—that everything is filipendulous. I think I really know what you mean, now.’ ‘I was talking about your grades,’ Marian said, letting the man and baby inside. ‘You were,’ he acknowledged. ‘Oh! She’s bigger up close!’ ‘Yes, that’s how it works,’ Marian muttered, sotto voce. # By the time Marian got to her newspaper the following morning — having seen off previous student and intolerably cute progency — she noticed someone had completed it overnight. Brows furrowing, she read the entry — DEPLEPT? — and then a scrawled note beneath: hope you don’t mind me trying a hand at this. loree has heaps I can bring some next time. thanks for everything! ps I think the word is DEPLEPT, it fits and it sounds good, and honestly I think you’ve earned the right to make up your own word. you’re an english teacher with a gun at the end of the world you can do what you like. ps quoth is going to have eggs soon just fyi!
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May 29, 2023 10:00
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Perambulations 1006 words I don't go looking for fights. Honest. But it just keeps happening. There was a mugging in Cherbourg, right down the alleyway from where I was minding my own business trying to enjoy my sandwich. Two hapless muggers versus The Silent Fist is barely even a fight, though. But it escalated with each stop. In Dresden there was an entire local gang trying to shakedown and then burn down the corner store I had stopped in to buy milk. In Vienna I ran into, I literally ran into Eagle Claw. I mean, we turned around a blind corner, then there's a second before we recognize one another, and then, well, fight. His father and my grandfather were enemies too. So that was a real fight. Almost fun. I'd never done gondolas before, but long poles were an old familiar. I mostly use my signature technique, the one in my name. The Silent Fist. You land your blows just so and there's no noise at all on contact, with all that energy instead going straight to their pressure points. Unnerving to be on the other side of. And it has the advantage that you can keep quiet yourself as part of the whole motif, and nobody except you to quip in a fight. So nobody has to be exposed to my horrible Bronx accent, which I can't work out of any one of the languages I've picked up. In Milan there was a full on street war between the Xinquisitors and Nero's Own, with the ordinary citizenry caught between them. Finally, when I got to Zagreb the city was hit by a gas that turned a tenth of the people there into ravening werewolves. It was about that time–well, about an hour and a half into the fighting there–that I started to get suspicious. So, I stayed away from cities. Even from smaller towns. I had a place I wanted to see, one that was sort of the point of the whole trip, the whole walking the Earth thing. An old shrine to Janus on a tiny flyspeck of an island in the middle of the Aegean. It's a rocky little place, stairs older than the temple, which was mighty old, carved into the stone. I'm sure that if you count the steps it would end up some sacred number to the ones who built it, but I only had one number on my mind. There's not much left of the temple, only a couple of walls and the legs of a statue. But the courtyard is probably mostly unchanged. The flowers growing are wild, not cultivated, but the smooth stone in the middle is still there, as well as the two giant chairs facing each other in the middle. I sat down in one, then said it out loud. "Six." And with the 'pop' sound of displacing air, he was there in the opposite seat. Imp Six. The Imps are sort of like your most embarrassing fanboy, except that they have the powers of a god and, for omniscient beings, they don't really understand much of our lives. Not everyone has one to bother them, and hardly anyone my age. It's a legacy thing, I think. Once I learned the Silent Fist technique and took Grandfather's old name, Six had to follow. "Greerings, my magnificent mundivagant friend," he said. "I know what you've been doing," I said. "I should hope so," he said. "You know, your grandfather would have figured it out much earlier." I think he thought he was pressing a button. Maybe gramps had some kind of complex about his father or mentor or something. "Will you stop it, please?" "Why should I?" "Because I asked nicely," I said. A lot of people treat the Imps like a villain, go antagonistic on sight. Maybe after a few more go rounds I'll be that way too, but not just yet. "But why would you want me to?" I sighed. "I'm doing this, walking the Earth, visiting the old places for a reason." "Exactly," he said. "What?" "You're doing this to think, right? And we both know you think best when you're fighting." "I haven't had any time to think," I said. But he was sort of right. There is a kind of clarity, when you're working on reflexes and muscle memory, when you're fully in the zone, when everything goes away and you can really think. But I hadn't been using it at all. "And whose fault is that?" said Six. I started to answer, but the words escaped me. "It's a lot to think about," I said. A month before I set out to walk the Earth, I died. Impaled by a steel girder in the hands of Crooked Johnny. My friend Max was by my side, and he finished the fight before he even realized how bad it was, that my usual healing mantra wasn't going to save me. "My grandfather was nearly fifty when he used the Zagreus Technique." One of the most powerful moves there is. You come back from the dead. You can only ever use it once. "You're what, sixteen?" "Twenty-two." I said. The Imps are omniscient, but only when they think about it. They can grab any piece of knowledge out of the air, but they don't swim in it. They can be wrong, and they are a lot. "Were you fighting any differently?" he asked. "Playing it safe? Holding back?" They can also be right, annoyingly enough. "No," I said. "So maybe it doesn't mean as much as you think it does." I still needed to think, I wasn't really to go home just yet. So I had two things planned. First, I was going to sit and meditate, maybe for a few full days. Long enough for Imp Six to get bored, hopefully. And then, well, there's a tournament in an underground club in Cyprus. Unlimited class, powers open, non-lethal by popular consensus but accidents happen. If that doesn't shake something loose I don't know what will.
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May 29, 2023 10:40
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Submissions closed
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May 29, 2023 11:55
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Beautiful and Useless Words JUDGED This week's results showed that more, bigger words is not always more, bigger better. Winner: Armack for a story that worked as an interesting allegory HM: Chairchucker for an entertaining Wild West romp Loss: Dicere for giving me whip-lash between the story sections Crits to come later. Ascend, Armack!
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May 31, 2023 09:26
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Week 565: Anglishweek Your task is to write me a tale in Anglish. For the purposes of this contest, that means your story should read like it's favoring German-origin English words (and even German-sounding neologisms) over Romantic-origin English words. This will be much more laid back than it sounds. No one should be looking up the etymology of every single word they write, and no one will get DQ'd for the mere unintended presence of French in your story. This really will not be that difficult. But there are better and worse ways of approaching the diction. For example, it's bad if your characters are eating hors d'oeuvres, somewhat better if they're eating appetizers, and a LOT better if they're eating scantbites. What I'll be judging is whether or not your prose has an overall Anglish feel to it. Oh, and also whether or not your story sucks. Standard TD rules apply. ----- Deadline: Sunday, June 4th, 11:59 PM, PST. Wordheight: 2000 Kingmakers: - Armack - chili - ??? Winseekers: - Weltlich - Thranguy - Chernobyl Princess - QuoProQuid Armack fucked around with this message at 12:48 on Jun 3, 2023 |
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May 31, 2023 12:46
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May 31, 2023 15:54
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May 31, 2023 23:56
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Crits for Week #564 Fuschia tude - Rapture: This story was more successful at fitting in lots of big fancy words because these words fit the setting and the character of Arthur well. I liked the epistolary format and the characters: Arthur has lofty, well-intentioned goals, but his methods of achieving them are heavy-handed, and Dr. Silverman is nicer than she needs to be in pointing out the flaws. However, I found the pacing to be a little rushed: I was expecting the showdown with the Giggle Engine to be the climax of the story, but it happens in the middle, and the latter half of the story is repetitive as Arthur doesn’t learn from his earlier mistake. In a longer story, with more set-up to the destruction of the Giggle Engine, this ending could work as a nice denouement. derp - paths: Not gonna lie, I panicked a bit when I saw the solid block of text that is your story, but to your credit I found it quite readable. The prose style and scientific focus reminded me of Piranesi, which I enjoyed reading, and our main character’s hatred of paths was intriguing. However, unlike a path, the story didn’t take that idea further. I wanted to know why they have such an aversion to paths, and whether they’d realize that their own presence in the woods is inevitably creating a path. Or maybe there’d be an evolution of what a path means. I was looking for some kind of character development, but they seem to start and end the story as the same person, eternally stymied by paths. Paths paths paths. Chairchucker - Stranger Imparadised: First of all, you only used your word in the title, not the story, shame on you. But this was a charming enough story that I didn’t care too much. I think what makes this work for me more than most cozy-type stories is that it’s subverting a lot of Wild West tropes. It’s easy to be a nice animal-loving witch in a cottage in the woods, harder to do so in a rough-and-tumble frontier town. The sheriff, fanatically committed to violence and the status quo, embodies the usual Wild West ethos, and Hazel shows that a different way is possible. Some of the dialogue did get repetitive for no additional benefit, but overall it was a fun read. Armack - The Criterion: I found this story to be quite thought-provoking. The allegory of being too fat to get into Heaven could have a few different meanings: it could refer to the way religions can have arbitrary, almost nonsensical rules that nevertheless informs a person’s worthiness. Or it could be a commentary on who society thinks is deserving of happiness, and how conforming to that image often doesn’t result in happiness. Just the fact that the story gave me something to ponder raised it head and shoulders above the rest. In addition, the imagery is vivid and surreal, especially the sclera made of feathers. One criticism is that the ending is a little rushed, and our main character has no emotional reaction to being sent back to the bottom of the stairs. It seems like they’d be especially disappointed after thinking the oasis was an alternative way into Heaven. Dicere - Bylines: Each of the sections of this story took the narrative in a different direction, so that it ended up nowhere. The obituary paints a picture of a deep and interesting man, which is contrasted nicely with Jake’s petty grumbling. Baggage alert: my grandma recently passed away and my mom had a lot of her old stuff around, and it was enlightening to see her not just as a grandma, but as a mother, a high school valedictorian, a keen traveler, etc. After the first section, I was thinking we were going to go on a similar journey with Jake, but instead we get Barbara at a restaurant watching mob activity. What does this have to do with Fitzwilliam? From the last section, he’d investigated the mob and had some old photos, which Harvey, out of nowhere, decides he’s willing to assault a reporter to get. It’s OK though, Barbara is acquitted on self-defense. This sordid affair doesn’t seem like a fitting legacy for the worldly Fitzwilliam described in the obituary, so I was left feeling confused. rohan - an english teacher with a gun at the end of the world: This story was fun to read, with many of the beautiful and useless words making an appearance, and clearly a lot of fun to write. And fun is as worthy a reason to write as any other! However, I do have to critique it as a story. The actual plot takes a long time to get going, as Patrick only appears about halfway through the story. Even when he does arrive, the tension that he could be a marauder dissipates quickly. The remaining question– could Marian accept people into her life again?-- doesn’t really get an answer, so overall nothing much happens or changes. As the start of a longer story, I think this would work well as the first act. Thranguy - Perambulations: This story was OK. The writing and worldbuilding is good and we get a nice portrait of a disillusioned superhero/superpowered person, but the reveal that he's dealing with his newfound mortality comes late. Given his issue, the revelation that he just needs to work it out through violence, perhaps killing other people, seems hypocritical, like his life is the only one that really matters. It doesn't make me sympathetic towards him. The Imp is also a little strange: sure, he sets up the fights but he's pretty straight with the protagonist while they talk, more like a therapist than a creature from hell. Overall, there's not a lot of tension (by his own admission, he doesn't mind the fighting) and nothing really gets resolved, other than to keep fighting but enjoy it this time.
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Jun 1, 2023 03:37
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My Shark Waifuu posted:Crits for Week #564 Good idea. Thanks!
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Jun 1, 2023 05:27
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week 562 crits derp this is a story where i wish i had a cojudge because i cant tell if this is just my own proclivities but i did really like this the story itself is an interesting look at what happens after a death, and about how art and commodification of art changes people’s entire view on others. we have Leland, who cares for Maria as an actual person, and because of their own thoughts, cannot bare to look at or give away their letter. but then we have the editors with a letter where they try to convince Leland to give up the letter and her stories, and its a decently sound argument, but then it comes crashing down when we get into the actual conversations of the editors, where their interest is clearly not in actually making the story whole for any artistic or personal merit, but to be able to sell it. its interesting (and maybe an issue) that Leland doesnt get much time of his own, just the one little section, when i think he’s the emotional core here, but its also nice to be able to see the kind of swirling of conflicts and emotions that happen around a person’s life, and the value of art both in the literal value and figurative value. Slightly Lions honestly, i shouldve HMed this. im a bit of a sucker for these kinds of awkward kids awkwardly getting into a relationship and this works, even if its a bit paint-by-the-numbers in terms of its narrative. it’s cute and enjoyable, but it doesnt necessarily do much else for itself. i find it just a bit lacking, in that this is a story that we’ve all heard and seen before and it doesnt have enough individual character to really stand out. the stuff about Hero has potential to push itself more into specificity and into a real look at a relationship, but it doesnt really move the story out of the overly familiar. the prose here is genuinely good, with some nice turns of phrases and pacing, but the narrative kind of draws too much attention onto its prose. we can see all the narrative beats and ideas, sing along with the tune, so the good prose tends to just kind of bloat the story rather than really elevate it. it is good prose, but its in service of not a bad story, but a story that doesnt really deserve the prose you give it. so the story starts to get bogged down where my reaction was “why the hell is this story 2k words?” which is not a good reaction Thranguy i love Scraps and you hit it on the nose what i love about dogs. theyre dumb, goofy idiots. everything else is a bit… meh. the setup is decently good but i feel like you ran out of steam (hehe, trains). there’s some cute relationship sketching, some decent worldbuilding, but its all in service of not much. the end of the story felt more like a list of “here’s the things i wanted to do but i didnt have the time/words” than anything else, which is disappointing too because you had a good amount of words left to try and fit some sort of complete story into here. maybe there was more conflict here to be had with these rebels/lower class people impersonating the rich and seeing the upper class society around them. its a pretty common trope, but a decent one that has room to be played with, so maybe that direction wouldve made this a more effective flash piece, esp given that the worldbuilding here is a bit vague. Azza Bamboo this is messy from a prose standpoint, but there’s a heart here that i like. its a bit TOO on the nose with its theming (with the mom almost outright saying im glad youre rebelling against me). i dont think you needed both Amy and Patrick. both characters fit the same kind of role (they both rebel against their mother) and while they have superficial differences in what they like, they both function the same in the story. they end up both suffering because neither of them can really develop or have their own distinct relationship and they just eat up more of the word count. i know the prompt and all that, but i think erasing one of them (and tbh Amy seems like the one on the chopping block) could free up some space here to get some personality to one of the kids and streamline it a bit. besides that, i think the intro was overly long because the story felt much more focused on the alien, and the concert conflict was strange since it seemed mostly perfunctory and not really something that important. its also a bit messy in terms of the alien setup and the conflict around them and i think some more clarity on what they are and what the larger conflict revolving around them is can help out a lot here. Chernobyl Princess this is mostly just setup and is fine for that, but it doesnt really lead to anything. there’s not much meat here to actually chew on. truthfully, i think this is one of those rough drafts that you build on top of, where those words sketch the world and characters, and then you use those sketches in its own individual stories with its own stakes. imo we shouldnt have seen these words you gave us, we shouldve seen what happened next, with these words serving as your own backdrop to how you craft the real story that’s there.
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Inftructions On The Baking of No-Knead Breadlings, By An Unkeen Huswif 417 words creates twelve small-loaves, or breadlings, fuitable for fandwiches and toafting, as the reader fo wills. 1. Run out of bread from Jotunmart becaufe your children are empty pits to which carbohydrates are the only mirthbringers. Decide to make breadlings. 2. Firft take two pounds of whole wheat flour, furnished by the grace of God and the artifan millers of New Jerfey, and add to that fome yeaft and fome falt, mixing gently. 3. Add to this fomewhat lefs water than flour, mixing until a fticky, wet dough forms. Remember belatedly to remove your rings. Ah. You have already gotten dough entrapped in the gemholders. You are aceing this. 4. Realize that you completely hosed up and nobody wants to eat 100% whole wheat, no-knead bread. That poo poo will be weirdgrainy and bad. Imagine Paul Hollywood’s look of wry disappointment. Remember that you are American. ftop this foolishnefs. 5. Start from ftep 1 with all-purpofe flour. 6. Throw half of the whole wheat dough into the bowl with the all-purpofe dough. Throw half the all-purpofe dough into the bowl with the whole wheat dough. Mix them together with your hands, muttering that it’s okay, it’s juft marbled. It’s artifanal. 7. Place dough, covered, in a coolcheft. You will have to ufe the underhoufe one, the overhoufe coolcheft being filled with uneaten leftovers and fnacks. Let it rife there for at leaft two hours, or better overnight, or more accurately two to three overnights. You are not made of time, after all. 8. Awaken with a profound longing for bread. 9. Set oven to 450f and place a caft iron fkillet on the bottom. Wetting your hands, fcoop fmallish handfuls of dough and shape them into balls by ftretching them and tucking the dough underneath itfelf. You’re feeking larger-than-golfball but fmaller-than-bafeball fized balls here, which will bake into hamburger-bun fized breadlings. Allow to embiggen as the oven comes to temp. 10. Before you place the breadlings into the oven, pour a cup of boiling water into the caft iron fkillet. Bake breadlings for 25 minutes. 11. Let cool on a wire rack 12. Immediately burn your tongue. Turn it into a teaching moment about patience for your four year old. Pat yourfelf on the back before drowning the breadlings in honey and butter and gorging yourfelf on them for the reft of the week.
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Jun 5, 2023 02:28
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Sharp as 754 words Gretchen zipzapped across the brokenglass dustplanes, barrels white-hot from the workout tagging shaverfiends in their foxholes. She blazed murderous. She beamed danger. The fiends learned to keep heads-down, to let her by. The ones who didn't learn died, burnt blood paying down feud-debt. Sigurd went under the shaver six and six years earlier. Gretchen had marked the day twelve times, before she took up the boltcannon and went outriding. She saw his cropped head in her mind, put that turncoat mug on each shavekin to make it easy to take the shot. She tilted right, took the downlow shot at the shinepate with the gangly arms trying to track her twowheeler's path. The kid ducked back into his spidertrench. She untilted and punched the gas, making speed across the dust, straight at the bunker. The shavepate veteran tried to lock her heavygun at the killing spot, but she did not have time to shift it. She spat bolts wide and wasteful, then choked on the dust as Gretchen turned tight right just before the murderhole. She peeled fast, flanking the camp. Warlord Syd appeared as if he had been born from the dust, great naked chest glistening with slick and sweat. He roared, and he roared, and he roared. Many words, one thought. Challenge. Gretchen grinned red. Syd beat his chest like an ape. Gretchen pulled a long thin knife from her wristwraps. Syd laughed and slid brass onto fists. "If I fall," he said, top soft for the hidden crowd, "My men will shoot you dead." "Then I will make you yield," said Gretchen. She stepped forward, knife shielding wrist. Syd bellowed and barked a laugh. Gretchen made a darting thrust. Syd paid the blade no heed and punched, powerful, gutward, earning a bleeding arm. Gretchen reeled back. Syd gave a mule kick, high, striking her ribcage, knocking her down, but as she fell she slashed at the raised leg, cutting deep, sending Syd to the ground. Syd rolled, spanning the few feet between them and onto Gretchen. He grabbed her hand, his brass clanging into the knife and biting her flesh. She lurched upward, in a nose-crushing headbutt. He grinned through blood and spittle, and returned the same blow, again, again. Gretchen saw white, then red, then nothing at all. She woke, in chains, on cold stone, an old witchwoman by her side with a bowl of putrid smells. She panicked, grabbed upward to the end of the chains, not enough. She bent down, and could barely feel her head, untouched. "They won't shave you until you beg," the woman said. "I won't, " she said. "You will," she said. "For many things. For bread and meat. For a splash of water to clean. For a stiff cock, or a warm and well-taught tongue if that's how you're bent. All yours for the begging, each time a little lower. Or beg once for the shaver." "If I ever beg for a blade," she said, "It will be for my throat." Syd came to her when she was well. "I like you," he said. "I need a new woman. Take the shaver, and I can give you all." Gretchen shook her head. She had taken food and drunk, and little else. She was unwashed, filthy. He wore wraps where she had bled him. He had the thing, the stank, the power. Her body wanted him, and was working her mind and soul. But she would never take the blade. He returned, nearly each night. He offered her everything. She asked for Sigurd, as he had been before. "This I cannot give," he said . "Then give me his head," she said. "And will you take the shaver?" he asked. "No," she said. "But I will be yours for a night." He laughed. "You should be begging me for that," he said. "Still." He ordered her washed with three buckets and a scouring stone, and the next night he came to her, with the head of her wolfhead once-lover, still fresh and bloody. She pulled open the jaw and spat into his dead mouth, then took joy with Syd for the night. When the Glimmerkings of the west made their move, she fought alongside the razorfiends and earned their glorymarks. And when Syd died in those battles and her eldest son ordered her to take the blade for the funeral, she went to the second, soon there was another head brought to her room. She died the dowager archfield, with hair to reach the dust.
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Jun 5, 2023 08:01
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Submissions closed.
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Jun 5, 2023 13:32
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 important Thunderdome post Hi there! I thought it was time to have a chat with the thread. As we can see, there haven't been too many signups or submissions. I know that our typical pool of regular contributors gets busy, and anyway Thunderdome shouldn't really rely on the same handful of people entering again and again. I want to systemically work on mitigating this, but I have an important question, particularly for lurkers or folks who don't sign up much (though anyone is welcome to answer): Would you sign up more if the losertar was optional? Please limit answers to the scope this specific question. There is a lot to talk about in terms of what could be done to re-invigorate this contest, but right now I would like to sincerely know if the losertar is an impediment to entry!
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Jun 5, 2023 19:33
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Sitting Here posted:
This might get me to sign up more on weeks where I know I have less time to write.
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Jun 5, 2023 21:08
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Week 565 Judgement Post Thank you Anglishweek entrants. You both made an effort to style your submissions in Anglish, and neither or you merits a loss. The win, however, goes to Thranguy. Congratulations! Crits forthcoming.
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Jun 5, 2023 21:29
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| # ? May 30, 2024 18:30 |
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For me, the losertar was not an impediment to entry (<-- obviously), but it does mean I'm going to be very careful about any avatar purchase I make in the future so long as I do TD. I have some other ideas/discussion points I'll send via PM as this is a directed question you asked.
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Jun 5, 2023 22:09
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