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The Average Male Life Expectancy in East Glasgow in 1988 was 52 998 words Arthur perched at the back of the Peppermint Unicorn's VIP podium overlooking his kingdom of drunken lads leering amongst the dancing slags. Ewen thought as he approached he'd give the murderous old bastard one thing, he knew how to dress. The two whores fled as he reached the table and he sat down at the spot kept warm. Arthur was looking at him funny. One thing a lad did not want in a life such as Ewen's was Insane Arthur looking at him funny. "Me old son, we have unfortunate news. Concernin' missin' product, and... guess fuckin' who?" He slammed down a gold and diamond encrusted hand. "Oh... gently caress me dead... what's he done now?" The King of Tongland pointed a gnarled tattooed finger at Ewen. "Gypsy Joe is very fuckin' upset cause ye mate went missin' on his way to the docks. He's wantin' his gear and I want me twenty large. And what's fuckin' more we want that wee oval office gone!" Ewen looked at the hand, resigned to what was coming next. "I fuckin' warned ye, I will go to fuckin' town and ye will fuckin' watch." "Arthur, we went to school together and the likes.." "Oh gently caress off with that, what of last week? Well ye and that curly shite went to different schools together, what the gently caress's changed?" Arthur's arms and eyes went wide with wondering. Experience told Ewen not to argue with this logic if he wanted the shotgun staying under the table so he rose, rubbing his stubble and nodding low, the recall of the curly shite's screams refeshed. Arthur was becoming more unhinged by the day. "Mark me words, he is fuckin' dead, and ye, ye are a cunthair away from joinin' him." "Aye, right. Give it a day or two, I'll find him." "Aye ye fuckin' will. Ye will bring him right here to me feet. And me money. And the gear. Before those travellin' horse fuckers come here lookin'!" ** The heater on the Cortina Ewen had wired didn't work and he scanned the streets looking for another car to steal, when he spied Adele, aka Misty. He pulled over and watched as she staggered in her heels trying to get a key in a door to a house Ewen didn't recognize. Walking up behind he found she was too wasted to have heard him or the car, and took the opportunity. "Oi Adele! What's the problem!" Keys flew out of her hands as she gave a screech, spinning around in fright and staying that way when she saw who it was. "Oh gently caress, poo poo, what? Ewen? Fuckin' near poo poo meself." Ewen couldn't avoid the sight of arse as Adele clawed the syringe littered concrete for her keys. "You sounded like a fuckin' cat, love. Really. Now who's livin' here? By the way I'm very well thanks." "Just some geezer is all, pays me to listen and...stuff." she said. Ewen pointed at her nose. "And is the geezer's name... Dougal?" Untidy blonde hair flew as she shook her head. "I've nay seen him, he's at his his mam's, he's.." Kicking the door open he went inside. *** Ewen held Dougie under the shower trying to stay at least part dry. Almost awake Dougie stumbled out and collapsed back in bed as Ewen stared in disgust at the wreck of a once proud Royal Marine, arms and feet littered with the marks of Glasgow's kings. He'd forever mused on why the gently caress a lad from The Calton would join the British army, and little wonder he's come back from Maggie's war hosed in the head. Half a life spent in the borstals together and he wanted more of the same? Adele had wisely made herself scarce and Ewen listened with resignation as his oldest mate told the usual sorry tale of temptation as he looked over at the phone. "How much's left then you silly oval office?" "Ah, maybe a quarter." "The pair of ya done the lot in two days? gently caress off, where's it?" "Well, Adele sold some to Metho Bob, and the lasses n that." "Tremendous, how much have you?" Dougie searched his pockets then stood looking about puzzled. "Oh she fuckin' didn't!" Dougie's solution was packaging mostly cornflour with the remaining quarter carefully wrapped inside the top, marking where to put his penknife to draw out pure scag, thinking he'd get the money and worry about the rest later. **** The rain had stopped and they could see the dim lights and the waiting men as tugs piped their forlorn songs from the waters of the Clyde. Dougie was getting the shakes. "Hold it the gently caress together another wee minute lad." "Ewen, I'm sorry I got ye in this again, I'll pay ye back and get meself right, I will." Promises Ewen had heard many times before. Stole from his mam, his sisters, from Ewen and every other friend, and now Arthur. Ewen stared through the windscreen coming to terms with what he had done, barely able to make out the men leading Dougie down to his death through the swirling fog. At least this lot will just shoot him and make it quick, not like Arthur and his fuckin' power tools. Gypsy Joe knew. He'd given them a ring, and mate or not, he didn't fancy dying right this minute, and he could hardly do Dougie himself. And he weren't letting Arthur have him. Anything but that. He'd be dead soon anyway, if it weren't scag it was drink, like everyone else. Well that's the end of it, shite as it is. As he pondered this about to start the car and head to the Unicorn he froze, overcome with dread at seeing the unharmed Dougie walking back with a small bag, a gift to Insane Arthur from Gypsy Joe, as he remembered Arthur's words. I fuckin' warned ye, I will go to fuckin' town and ye will fuckin' watch....Ye will bring him right here to me feet.
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Jul 9, 2023 04:16
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noise 1100w removed derp fucked around with this message at 00:59 on Dec 15, 2023 |
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Jul 10, 2023 01:34
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Outstanding Contribution 999w I should like to give you some background first. It's unbecoming to brag, but between you and me I have a terribly important job, and I am rather good at it. The entire village works for the Ministry in one way or another, it is no secret what I do. Geoff at the market asks me how my day was when I buy vegetables, and I give an annual talk for Deirdre at the primary school about the necessity of our expedited prison system. We all understand, you see. The world may not work the way it used to, but my job is no different from Geoff, from Deirdre, or even yourselves. It isn’t as though this job is a new idea; this country had an official executioner until the 1960s. The crisis of the last few decades might mean that our methods are somewhat rushed, but I like to think I bring professionalism to the role. You’re quite right, I’m getting off the subject. Please, there’s no need to be rough, we really are all on the same team. It was the bum end of an early shift. I’d performed seven disposals that morning when the Minister arrived with his aide. Couldn’t tell the aide from Adam, they come and go all the time. As I can see you’ve checked, they signed the register and made their way to Cell 23. No, I most certainly did not listen to what went on in there. We do not get involved in interrogations. I do what I can to ignore the sounds, a little sudoku here and a crossword there. I was trying to tease out “Dull river crossed by fish (4)” when the cell opened again. The Minister walked swiftly down the corridor, his back turned and hat replaced. The aide made his way to my desk, face pale. Not, I suspected, a successful interrogation. The young man told me the Minister would like me an Expedited Disposal on the occupant of Cell 23 immediately. Now, I understood the procedure well enough, and this was a deviation. If you would check my records, you will see that I am one of only 30 per-cent of Disposal Associates to achieve a rating of ‘Outstanding Contribution’ for each of the last three years. I know, if I may say so, my onions. This gentleman did not act like he was on a spot-check. A forced laugh and a patting of pockets came before a theatrical slapping of his forehead as I reminded him of the process. Of course, he said. How silly of me, he said, such an instruction must only come from the Minister. Although, he said (and here his lower lip turned up into an desperately pathetic sulk), the Minister had left for an urgent meeting with the Security Service and was incommunicado for the day. He briefly went on a tangent about the Faraday cages these meetings were held in, before stopping bashfully. Ah, youthful enthusiasm. The young man sighed, bloodied knuckles tapping on his teeth. How were we, two professional Crown servants, to solve this conundrum? And then, with a speed that caused his gore-soaked tie to flick dull red spots onto my desk, he threw his finger up in triumph. Of course! The Minister had signed the order. He produced the note (yes, this same note, stains and all). Signed, proper and official, with His Majesty’s seal. He wrung his hands as I inspected it. And oh, gentlemen! You should have seen the wretch. Ill-fitting suit, cheap glasses, ruined white shirt (awful decision in this work). I took pity on the boy. It doesn’t do to be a roadblock to Government, not in these times. He made sure to take my name as he left. That’s how you know they’re going to put in a good word. Once he left, I did my duty. They must have really roughed up the fellow this time: they’d gone to the trouble of putting a bag over his head. He didn’t move at all as I raised the barrel to his forehead, sat limp in the chair in a too-large prisoner’s uniform. I called down for the cleaner as I usually do. Paula (nice girl, thick as a post) said that she didn’t think there were any more booked today. She didn’t understand, and I had to explain twice. That girl couldn’t think her way out of a paper bag. It’s curious how some things only come into focus when explaining them to another. The Minister had dashed down the corridor in a dreadful hurry, and a hat indoors? And hadn’t Cell 23 been quite a stout man? Once Paula agreed to do her blasted job, I took another look at the slip. Ministers must be frightfully busy, I’m sure it’s normal to photocopy a signature. And the Royal Seal. I sat there for a spell, and it was then I elected to end my shift and amble home for a late lunch. There was a queer atmosphere around the village, silent but for Ministry cars barrelling down the street. I was grateful to shut out the world and sit in my lovely cottage, turn on the television and try to relax. University Challenge, an all-Oxford matchup, Balliol facing Wadham. I couldn’t focus on it. Doing my best not to think about what had happened, I fell asleep. I told myself, as mum would say, it will all come out in the wash. I woke when your boys knocked my door in with a ram. Unnecessary, though I suppose forgivable, given the circumstances. And that brings us to the present. I’m very sorry to hear about the Minister, really I am, and I do hope you catch that rascal from Cell 23. I hope you can see that this was a rare lapse in an otherwise stellar career and allow me to return to work. After all, my job is terribly important, and I am rather good at it.
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Jul 10, 2023 02:26
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Pipe Nightmares 1407 words “It’s no use,” Zirno said. “I’m hosed.” Kim Lewis watched her friend bustle. Zirno was standing next to her on his cluttered lawn with the expression of a drowning man, his curly orange hair matted to his forehead. The yard was dominated by tarps covered in used musical instruments, velvet-lined cases, old vinyl records, sheet music, metronomes, and anything else he thought someone might buy. It was a legendary local event: Zirno Day, part sale, part outdoor museum exhibit. The day when the weird guy in town with the Coke bottle glasses and the TROMBONE ACCUMULATOR t-shirt hauled out his treasure trove of red marble Hohner accordions and glinting Jupiter trumpets and obscure zeuhl records. Though he was mainly a classical marimbist, Zirno had been in countless orchestras and bands over the years and had a basement full of junk to prove it. He’d even thrown in a few mics and cables this year for anyone who wanted to start recording. But it was already 4:00 and not much had moved. The sale was only supposed to run for another hour. Zirno was already hunched over trying to stack his harmonicas back in their little plastic boxes when Kim squatted down next to him. “I want to help,” she said. “This was my last chance,” Zirno said. “I’m so far under my goal it’s not even funny. There won’t be another Zirno Day.” “I could try to call some friends from work,” she said. “I’m just assistant principal but they do listen to me.” “Your school willing to drop $5,000 on old musical instruments?” “Jesus.” “I told you: I’m hosed. This was supposed to carry me through until September.” “You’ll find other work.” “Not here. The Board has slashed the orchestra’s budget again and Maestro Keller would rather we cut chairs than add performances. I’ll be lucky if I can scrape together enough music tutoring gigs for my mortgage payments.” The last of the stragglers was heading back to their car. Kim took a breath. “Sell me something, John,” she said. He looked up at her. “What?” “You were the first person I met when I moved to Stoneburg,” Kim said. “It was barely a month after the divorce and I’d never lived in a place smaller than Newark. I would have no life here if it wasn’t for you. It’ll cut into my nest egg but I can earn that back eventually.” Zirno combed his soul patch with his teeth. “I know you won’t let me just give you the money,” Kim continued, “so I’ll buy something from you, fair and square. Point me to it. I could use a new hobby anyway.” “It’s too much, Kim-” She’d already started circulating. By 5:00 she’d claimed an Opus pipe organ, the heaviest-looking thing at the sale. She and Zirno lifted it into his van using a dolly and moved it in pieces to Kim’s spare room at her house a few blocks away. They ended the night drinking beer while Zirno showed her some riffs from Elton John and The Doors. He begged her to reconsider up until the moment she sent him back home with the check. * * * * * It was a miracle that the organ fit so well against the wall. They’d had to move some things around, but now it was the first thing you saw when you opened the guest room door, especially the “V” shape made by the wooden flute pipes behind the keyboard. In the first month after the sale, Zirno came over about three times a week, happily showing her some scales and chords. She hadn’t played a piano or anything like it since middle school, and had stopped her on and off guitar playing just before she met her ex. “I never would have imagined owning one of these,” Kim told him once. “They always sounded so evil to me.” “Don’t blame Bach, or whoever wrote Toccata and Fugue,” Zirno said, scratching his neck. “Blame Hollywood. Organ music can be anything: happy, funny, sad, and yes, scary. What other instrument do you know gets used for baseball games, circuses, and churches?” Kim tried to keep an open mind. She would sit by herself and slowly pick out some simple tunes, trying not to think of the bad guy from the Beauty and the Beast Christmas special she’d watched zillions of times as a kid. Then came the nightmares. When she saw clawed Catholic gargoyles crawling out of the Opus pipes in her sleep, she struggled to imagine organ chords in a relaxing place instead: the apex of one of her favorite solo hikes, making it just above the treeline at sunrise. It was a sort of mind’s eye prayer. If she was really lucky, she’d just dream of nothing. After a while, her concerns were less about her bad dreams and more about Zirno. She began to notice bruises on his arms and face. Sometimes he walked with a limp or clutched his side. Any questions she posed to him were violently waved away. “I’m fine,” he’d say. “Don’t forget: you’ve saved my life by buying this thing.” And he’d pat the arm of the Opus like it was the hood of a car from the ‘50s. By early July he was sporting welts on his forehead and heavy bags under his eyes. He’d tell her casually how little sleep he got, then worriedly change the subject or make up an excuse to go home, leaving Kim in the room with the smug-looking Opus. So she asked if they could set up a sleep monitor in his room, like a baby, and maybe figure out what was bothering him. And he was so tired at that point he agreed. * * * * * The screaming started at 2:00 AM. She’d spent the night on the couch in Zirno’s living room, and it was so loud she realized that the monitor had been unnecessary. She flew up the stairs into his bedroom. Zirno was covering his head, his eyes still closed, as dozens of reed-like tendrils with mallet-like heads slammed down on him over and over. These tendrils were the limbs of eight tall, thin, faceless creatures, standing over him on wiry legs and making angry humming noises. Kim found herself laughing in horror and confusion and hating herself for it. She couldn’t help it. The absurdity of these stick insects solemnly hitting someone, each of them a slightly different height, was unavoidable. Suddenly, she stopped laughing. Rearrange them, perhaps creating a parabola…or maybe a V… The thought engulfed her. In trying to help Zirno keep his home, had she displaced someone else? A whole community? The blows came down, harder and harder. “I have it,” she said, quietly. She repeated it again, louder this time. “I took your home from you,” she said. The creatures stopped. The shorter ones began skittering toward her. Kim hoped the wind from the door would knock them over as she flung it shut and fled down the stairs, perhaps buying herself some time. Back in her house, Kim crouched at the top of her stairs. The doors were cracked open and she waited until she finally saw eight silhouettes flash quickly across the moonlit floor. She closed and locked the front door and then quickly poked her head into the Opus’ room on her back way upstairs. No giant stick insects could be seen, though she did hear a tapping sound from somewhere. * * * * * When Zirno stopped by the next day, he looked terrible. Kim expected him to laugh at her when she told him what she’d seen. Instead, he looked very grave and immediately asked if he could go play the organ, to see if he could talk to them. She led him to the bench and he took his seat. Zirno pulled a few stops and then played “The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba.” For some reason, all she could see now was a glittering star spinning through space. Perhaps another mind’s eye prayer, or a gift from her new housemates? The piece ended and Zirno looked up at the pipes. No facehugging or demon attacks. He smiled over his shoulder at Kim and the two of them exhaled together. “I think I know why I chose this one,” she said when Zirno had finished. “It lets you make your own harmony.” From within the pipes they heard soft, happy chittering.
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Jul 10, 2023 03:42
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Gravity 989 words Nicola’s stomach was trying to eat itself. “We’re not supposed to be here, Gee!” Gaius waved him off like only a big brother could: dismissive, confident, with a mild eye roll that highlighted Nicola’s inherent wrongness. Nicola’s older brother had always seemed smarter than everyone. Part of this was the three-year gap between them, but it was more than that. Gaius was better with computers than nearly every adult Nicola knew. This is how he found himself sneaking onto a deserted bridge during sleep hours. “We’re going to get caught! Can we go?” “We’re not going to get caught, Nick. Wallace is taking his fifteen minute break, and I faked a message to Maria that her son was sick. I disabled the cameras. There’s no one to catch us. Now shut up and watch this.” Gaius played his hands over the keys at the command post. Nicola jolted as the observation panels banged into life. They slid open, revealing the glowing abyss below. Nicola was speechless. His mouth hung in awe as he stared at the black hole. He had never seen it like this before. “I told you it would be awesome!” Gaius smirked at his brother, who stood transfixed. “It’s the best seat in the house.” It was beautiful. A glowing halo surrounding a pure black mouth that ate anything… no, everything. Nicola wiped tears from his face and continued to watch the array of orbital analysis equipment fire probes toward the horizon. “Totally worth it” Nicola whispered. He came out of his reverie when Gaius slugged him in the arm. “Are you crying, you nerd?” “What? No!” Nicola tried to slug him back, but Gaius danced out of the way. They scuffled for a bit in the light of the accretion disk. It ended when Gaius gave his younger brother a hug. “Thanks for coming, Nick. Stuff like this is more fun with someone than alone.” “Thanks for bringing me. We should probably go, right?” The fact of their rule-breaking had come back strong. Nicola moved toward the exit, tugging on Gaius’s uniform. “One second, I wanna try something.” Gaius pressed a few more keys at the command post, and stood back as the helm transformed at his touch. Two knurled, chrome handles emerged from the post, and the computer’s artificial voice rang out. “WARNING: MANUAL CONTROL WILL ABORT HELD ORBITAL PATTERN. RE-ENTER COMMAND AUTHORIZATION TO ENABLE MANUAL CONTROL.” “Gee, what are you doing?! Did you break into Dad’s office?” Gaius grinned as he tapped in the code and gripped the controls. “It pays to be the captain’s kid, huh?” He pushed forward and they saw the landscape start to move. The ship inched closer to the void, giving them a closer view of the analysis equipment. Letting go of the handles, he stood back to take pictures with his digital assistant. “The guys are gonna flip when they see this!” Nicola’s stomach, momentarily forgotten, made its presence known once more with a twisting pain. Their dad would absolutely find out about this, and the amount of trouble they were in surpassed anything Nicola was capable of imagining. He was frozen in horror just thinking about it. The ship continued to move. “WARNING: CURRENT TRAJECTORY INCOMPATIBLE WITH SAFETY PARAMETERS. ADJUST FLIGHT PLAN NOW.” The boys snapped toward the flashing klaxon on the navigation window’s HUD. “Oh, poo poo, that’s not good!” Gaius shoved his PDA back in his pocket. He grabbed the sticks and yanked back. The ship lurched at the overcorrection, tilting upward but not slowing down, and Nicola slapped at his brother in response. “Gee, you’re pulling too hard, stop it! Make it stop!” “I’m trying, you idiot! Get off me!” “Turn the autopilot back on!” Gaius pushed his brother away and used one hand to peck at the keys while the other attempted to wrestle the ship back to neutral. “WARNING: TRAJECTORY OVERRIDE WILL DISABLE MANUAL CONTROL. ENTER COMMAND AUTHORIZATION TO CONFIRM.” Gaius started to enter the code he memorized from his father’s datapad after everyone had gone to bed earlier that night. “Gaius, don’t do that! Didn’t you hear the computer?” “Will you shut up! I’m trying to get us back onto the original trajectory!” A pounding sounded at the door to the bridge. Gaius had locked it to buy them some time in case they needed it. He wished he hadn’t. “Open the door at least! Wallace can fix this!” “I can’t do everything at once! You open the door!” Nicola obeyed his brother, running towards the bulkhead. He fumbled uselessly at the controls. Gaius entered the trajectory override. “WARNING: CURRENT TRAJECTORY INCOMPATIBLE WITH SAFETY PARAMETERS. RE-ENTER COMMAND AUTHORIZATION TO CONFIRM.” Nicola whirled back toward the command post. “Gee, no, don’t!” “I know what I’m doing!” Gaius entered the code again. “TRAJECTORY CONFIRMED.” The boys waited. The ship continued to move. They noticed that a positioning overlay had popped up on the observation window HUD. It read “PREDICTED TRAJECTORY” and showed a thin dotted line spiraling from the ship–into the black hole. “Gaius…?” Gaius looked at his brother, his eyes wide. Bile shot up his throat and spilled into the back of his mouth. He dropped onto his knees and vomited onto the floor. “Gaius, look!” He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and followed his brother’s pointing finger to the window. They were passing the probe launchers. The ship was slowly accelerating. The door override pinged loudly and a group of adults stormed the room. Strong hands grabbed both boys by the arms and hurled them out of the way. Their father was shouting commands among the chaos as people shrieked out status updates. The ship was moving even faster. The brothers sat on the ground, sobbing quietly. The commotion died down. Nicola looked up towards his dad, waiting for him to continue shouting orders, but he didn’t. All the adults were staring towards the window, and no one was talking.
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Jul 10, 2023 03:43
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The Noise 1236 words Flash: PECULIAR RAGE The coffee machine made a terrible noise. Sure, it brewed an excellent cup of coffee, or so she’d been told by her coffee-fiend coworkers. No one else seemed to notice the high-pitched, almost hyper-sonic whine that the machine made whenever someone used it. It reminded Sarah of a dentist’s cleaning equipment, and it provoked the same strapped-down anxiety. She felt like a dog going crazy at a whistle no one else could hear. At least her new job was fine. Good, even. Her coworkers were pleasant, despite their intolerable coffee habits, and the office manager Kate had welcomed her and set her up at a coveted corner desk. Compared to the hell of her last role, things were great. Except for the Coffee Machine Issue. But it wasn’t an issue, really, not if no one else minded. She didn’t want to start her new job by making unreasonable demands, and asking about an inaudible noise definitely qualified. She lasted two weeks. Ten days, 80 hours, endless cups of hot drinks, each piercing her eardrums with the machine’s horrible whine. She tried noise-canceling headphones, turning up her music to unsafe levels, just goddamn dealing with it … but the awful noise cut through everything. Finally, she approached Kate. “Sorry to bother you, but I think there’s something wrong with the coffee machine.” Kate looked up, alarmed. “Really? What’s wrong?” Sarah tried to play it cool. “Well, it’s making a weird noise …” “It’s still working though, right?” Sarah nodded and Kate relaxed. “Thank goodness, this place runs on coffee. I’ll take a look, see if it needs to be cleaned.” She smiled reassuringly at Sarah. “Thanks for bringing it up, no one else has mentioned anything.” “No problem.” Sarah slunk back to her desk, a little embarrassed at admitting her weakness. The embarrassment was immediately replaced by annoyance as Frank made his mid-afternoon pick-me-up. Didn’t caffeine after lunch wreck his sleep? She fought her irritation; Kate would fix it tomorrow. And, indeed, the next day was pure bliss: the coffee machine was out of order for a deep clean. Her coworkers grumbled at having to go all the way downstairs to pay for coffee, the horror, but Sarah was elated. She had her best, most productive day yet, and swung by Kate’s desk to thank her for cleaning the machine. Kate smiled indulgently at Sarah’s enthusiasm. “You must really be a coffee expert, if you could tell it needed servicing.” “She doesn’t drink coffee,” Frank chimed in as he passed them. Sarah reddened. “Oh, really?” Kate looked confused. Sarah shrugged. “We had the same one at my old job, and it sounded different,” she lied, promising herself that would be the last time she mentioned the Coffee Machine Issue. The next day, there was much rejoicing as the coffee machine was back in action. Sarah gathered with the rest of the office as Kate made the inaugural cup. She had to stop herself from clapping her hands over her ears. The noise was back! In fact, it was worse than ever! She gritted her teeth: she couldn’t mention it again without being branded as even more of a weirdo. That frustration, combined with the constant whine of the coffee machine, made her seethe. When Frank came over to say that the coffee was better than ever, good idea to clean it, she used every iota of patience she’d learned at her last job to respond professionally instead of punching him. Between her noise-canceling headphones and a newfound interest in death metal, she managed. Until the start of a new quarter, which meant corporate planning, which meant double the usual number of people in the office, all chatting strategy and financial targets, fuelled by endless cups of coffee. Each time the coffee machine went off, it drove an ice pick of irritation through her skull. Even Frank complained that the racket disrupted his work, but for Sarah it was nigh unbearable. Unfortunately, she had to finish a report by tomorrow, so she tried in vain to focus. Instead, she ended up staring at her screen, spreadsheets obscured by a red mist of rage as metal pounded in her ears. But nothing could stop the noise. Five o’clock came and the office slowly emptied. Finally she could breathe, could actually do her work. She dove into the numbers and didn’t notice the time until Kate tapped her shoulder. “I’m heading home now, don’t worry about locking up.” At last, the office was silent. She sent the report, then stood up and stretched. From across the office, the coffee machine stared back at her, silent and menacing. A thought struck her: she couldn’t ask anyone to fix it, but maybe she could do it herself. Still in analytical mode, she decided to be methodical. First she readjusted the water tank and made a test cup. The noise screeched at her; that wasn’t it. She tested the bean hopper, the steamer, even the drip tray. The noise mocked her efforts. Where was it coming from, besides the depths of Hell? It must be inside the drat machine. She pulled it out to start pulling at the back panels, desperately angry that nothing was working. But the machine was front-heavy. Sarah screamed as it tipped off the front of the counter and crashed to the floor. Water seeped out of the broken tank, beans scattered across the kitchen floor, and she was pretty sure the tile under the machine was cracked. Thankfully, it had missed her foot. Sarah absorbed the magnitude of the disaster. The machine was expensive, beloved, and now irrevocably broken. She clenched her fists and let out a raw death metal shriek. “You okay, miss?” A wide-eyed cleaner stood a safe distance away, mop in hand. Oh god. Sarah blushed, tried not to cry, and sent the cleaner away. She cleaned up her mess as best she could, then left the office, barely in time for the last bus. She sighed heavily as she realized she’d have to get into the office early tomorrow, to explain herself to Kate with a minimum of witnesses. In fact, Kate was the only person there the next morning, and cornered Sarah as soon as she arrived. “Was it like this when you left? The cleaner?” Sarah trembled. “No, no. It was me.” Her throat closed up; did office managers have the power to fire people? Kate blinked, not understanding, but Sarah couldn’t speak. Finally, she said, “Well, if you broke it, the company will have to ask you to pay for a replacement. It’s not cheap–” “That’s okay, anything,” Sarah blurted out. Then, groveling, “I know how important coffee is to people here.” Kate gave her a half-hearted smile. “I’ll send you the details. If you’ll excuse me, I think we have an old machine somewhere …” Sarah retreated to her desk, exhausted. As her coworkers arrived, they mourned the loss of the coffee machine. She couldn’t bear to tell them that it was her fault. But they’d find out, eventually; Kate would say it wasn’t the cleaner, then who else had an issue with the coffee machine? Only her. Everyone would know the truth. Finally, Kate got the old machine set up and Frank walked over to make a cup. He pressed the button. The noise jolted Sarah out of her stupor. With a scream, she ran out of the office.
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Jul 10, 2023 06:48
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The Firebird 1000 words "I won't ask you to go," Captain Vale said. First Officer Jones was standing to attention in the Captain's private quarters. The alarms had been silenced but a warning light in the corridor lit the room with stripes of red. Vale was slouched at her desk, her sash missing from her normally impeccable crimson uniform and her hair escaping its tight bun in a grey corona. "For god's sake sit down." Vale waved at the edge of the bed. Deeply uncomfortable, Jones remained standing. Just give me an order, she thought. She had been following Vale these last 20 years and never had the famously decisive Captain laid such a terrible choice at her feet. Jones cleared her throat. "The SS Valiant will be within range of our escape vessel in 16 hours," she said. "If we launch now we will have enough oxygen to last until they reach us. The probability of successfully recovering the lost crew from alter-space is less than two per cent. Captain, my recommendation is we should focus on ensuring the survival of those remaining." "We will have enough oxygen if we launch the escape vessel within the next one hour and 57 minutes." Captain Vale stared straight into Jones’ eyes. “There’s time, Jones.” Jones flinched away from Vale’s gaze. She wasn’t sure whether she was more angry at her own cowardice, or the Captain’s. Jones thought about the disquiet that would spread through the surviving crew, knowing that, no matter how vanishingly small the odds, there had been a chance to save the others... Jones pressed the intercom on her wrist. “Meet me at the breach in Cargo Four in 3 minutes,” she said to the Chief Engineer. Captain Vale sagged deeper into her chair. Jones turned her back on the other woman, unable to bear the sight. Then she strode from the room, refusing herself the indulgence of further thoughts on anything but her task. The Chief Engineer had looked horrified when Jones told him to send her across the breach, but at Jones’ grey-eyed stare the man had done his job. Now, as Jones contemplated the varying opacity of the fractured spaceship in which she now stood, she felt her anger rise. drat you, Vale, Jones thought. Twenty years of service at the Captain’s side and her reward was a suicide mission, without even a word of… what? What did she want from Vale? I am an idiot, Jones thought. Behind her she could see the cargo deck she’d just left as if through the surface of a pond. She scanned the deck, but there was no splash of crimson amongst the blue-uniformed engineers. Jones caught herself searching and clenched her fists. Annoyed at herself, she punished her clammy palms with her fingernails. She eyeballed a wavering floor tile and stamped on it. Jones screamed as the floor beneath her disappeared. The moribund half of the SS Firebird unspooled into ribbons of stars. Jones grabbed at them as she fell, but they puffed away from her fingers like dandelion seeds. The void swallowed her scream so although she could feel it tearing at her throat she heard no sound. I won’t ask you to go. Vale’s words echoed in Jones’ mind, and fury mingled with her terror. I should have refused, drat your eyes, she thought. Jones was unravelling. No longer falling through the void but spreading out like wind-blown seeds. She could see the particles of her being smeared across alter-space in a long line back to their origin point. There were other gossamer threads too, spiralling around each other like a rope trying to un-fray. Vale would get a new ship; she was that sort of captain. The crew were good spacers, all of them. They’d stick with Vale. She was that sort of Captain, too. The sort of Captain who left no one behind. Except, Jones. Why did you send me? The thought was immediately followed by shame. Did she wish her Captain had chosen her safety over the chance, however small, of saving the lost crew members? Jones reached out with an arm she could no longer see. Her fingers touched the rope and it felt like running water through her hand. She tried to grasp hold of it but her hand closed on nothing, and instead her arm was yanked forward as if by a powerful current. Jones resisted, but in pulling back she felt she would come apart. Jones started to panic. She felt herself falling, then, the sensation of familiar hands gripping her wrist. It was the rest of the crew, holding their fragmented consciousnesses together despite the effects of too long in alter-space. Good spacers indeed. Jones grinned, and let them bind her to them, a whirl of stars. The distant Firebird looked like an arrow pierced through space, one end solid, gleaming, the other half stuck fast by its fletches, elongated and trembling like a bird’s wingtips on an updraft. Jones remembered the way Vale’s face had fallen at Jones’ decision. She pictured Jones waiting at the hatch of the escape vessel, the launch sequence begun, watching as the seconds ticked down to one hour and 57 minutes precisely… “All hands to the breach in Cargo Four!” Jones wasn’t sure how she issued the command, but she knew the crew would follow her. She was that sort of First Officer. As if through rippling water Jones saw the other side of the cargo deck. She scanned the waiting crowd. Her heart sank at the sea of blue, then her eyes fell on a crimson figure. “Jones!” Vale’s voice sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a well. The Captain was standing precariously close to the edge of the breach, limned in electric blue light as the engineers fired up the jump engine. A small sob escaped Jones’ mouth. She held the crew tightly to her, stretched out one arm. Her eyes met Vale’s, and this time she did not flinch. Across the impossible void, their fingers touched.
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Jul 10, 2023 10:12
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disregarded flashrule: MANIACAL DISASTER #lockdownlyf 1000 words Jess and Nic were as well-suited to lockdown life as anybody could hope for; both kind of introverted, neither particularly outdoorsy, each harbouring hobbies that time away from commutes and post-work tipples only helped foster. Jess took up baking, working through years of birthday-gifted cookbooks; Nic went back to his long-held fantasy of being a writer, daydreaming of wizards and dragons while on calls about critical vulnerabilities. They stayed busy, perfectly content sequestered within their tiny two-bedroom unit. Then their neighbours got a puppy. For a time it wasn’t a problem; Nic quite enjoyed the occasional bark of excitement. Sometimes, someone on a zoom call would excitedly ask if the dog was his, and he’d sadly shake his head. ‘Don’t have enough room,’ he’d shrug. ‘Always loved dogs, though.’ After the fourth or fifth time, Nic realised that if he didn’t have room to raise a puppy, surely his neighbours didn’t, either. He went out to his concrete courtyard, its six-or-so square-metres cannibalised by an unused BBQ and empty pot, and wondered where a dog was supposed to go during the day. Jess came outside with a beer and a cocked head, and he asked: ‘Do you know who lives next door?’ ‘The Papadopouloses? They fixed our dishwasher, remember?’ ‘No,’ he said, opening his beer and nodding toward the vine-covered trellis. ‘The other side.’ ‘Oh,’ she shrugged. ‘No idea. Don’t think I’ve met them. Why?’ ‘They’ve got a puppy,’ he said. ‘Oh, lovely! Have you seen it?’ ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I just … hear it. From their house.’ Jess frowned. ‘Did you want to borrow my headphones? I probably don’t need them now we’re not sharing the dining room.’ ‘It’s not that,’ Nic sighed. ‘It’s just—surely there’s not enough space—’ ‘What kind of dog is it?’ ‘I don’t know,’ Nic admitted. ‘I mean, if it’s, like, a dachschund—’ ‘They still poo,’ Nic interrupted. ‘And they still need walks.’ Jess sighed. ‘I’m sure they’re walking the dog. If you want, I could ask if they wouldn’t mind keeping it quiet while you’re working?’ Now Nic sighed. Inevitably, Jess was the problem-solver in their relationship: the one to sweet-talk, to barter, to cheerily court confrontation. He was sure if Jess went next door, sourdough in hand, she’d leave with their solemn promise to keep the dog quiet, a sixpack of beer, and an invitation to their wedding. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s alright. I’m just being silly.’ She beamed, clinking her bottle against his. ‘That means it’s my turn to order in,’ she said. ‘I’m feeling Thai, okay?’ Nic shrugged and followed her inside, sparing a glance for the darkened courtyard next door. # Lockdown restrictions meant you could only leave the house for an hour each day; but when he heard his neighbours locking their front door, and rushed to peer through his own peephole, he never saw them leaving with the dog. Maybe they went out more than once? No: they’d only ever leave between five-thirty and six, returning almost precisely an hour later. He woke up earlier; stayed up later; tried to synchronise his life to the imagined schedule of their perambulations, but their schedule only ever faltered the once, when it rained the whole time Nic spent waiting for them to leave and Jess eventually ate her Korean without him. One night, logging off after writing a thousand words during a soporific meeting, Nic padded to the kitchen to make a tea and heard the telltale bark of the dog farewelling its owners. He opened the milk, took a dramatic sniff, and poured the remainder down the sink. ‘Milk’s gone bad,’ he said. ‘Already?’ Jess frowned, looking up from her laptop. ‘We only got it Thursday.’ ‘I’ll pop down the shops,’ he offered, swiping keys from the fruitbowl. ‘Won’t be long.’ ‘Okay,’ Jess said. ‘Do we need more bread?’ ‘I’ll get more,’ he said, grabbing his jacket. ‘Biscuits?’ ‘Mmmhmm,’ he grunted, swapping from slippers into sneakers, keyring dangling from his lips. ‘Okay, but what about—’ ‘Message me,’ he suggested, bending down for a quick kiss. ‘Won’t be long!’ ‘Don’t forget your mask!’ # He checked his watch. Five forty-five. He had, now, fifty minutes left. He slipped past their Mazda, hoisted himself up and over their recycling bins, and into the sideway beside their house. He worked his way past their laundry window, sidled past the steaming hot-water heater, and reached the window parallel to his own. From inside, he fancied he heard movement, claws on hardwood floors. Don’t worry, he thought. You’ll get your walkies. His own window was hard to lock properly; and, during lockdown, hardly worth the effort. He closed his eyes, reached for the metal frame, and slowly, gently, eased the window up and—open! Now, he could definitely hear noise inside. He took a breath, lifting himself up and into the house. His legs immediately tangled in the curtains—his arms, flailing for purchase, collected with a shelf, and his body landed on what felt, mercifully, like a bed. With a sudden snap, the curtain rod gave way, breaking in two; and then the shelf toppled over, and he watched in the dim light through the now-clear window as a dozen snowballs toppled to smash against the floor. He swore quietly, unfurled his legs from the curtain, and staggered upright. Forty-five minutes. Plenty of time. Now, where was that— His phone chimed. don’t worry about the milk, Jess sent. i warned the good karma fb about dodgy milk and our neighbours can lend us some. and they have tp! but get biscuits. love you x Nic looked up as he heard the front door open, and the hallway light switched on. On cue, a figure stirred under the curtain, and he watched as a robot dog let out a very convincing bark and bounded its way out the bedroom door, trailing a cloud of snowball dust in its wake. ‘Konichiwa, Rover! Wait—what’s—’ Nic sighed. At least he was accustomed to lockdown life.
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Jul 10, 2023 12:52
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Entries are closed, clasp your hearts and prepare for them to be weighed against a feather as is custom
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Jul 10, 2023 13:24
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Waking Up, by Mrenda I’m not quite sure what to make of this story. The central twist is clever, if a bit rough and mean-spirited. But this is a Shaggy Dog Story, I suppose, so I’ll take it. I like Gertrude a lot, so her getting her heart broken broke mine, too. The main character is really hard to parse, though. It took me a re-read to completely understand that she’d literally forgotten the dream entirely, as opposed to simply not knowing why she felt “refreshed” after chilling with the hobbits. I think it’d be easier to understand with a section break when she wakes up. But even setting that aside, she’s just kind of a non-entity. She doesn’t say much in the dream, and in the real world she acts completely rationally in response to a crank call, so… who is she, really? Your writing style is also very choppy. I think I noticed this in your previous story, too. There isn’t necessarily a “right” or “wrong” writing style for these sorts of things, but it needs to feel deliberate and purposeful, which I don’t get. The story jumps from topic to topic sometimes, and I struggle to keep up with the main character’s thought processes. Also we spend a lot of time in the hobbit dream world, which I appreciate, but I’m not sure how much of it is necessary when the real meat of the story is the confusion in the real world. The concept’s not bad, but the execution, particularly the characterization of the main character, needs some work. Of Bears, Wolves and Foxes by Flyerant ...oh! Orsino! Like a bear! I thought you were referencing Twelfth Night. I like the premise, fundamentally. I think the mafia setting is pretty great, although maybe I’m a little confused with all the talk of “family” being thrown around as to whether there’s a greater mafia community Orsino and Frederick are keyed into, or if it’s just the two of them. You’ve got two great twists here, the first being the main character’s infidelity, and the second being his attempt to stop Frederick from killing Orsino. They both tie together into this idea that, with hosed-up people like this, sometimes they stray, but they always try to do the right thing for each other in the end. With that in mind, let’s talk names. Like I said, Orsino is clever as a bear reference. But if Frederick is a wolf, why is he “Red?” Foxes are red, not wolves, so that’d be the main character. So why isn’t the main character named something red, and “Frederick” named something more wolfy? Like Remus. (Kidding, kidding.) I know I’m nitpicking. On the whole, the story is great! The ending is maybe a little too fast—I’d have liked a little more time to tease out the conflict between the two lovers—but that’s word counts for you. I wonder if there’s something a little longer in here you could expand on outside the Thunderdome? HELP! I’M TRYING TO DATE IN A WORLD WHERE MY FUTURE SELF CAN TIME TRAVEL TO RUIN MY RELATIONSHIP! by Copernic ...ah, hmm. The title did not set me up at all for what this story was about. This isn’t an isekai story, or a wacky comedy of errors about a character’s future self trying to ruin a perfectly healthy relationship. Instead this was a crushing, heartbreaking story about relationships that fail, when you don’t know why. It’s about tragedy, and averted tragedy, and how sometimes averting tragedy is even worse than going through with it. There’s a phenomenal story here that I know will ruin me. This story just isn’t it yet. The most immediate problem I have with the story at the moment is… well, I wasn’t getting the sense from this conversation that this date was going anywhere. The main character emphasized how much they were floundering, so… why would there even be a second date after this?  I get that the point was the future-self basically bailed them out of what was going so poorly, but… now I can’t seem to figure out where the relationship would have gone if the future-self hadn’t intervened. ...Although I guess that’s partially the point of the story. Maybe I’d like something that feels a little more touch-and-go, you know what I mean?I also wonder… how much is gained by the notion that time-travel is commonplace. I wonder if perhaps this story would be better as a magical-realism sort of thing, where only the main character sees their future-self and understands the import of that. Emma being upset seems to work just as well, if not better, if she doesn’t comprehend why he’s aborting their date like this. Basically, I’m of the opinion that every story with magic in it also has to make sense if the magic is only metaphorical. I know how to interpret the metaphor if the main character backs out of a potential relationship out of anxiety, but not if Emma… also… knows the anxiety but doesn’t care… I guess it works, but I dunno. It doesn’t sit right with me. It’s much easier to dig into bad stories than good stories, so forgive me for not having as much to say. I can pick at some of the punctuation and stuff, but… yeah, no, it’s great. If you change the title and maybe tighten up the time-travel stuff a little bit more, I think this story has a lot of promise. The Average Male Life Expectancy in East Glasgow in 1988 was 52 by Fat Jesus I’m always of two minds when I talk about writing style, because there’s always the chance that you’re doing it deliberately. The sentence structure and phrasing of this story is… well, it’s a right mess, but is that okay if you’re writing about characters who are messes themselves? That being said, you’ve done a masterful job of depicting these characters as right messes. The title’s certainly appropriate—the story’s a striking montage of the drug world and the mortality looming over it. The plot is also… I dunno. When I think about the story, I can see the direction the story goes, but in story, it just feels like… a mess! I’m sorry, that’s all I’ve got! It’s just messy. And I don’t know how much I can even tell you to clean it up, when the lack of direction is part of the theme of the whole thing! Sorry for the poor crit here. I really have no idea what I think of this one. It might honestly be better than I’m giving it credit, but I’m not the right audience for this story. noise by derp See, this story really gains a lot from the unconventional writing style. I really get the sense of how dreary and listless the main character is by his dreary and listless narration. And when we get to the description of the music, it flows and spills into itself, just like how the music feels to the main character listening. Goddammit, stop having teachers want to sleep with their students. Okay, now that that’s out of the way. There’s something very… ambiguous about this story, which I can’t decide if I like or not. The way I read it, the teacher actually really likes Gillian’s “music,” feels like she’s a true genius of her craft, the only student who listens to him—but that weighty, Anton Ego part of him feels like he has to be cruel to her, because she’s sullying the sacred field of Rachmaninoff. And a part of me thinks that Gillian knows this, and her little comment of “noted” is a double entendre as well. “Don’t worry, Mr. Rosco. I know what you really meant.” But the other part of me thinks that maybe I’m reading too much into it, and he really does hate Gillian’s work, and the only reason why he listens to it is because he’s enamored with Gillian herself. He knows he should be a kind teacher, even to students whose work he dislikes, but he always ends up more cruel than he intended, especially to her. (Or that he should be kind if he wants a chance in her pants, but not even that can motivate him to stop being so crotchety.) Or maybe I’m reading too much into that, and my first reading was right. *shrug* Anyway, I think I like my first version better, because otherwise all you have is a story of a boring, archetypal “surly professor” against a boring, archetypal “weirdcore Manic Pixie Dream Girl,” and I think you can do so much better than that. I don’t have it in me to be as mean as Rosco, but then your story isn’t as avant-garde as Gillian’s music is. Maybe it could stand to have a little more noise, too? Outstanding Contribution by Green Wing It’s great, to be perfectly honest. I don’t think there’s any part of it I don’t like. I like the setting, the characters, the twist in the plot (the plot on its own is very simple, but I love how it connects into the framing device). And hey, I’ll stand by any story whose theme is about how the death penalty is an abomination, and trying to rush it can only make things worse. But somehow, the story as a whole is less than the sum of its parts. I’m not sure what it is that’s not jelling with me. The writing style just… grates on me a little. I get that it’s meant to sound like a British gentleman of high repute, every word spoken with pinky fully up and upper lip fully stiffened, hip hip and whatnot, but there’s a messiness to it that doesn’t match up. It needs ironing out, just a little bit. (P.S. The crossword puzzle’s gonna kill me. Is the answer “rill?” I’d have to see the other words crossing it. Send me a DM to tell me what the answer is you had in mind.) Pipe Nightmares by FlippinPageman ...oh! This was cute! What a nice little story about the lingering regret when you give away something you love. ...or at least, that’s how I interpret it. Whenever I read stories about magic, I always try to interpret it in such a way that the magical elements are metaphorical for something that can actually happen in the real world. And there are no flying piano hammer fairies in the real world… at least as far as I’m aware. O_o ...but if that’s what the story is about, I can’t quite figure out what the “mind’s eye prayers” are about. They’re… messages from the fairies? It doesn’t mesh well with me. Honestly, I get the sense that I might be reaching a little bit—which is a shame, because I do think this idea has potential. But if it’s not about lingering regret, then it kinda just seems like a sequence of events in roughly chronological order, which doesn’t do anything for me. It’s got potential, so keep at it! Gravity by Ouzo Maki Oof. Everyone’s about to get spaghetti-fied. I like it! It’s a simple premise, but you put it together into something charming. The setting is unique, the characters are fun little things, and I love the looming sense of doom at the end there. My only complaint is… it’s kind of not about anything, y’know? Which, don’t get me wrong, is fine for a little toy story like this, but I wouldn’t print it in a magazine or a collection. Gaius and Nicola are just kind of… two kids. There’s no real characterization beyond the fact that one of them is older and the other is younger. I’m not saying they need a dead mom or some kind of high-falutin’ theory of mortality or anything. But just… something! You know? It’s cute, but it needs a little more oomph for me to call it complete. The Noise by My Shark Waifuu You got pre-empted on stories titled “noise.” Oops. And goddammit, my poor autistic brain totally recognizes this conundrum—hearing a thin, mechanical noise that only you notice or care about. This is a great little Shaggy Dog Story about being tormented by something you can’t seem to fix. And as someone who drinks coffee for pleasure rather than as a biological necessity, I love the dig at office coffee culture. I do wish there was a little more to Sarah herself, though. ...I’m not sure what else to say. It works! It doesn’t do much beyond its basic premise, but it does the job. It’s funny, cute, aggravating, and tragic. I kinda want a little more, but I’m not sure where I’d stick improvements. Maybe I wanted her destruction of the coffee machine to be a little more purposeful? Or to have her bounce off of other characters more? ...I dunno. Keep tinkering with this; it’s fun! The Firebird by Yoruichi AAAAAAAAAAAA I’m crying like I’m watching the season finale of my favorite season of Star Trek. (Okay, not really, but I sure feel like that!) What a nail-biter of an ending! Your writing style is excellent, the plot is great (if a little hard to follow, since it’s happening in a twisty alternate form of space), and the dynamic between the captain and her First Officer is truly a gem. (Although I think the names might have gotten mixed up a bit towards the ending.) As the nitpickiest of nitpicks, though… why did the captain send her First Officer? In any other story, this would be one of those Star Trek things where you’re not supposed to question why the three highest-ranking officers on board all go on missions together. (Because they’re the main characters, that’s why.) But you literally open the story with that very question, and ask it again halfway through, too. Why doesn’t the captain simply order her First Officer to do it? She has the authority to do so. And if the First Officer would refuse, why not simply ask someone else? Honestly, they probably have enlisted crew members specifically trained in alt-space retrieval. Send them! But you know what? That question doesn’t matter. Don’t listen to me. I love this story to bits. Man, I’d better go hunt down some of your other writing, too! #lockdownlyf by rohan ...oh. I… uh. Okay. I get that you had a word deadline, but it feels like we’d barely gotten started on this story. I don’t really feel a sense of tension yet. Like, yeah, breaking into somebody’s house is pretty extreme, but why did he even do it? Seems like there were a lot of options on the table before that. Including the one he himself considers, which he rejects for… reasons that don’t quite stand up to scrutiny. You kind of end up narrativizing through most of the story—which I understand, since it’s lots of sitting around doing nothing (#lockdownlyf) as he looks out the window at the family next door. But then you end up with… nothing happening in the main plot, either. Give me more pathos! More drama! I like the idea! Your writing voice is good, and the little womp-womp at the end got a chuckle out of me. But… I think this story needs to be like 3,000 or 3,500 words long. (Also, and this is just me being picky, but if it’s nighttime, the correct greeting is “konbanwa” or “oyasumi,” not “konnichiwa.” That’s for like early in the day but not the morning.  )
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Jul 10, 2023 20:16
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Thank you for the critique! Ace critiques mate!
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Jul 10, 2023 20:52
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I don't see no interprompt I'm gonna post you can't stop me I'll fight Shankar Singh Finds a Wife 718 words Shankar Singh found the air conditioner on the new Tata his parents had bought him was very good indeed as he crawled through Dehli's insane traffic, looking down upon his fellow motorists like a Rajah of old. Shankar drifted past the various hawkers, beggars and window washers with the acknowledged superiority of a man driving an undented car. Three lakh, bitches, he thought, as his favorite but somewhat incomprehensible CD by Biggie Smalls blasted from the Tata's pair of two inch dash mounted speakers with minimal effect on the din outside. With the call centre now in sight, Shankar smiled remembering his mother's cooking. So delicious! And Diwali starts tomorrow! Shankar lifted a thin arsecheek from the black neoprene seat and let loose a long whistling fart. The odour hit him as it filled the tiny car and he gave his head a wiggle. Oh spicy! Then he saw her. Oh my it is Priyala! She has clearly missed her bus. Shankar turned up the air conditioner frowning to see it was already on three as he saw her wave from the roadside in the boiling morning heat. His hand flew to the window crank, cursing his father's cheapness as it broke off in his panic to restore freshness to the car. Too late! He drove on pretending to change the CD as the young and beauteous Priyala shrank from his rear view mirror. Friendship ended with paneer biryani, for now. ** "Amazon customer service! Sir, how can I help you sir, my name is Wallace." "Oh yar? Grommit there too mate?" "Sir? Please, Sir?" "Nevermind, where's me package? It's been a fuckin month and I don't have..." Shankar hung up upon hearing the magic word that allowed him to do minimal work. He knew any given day he could safely hang up three out of four calls and pass the others on to Mumbai. Very good system, very smooth. He leaned back and pondered what the god Shiva did to him that morning, and what a hot bhabi Priyala was. Very beautiful, check, correct caste, check, cooks perfectly round roti's, check, his parents approve, check, her parents approve... not yet. Five pounds of gold chain and another 2 lakh had made no difference, Mr and Mrs Singh had explained with confused dismay. They watched too much TV, his father said. Standards are slipping, said his mother. The Kapoors were 'new age' and would allow Priyala freedom to choose a husband that her parents approved of like a Sudra. Such a problem! His one chance to finally be alone with her, or indeed a chance to be alone with any young female he was not directly related to, had evaporated like piss on midday concrete. But Diwali began tomorrow... *** The three Singh brothers walked the crowded streets of color and light, gleaming white teeth and neem shined hair. Shankar had spend an hour in front of the warped plastic mirror, combing his hair and checking the growth of the thin mustache he grew to emulate his hero, Ajay Devgn the Bollywood action star, ready for anything. It was then he saw her across the road with her mother and aunt. He bade his younger brothers to get lost as he dodged through the happy faces trying not to get covered with yellow, orange and red. He followed the three women, one he loved and two he feared, as they went from stall to stall amongst the fray, buying sweets, cakes and fireworks for the holiday. He found himself getting too close, entranced by Priyala's graceful form, wanting to smell her hair, and most of all have her notice him again. They had suddenly turned around, perhaps having forgot something, and as Shankar and Priyala came face to face, an elderly man lost his footing in a pothole as he walked to avoid them stumbling heavy into Priyala's aunt, knocking the cartons she was carrying loose. Ajay Devgn came alive as Shankar dove between the falling boxes of expensive cakes and sweets, catching them as he hit the ground. **** On the third day of the Vivaha, Priyala Singh looked at her husband in love and wonder as they looked at the last gift from their parents - tickets and visas to further a dream just begun.
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Jul 11, 2023 07:31
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 Week 570 Judgment Postthis was actually a fairly good week, and we had a lot of options at the top end. as it happens the finely honed misery of copernic's HELP! I’M TRYING TO DATE IN A WORLD WHERE MY FUTURE SELF CAN TIME TRAVEL TO RUIN MY RELATIONSHIP! tickled our fancy to the greatest degree, so they may take the win. mrenda with waking up, yoruichi with the firebird, derp with noise and rohan with #lockdownlyfe may take hms. snagging the loss by virtue of not being quite good enough in a strong week is ouzo maki with gravity. step up to the lightly encrusted gorethrone, copernic. crits to come within a day or two.
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Jul 11, 2023 15:43
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Week 568 Crits That's 568, not 570. A little later than I'd hoped, but here all the same. The Epic of Anders by Fat Jesus First off, mechanics. Same as the other judges, I've gotta comment on the formatting here. Treat line breaks on the Internet like you would separate paragraphs on a page. As is, it's hard to read and looks sloppy. This is a common mistake for beginners but fortunately one you only have to make once. As for the story itself, it's pretty choppy. Things happen, then we immediately cut to the next thing happening. There's some set dressing but no flow or sense of gradual escalation. There's some kind of attempt early on with a stylistic flourish with repeating numbers, but it doesn't really read naturally and you drop it pretty quickly. And what is this story even about? The other judges had a bit more luck piecing it together, but I kinda had to sit on it. The characters depicted are all rough sketches of unpleasant people who aren't even unpleasant in interesting ways. There's some clear ambition here with some kind of godly oneupmanship going on, with humourous intentions, but the writing quality isn't up to the concept. Breaking Out of Familia Obrit to Be With You Forever by Flyerant Read the first paragraph of Fat Jesus' crit up top. Everything I said there applies to you too. As an additional note, however, the numbers as letters for robot names is more effective when it's one number in the middle of the name rather than at the beginning. S4rah reads as "Sarah," but 54rah reads as "Fifty-fourah...OH, Sarah." Keep it simple. Anyway, there is something underneath all this, a tidy little theme: one character (the computer) who lives soley for the other (the explorer) who themselves has several people in their life, only not right at this moment. It's a quiet piece with theoretical legs, but it's a bit crude with a lot of boilerplate dialogue. There's an idea here you could definitely hone into a stronger piece. Cloud by Derp Okay, so, full disclosure, I'm not a fan of stream of consciousness. I've also tried to write it before myself, so let's talk about that. Stream of consciousness often struggles with two competing needs: simulating a character's (often scattered, topic-jumping) thought process while still being parsable by the reader. When it works, it flows, but nailing that flow is hard. You don't manage it here, but neither have I (nor do most). I'm also not the guy to tell you how to do it right, since in my opinion it's usually more trouble than it's worth. That said, your attempts at portraying your protagonist's inner world are what give this piece life. The "Story" insofar as there is one is pretty bare bones with the chess park set piece and a kind of generational animosity. Internally, however, your viewpoint character provides a relatively robust picture of who they are, and how much they regard the people around them as caricatures. There is something to work with here, but I had to read it twice to see it, which isn't something most readers will give you. The Elsinore Job by Thranguy A boilerplate heist story...is what I'd like to say, but this story spends most of its time boiling water in preparation for the main event, which is over in a few sentences. If you ran out of time, I can appreciate that. Heck, same, several times. If you ran out of words though, I would recommend cutting back on the play-by-play chess match. It's enough, I think, to know they're playing chess, unless the specific moves are supposed to conceal some greater thematic significance, which heck, same again, though I also didn't communicate that well either, so we're still two for two. What interactions we see between your characters are fun, though I wouldn't say they were much deeper than that. The dialogue flows and I could see a longer version of this story with more interaction between all the players faring better. As it is, it's light on meat. We've got the set-up and the follow-through but no in-between. Gambits at High Temperature by Dicere You tell two stories in parallel, neither of which have anything to do with each other until the end. This can work, though it doesn't quite here. Usually there's at least a thematic connection, something that echoes, and if you included that I couldn't see it. Bill and Stosh have some definition to them, the others less so. I'd give the kid a name in a rewrite. He feels like a prop, and its kinda weird he's the only character who doesn't have a name. Bill talks a big game for a job he just drops. There's just something paper thin about the whole setup, like you're priming us for a punchline that doesn't happen (though you end with a punch, at least). A Cave Full of Space by Chairchucker In my notes for this story I wrote "Stupid; non-prejorative." I mean that, too. Like with Gambits, there's a paper-thin aspect to it, but unlike Gambits it feels deliberate. This isn't a film or a documentary, it's a play on a stage with minimal set design on purpose, and both actors know it as they play off each other. A sensible, no-nonsense character paired with a bombastic performer is usually fun, though Sam sells it further by bucking the trend of cavepeople speech and just being, well, "Normal," against traditionally expectations. The jokes land, and there's even a little arc. Nothing to complain about, just a delight. I had a little more to say about Sam to you on Discord (at your prompting since you were curious), but I don't feel the need to repeat it here. Periapsis by Sebmojo I guess the good stories were waiting at the back this time. Well-written and funny, indulging in just the right amount of setting detail for a sci-fi short story of this length. Your characters pair well together, and I could see them forming a motley crew. The one thing that held this story back, I think, was its anecdotal nature. it feels incomplete, something happening without closure. Granted, I'm one to talk. I make this mistake a lot myself. We're thrown into a situation, meet a new character, and it kind of feels like the rest is missing. More time? More words? It's a good start. Where's the rest?
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Jul 11, 2023 15:58
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Thunderdome Week 571 - Mashup! Genres! Here's a partial list of fiction genres: Children's Classic (or literary fiction) Coming-of-age Bildungsroman: Encyclopedic Epic: Epic poetry: Fabulation: Folklore (folktale) Animal tale Fable: Fairy tale Ghost story Legend: Myth: Parable Personal narrative Urban legend Historical: Alternate history: Historical fantasy Historical mystery Historical romance Regency romance Nautical fiction Pirate novel Metafiction Metaparody Nonsense Nonsense verse Paranoid Philosophical Pop culture: Postmodern Realist: Hysterical Religious or inspirational Christian Islamic Theological: Visionary Satire: Horatian Juvenalian Menippean Social and political fiction Libertarian sci-fi Social sci-fi Political thriller Thriller Conspiracy Erotic Legal Financial Political Psychological Romantic suspense Techno-thriller Urban: Western: Florida Northern Space Western romance Weird West Young adult Action and adventure Adventure fantasy Heroic fantasy Lost world Sword-and-sandal Sword-and-sorcery Sword-and-soul Wuxia Nautical Pirate Robinsonade Spy: Spy-Fi: Subterranean Superhero Survival Swashbuckler: Picaresque Comedy Burlesque Fantasy Comedy horror Parody Metaparody Sci-fi Surreal comedy Tall tale: Tragicomedy: Crime and mystery Crime fiction Caper Giallo Legal thriller Mystery: Cozy mystery: City mysteries Detective: f Gong'an Girl detective Inverted detective story (aka howcatchem) Occult detective Hardboiled Historical mystery Locked-room mystery Police procedural: Whodunit: Noir Nordic noir Tart Noir Speculative fiction Fantasy Fantasy Action-adventure Heroic Lost world Subterranean Sword-and-sandal Sword-and-sorcery Wuxia Contemporary Occult detective fiction Paranormal romance Urban Cozy fantasy[8] Dark Fairytale Fantastique Fantasy comedy Bangsian Fantasy of manners Gaslamp Gothic Grimdark Gritty Hard High Historical Isekai Juvenile Low Magic realism: Mythic: Mythopoeia: Mythpunk Romantic Science: science fiction based in elements of fantasy.[9] Dying Earth Planetary romance Sword and planet Superhero Supernatural Shenmo Weird fiction New weird Weird West Horror Horror Body (aka biological): Frankenstein (1818). Comedy Zombie comedy Erotic (sometimes monster erotica) Ero guro Ghost stories and ghostlore Gothic American Southern Southern Ontario Space Suburban Tasmanian Urban Japanese Korean Lovecraftian (or Cosmic) Monster literature Jiangshi fiction Werewolf fiction Vampire literature Psychological Splatterpunk Techno Weird fiction Weird menace Weird West Zombie apocalypse Science fiction Apocalyptic and post-apocalyptic Christian Comedy Utopian and dystopian Dystopian: Cyberpunk: Biopunk Dieselpunk Japanese cyberpunk Nanopunk Solarpunk Steampunk: Utopian: Feminist Gothic Isekai Hard Climate fiction Parallel world Libertarian Mecha Mecha anime and manga Military Soft Anthropological Social Science fantasy: Dying Earth Planetary romance Sword and planet Space opera: Space Western: Spy-Fi: Subterranean Superhero Tech noir Techno-thriller Romance Amish Chivalric Fantasy Contemporary Gay Lesbian Medical Erotic Thriller Romantic fantasy Historical Regency Inspirational: Paranormal Time-travel Romantic suspense Western Young Adult https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_writing_genres Pick at least two, and jam them together. Cozy Fantasy x Lovecraftian? Why not! Dying Earth x Legal? Why not! Feminist x Gothic x Isekai x Hard Climate fiction x Parallel world x Libertarian x Mecha? Why not! 1000 words for your genre-spanning work. +500 for those brave enough to roll the wheel o' genres and get two at random. Please sign up by midnight pacific on July 14, 2023. Please submit by midnight pacific of July 16, 2023. JUDGES: Copernic Rohan Flyerant ENTRANTS: 1. Ouzo Maki [NAUTICAL ACTION-ADVENTURE x POLITICAL THRILLER] 2. derp [Paranoid x Post-modern/Ariana Grande] 3. Green Wing [CHIVALRIC ROMANCE x COMEDY] 4. Bad Seafood [SUBTERRANEAN x WESTERN] 5. Albatrossy_Rodent [MENIPPEAN SATIRE x TASMANIAN GOTHIC] 6. Doctor Zero [FINANCIAL THRILLER x COSMIC HORROR] 7. Chernobyl Princess [MATRON LITERATURE x TECH NOIR] 8. Kuiperdolin [Dying Earth x Legal] 9. flerp [ROBINSONADE x SPORTS FICTION] 10. sebmojo [WUXIA x MEDICAL ROMANCE] 11. Thranguy [LGBT PULP FICTION x MYTH] 12. DigitalRaven [BANGSIAN x CAPER] 13. My Shark Waifuu [BILDUNGSROMAN x ALTERNATE HISTORY] Copernic fucked around with this message at 20:42 on Jul 14, 2023 |
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Jul 11, 2023 17:50
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In and spin, please
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Jul 11, 2023 17:56
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In and spin baybee
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Jul 11, 2023 18:01
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Ouzo Maki posted:In and spin, please NAUTICAL ACTION-ADVENTURE x POLITICAL THRILLER
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Jul 11, 2023 18:08
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in with Paranoid/Post-modern/Ariana Grande
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Jul 11, 2023 18:08
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Green Wing posted:In and spin baybee CHIVALRIC ROMANCE x COMEDY
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Jul 11, 2023 18:10
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I've been looking for a theme to be too good to pass up instead of finishing other work, and this is  Hit me, baby!
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Jul 11, 2023 18:33
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In to spin.
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Jul 11, 2023 18:35
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In and spin. You are allowed to rig the spin to make the mashup goofier.
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Jul 11, 2023 18:47
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Bad Seafood posted:In to spin. SUBTERRANEAN x WESTERN
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Jul 11, 2023 18:53
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Albatrossy_Rodent posted:In and spin. You are allowed to rig the spin to make the mashup goofier. MENIPPEAN SATIRE x TASMANIAN GOTHIC
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Jul 11, 2023 18:54
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Doctor Zero posted:I've been looking for a theme to be too good to pass up instead of finishing other work, and this is I'm assuming this is a spin request. FINANCIAL THRILLER x COSMIC HORROR.
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Jul 11, 2023 18:56
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Spin me!
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Jul 11, 2023 20:12
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Chernobyl Princess posted:Spin me! MATRON LITERATURE x TECH NOIR
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Jul 11, 2023 20:30
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I'm taking Dying Earth and Legal.
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Jul 11, 2023 20:30
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My critiques are fueled by your approval, so send me a thanks in discord or in the Thunderlounge thread. Also if you want to discuss your critique post in those other threads. Waking Up We start the story about hobbits and learning about hobbits and their culture. Our protagonist considers dating a hobbit, and we are left wondering if they will. Gertrude, a hobbit, then talks to our protagonist and they hit it off and exchange numbers. The next morning our protagonist wakes up, and things are going well because he is doing good at work. Then Gertrude texts him. Our protagonist doesn't connect the dots the its Gertrude from his dream, and Gertude continues to text him like a stalker. We then find out the protagonist is a woman. The protagonist has a omnious meeting scheduled with their boss. Then Gertrude continues to text and ominously threatens to see the protagonist in their dream. Then the meeting with the boss turns out to be good! Then the protagonist goes home. Then they sleep. Then they wake up. Then they have no dreams. There are really cute moments in this piece. Gertrude going up to the protagonist saying "I wish I was tall" and talking about shoes. Kind of giggle squee that I dug. There are some tense moments as well, and really down to earth moments. Getting an ominoius meeting with a boss is understandably tense: “Come in for a chat. 2pm. We need to talk.” drat that hits. And I love how its a supernatural angle (Gertrude) and a real down to life angle (Boss). loving ace and leaves a lot for us to explore. But, I did get majorly confused in this piece. I didn't realize Gertrude was a dream. Like I thought your world was a place where Hobbits just exist and chill with people. When its' revealed it was actually a dream, it was very interesting, but it went nowhere, which is my main critique. I don't come away with much from the plot. I don't feel excited, scared, hopeful. I don't come away learning anything, nor do I get a theme or tone or voice. I feel.. confused and a little let down, because we had setup some cool moments, the dream hobbit texting, the boss having an omnious meeting, and everything ends just so... normal. My other issue with the piece is, towards the last bit where we use "Then" so much. I get the gist of voice, of prose, but I think it needs to be shorter and polished more. I think this piece would fit best in a existential/dream like anthology. Something to be read after a tone or theme has been established. Of Bears,Wolves and Foxes Watch as the author tries to cram the words "Return his gun to him, one bullet at a time" and loving fail. Also fails to, ya know, have a story and instead has a scene. But at least we have 3 characters, each with motivations, and each with redeeming/horrifying qualities. Still don't know how to have Red's decision matter while Fox overwrites his decision. HELP! I’M TRYING TO DATE IN A WORLD WHERE MY FUTURE SELF CAN TIME TRAVEL TO RUIN MY RELATIONSHIP! God drat good starting line. That gets my attention. We have questions, and even more questions as the character starts describing things. We learn a lot about the character, but are shown, or at least it doesn't sound like exposition. I really like how the character is in a sympathetic situation. Then the future self arrives and drat, we got more questions but they are all good. And instead of answers we get reactions, we get how the character feels, and he's instantly sympathetic, more so here. Good piece. The Average Male Life Expectancy in East Glasgow in 1988 was 52 Ewen has stolen, or is being blamed, for some missing drugs from mad King Arthur. Arthur asks Ewen to muder someone and bring him to his feet. That someone is Ewen's childhood friend. Ewen encounters misty, figures out that his friend is at Misty's and confronts his friend. He finds out most of the product was used or stolen.Ewen then remenscies how Dougie fucks up a lot. Ewen decides not to give Dougie to Arthur, and instead sends him to.. I think Gypsy Joe. Dougie comes back alive and Ewen realizes he hosed up, Arthur wanted Ewen to bring Dougie to him personally. Dougie has a gift, but I don't know what it is. I had fun deciphering this piece from the accent you used. Kind of deciphering a code , and figuring out there is a nice story underneath. I like we are following this from Ewens POV, and we see how he decides to not turn his friend in. I do think it ends too suddenly, we need to see the consequences of his actions or foreshadow our protagonists fate. Apart from that, this was enjoyable. I do think deciphering it was half the fun, and I think some readers won't have the patience to decipher the accent. Consider using the same formula of how you created this story, but use plain english. Noise A professor is listening to his student's homework and is getting annoyed that its nondescript. They then go for a walk and ruminate on their life. Then Gillian Gross sends them an email, and their work sucks. The protagonist struggles to send a message (A hopeful message or a booty call) and decides to instead tell them they suck. They regret their decision, and wonder if they deserve to be called a teacher. Hmm, good imagery and focus around rhythm and tone. Good focus on prose too. I kind of bounced off the booty call line, or maybe misunderstood it, but that's my personal taste. I think anyone who reads this will pick up on the protagonists inner struggles and conflicted nature of if they are a teacher or not. I come away with this piece with a defeated, depressive mood. If I did have to critique this piece I would say it is one long note of depressive melancholy, where nothing changes. Outstanding Contribution Our protagonist is explaining something, and leads with his job is terribly important and they are rad at it. There job appears to be about a prison. They are then asked to do a clean up of Cell 23 (Implying somebody died). The procedure isn't being followed normally, and our protag explains how the requestee had a note, signed by the Minister. Our protagonist agrees to do the job, even though the occupant of Cell 23 has a bag over their head. Then our protag notices the note has a photocopied signature and is probably fake. We then fast forward to why the protag is here, and the protag says they should go back to work because his job is terribly important and they are read it. loving awesome opening line. I was engaged immediately. I did find the whole, explaining my job bit, in the 2nd sentence was a wish wash of names that didn't matter. But I continued. I like the tone and voice in this piece. The pacing is good, as the reader realizes what happens, we only have a few paragraphs left before we end the piece. Some of the lines are funny as well. The only thing I dislike is your protagonist is a bit of an idiot, or rather I'm having a hard time figuring your protagonist out. It would be nice to have a more firm foundation of who this person is, how dumb they are, before kicking off the plot. I had a "They can't be this stupid moment" which breaks my suspension of disbelief. That's just me though, see what others think.
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Jul 11, 2023 20:46
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in give me thing
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Jul 11, 2023 21:30
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flerp posted:in give me thing ROBINSONADE x SPORTS FICTION
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Jul 11, 2023 21:37
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In spin
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Jul 11, 2023 21:57
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sebmojo posted:In spin WUXIA x MEDICAL ROMANCE
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Jul 11, 2023 22:05
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In with a spib
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Jul 11, 2023 22:20
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I will judge
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Jul 11, 2023 22:21
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Thranguy posted:In with a spib LGBT PULP FICTION x MYTH
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Jul 11, 2023 22:28
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Crits for Week #570 Crits done in judgemode This was a strong week overall, one where the middle wasn't so much soggy as pleasantly moist. Pipe Nightmares: A correct sort of opening for this week's theme. I worry that it may end up overused. This is sort of sweet, honestly. I'm not a fan of introducing the fantastic so late in a story without any earlier hints, but it almost works here. Middle-high. noise: Okay, this is not a good opening and the fact that it’s telling us it’s boring doesn’t make it any less boring. The detail probably won’t pay off either. The second paragraph works better; as it often is, delete the first paragraph is good advice here, what it offers can be replaced by a line somewhere else in the story. Otherwise, this one is fine, Middle/Middle-High? The Average Male Life Expectancy in East Glasgow in 1988 was 52: The thing that doesn’t work in the opening here is that we’re starting with one character and immediately shifting into the point of view of another. The effect of this is that when we get to the second paragraph we have no idea who “He” is speaking, and the following lines don’t make that much clearer until, like, five pieces of dialog later, at which point we have to backtrack to figure it out. The ending seems to jump a few steps (how does Ewan know the bag is a gift for Arthur?) Generally okay, middle. Gravity: Another strong if generic opening. But this is an idiot plot on several levels, one that doesn’t work without a lot of people being idiots, from the designers of the security system to the secondary character, who is dumb enough that one must almost suspect him of being suicidal, which would make a more interesting if much darker version of this story. And it's already plenty dark, so maybe it would work that way. Low Of Bears,Wolves and Foxes: Solid opening line. And a generally solid piece. Accomplishes everything it sets out to do. Lacking, perhaps, in ambition, but still, solid. Middle-High HELP! I’M TRYING TO DATE IN A WORLD WHERE MY FUTURE SELF CAN TIME TRAVEL TO RUIN MY RELATIONSHIP!: Strong opening; I like the tension between the title and first line. And this is strong, does and reveals exactly enough to hit. High, possible win. The Firebird: Okay opening. This one is a bit of a mixed bag. The character bits are good, but the sci fi main plot is muddled and inadequately explained to really make the stakes and resolution make sense. And there’s probably a name-switch typo in the paragraph starting “jones remembered” that doesn’t help at all. Middle. #lockdownlyf: Functional if unexciting opening. The story is another mild and sweet one, with an ending that is satisfactory. Middle-High. Waking Up: An amusing and economical opening. And a bstory that pays it off nicely with a gut-punch of an ending. High, contender. Outstanding Contribution: Interesting opening. Establishes a voice, not a particularly likeable one but in a sort of compelling way. The cryptic clue answer, i think, is 'Drab', which could have been used to connect up something in the story, but isn't. Anyway, consistently true to the point of view, if on a bit of a straight line. Middle, maybe middle high. The Noise: The opening works, establishes a situation and takes steps toward characterizing the protagonist. And the whole story works, another fine story in a particularly strong week. Middle high.
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Jul 12, 2023 09:26
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Gimme the spin, kissed and told, this Thunderdome I'm in.
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Jul 12, 2023 11:51
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Crit for Ouzo Maki's story Gravity It’s a nice story, if slightly removed from what’s happening. Not really in the moment. I feel like this, partly, is something that comes up in my story similarly written for a younger than adult age (I’d say mine is middle grade, or around there, and yours is full on “children’s.”) Part of this is to do with the voice of the narrator. At some points the language doesn’t quite fit into the junior age it’s being of, it’s not the voice of youth, but equally, at other times, everything is presented quite youthfully. I’m not sure if that childlike resonance is equal through the piece. I think this is a big difficulty with writing for younger people, potentially the most difficult point once the basic aspects of storytelling are down. How do you capture the joy, and energy, and fear of someone with a young mind, for someone with a young mind, while you are an adult, removed and only with memory to go on for how it felt (albeit with the writing chops you develop as you mature) while also not being insulting and writing below the level of potential junior readers. So, basically, my main issue is that I don’t know if I feel it captures a distinct level of reader’s ability. Part of that might be a lack of immediacy in the emotional impact, which may be due to me being an adult reader (and not involved in kid’s books.) This came up very early for me. Take the first three paragraphs. “Nicola’s stomach was trying to eat itself. “We’re not supposed to be here, Gee!” Gaius waved him off like only a big brother could: dismissive, confident, with a mild eye roll that highlighted Nicola’s inherent wrongness. “ The name “Gee” is a youthful nickname, and along with “we’re not supposed to be here” immediately tells of the youth. But then we quickly swap to the narrator’s role describing “like only a big brother could: dismissive, confident...” which speaks of a kind of matured outlook on family. I think, in some ways, this could be gotten around by writing it in first person. Children, and children’s mindsets, to me, feel immediate. They feel in the moment. This is all told from a position of having taken a step back. Part of that, then, is how the emotion of what we know could very well be childhood adventure dooming the ship (read from the story before the doom is made explicit) is apparent to us, but it’s not within the story. The childhood panic of going from, “We’re being naughty” to “OMG, we’re in trouble” to “OMG we really, really hosed up” isn’t as strong as it could be. I felt the emotive aspects of the childhood misadventure were stronger at the beginning, but the emotion fell off as the story went on and the actual plot had to be advanced. Especially with the disconnect of the computer’s cold messages. A little more focus on the emotion (and I know it’s hard with wordcounts) would be nice. Overall, I think it works well. It sets out what it’s supposed to be, it’s clearly written, there’s a nice “moral” of the story, both for children and adults. I could imagine, were this actually real and we live in the future, it being used as an emotive teaching case in both a teacher’s course, and childhood development courses, for how children are smarter than you give them credit for and will find ever inventive new ways to gently caress things up. Equally, it could almost be used in spaceship academy for much the same reason, “Kids will get where they shouldn’t be, no matter how well locked down you think you have things, or no matter how often you’ve told them, ‘Don’t do that,’ and ‘No.’” It’s a very simple story, told directly. It deals with the actual ending very well, with the adults simply staring and awaiting their fate. Whether it has the immediacy and relevancy and drive for the age level it’s pitched at, I don’t know. I felt it was hindered a little by the pace needed to get the plot across, the lowering of words spent elucidating emotions, and the computer messages seeming cold compared to a youthfulness in the story. Not for logical reasons, rather because they dominated and had little affect towards the story, while not being stern, or threatening enough to carry off a huge sense of danger. Yes, from a plot point of view, but not from an emotional aspect. I’m not a teacher or anything like that, or children’s book agent/editor, but from my memory I could 100% see this being used in schools and in children’s magazines with short fiction and children’s literature. Especially if you can pad it out with more immediacy on the emotional front. I’d work on it up a little more and submit it to those places. I know there’s a lit mag here in Ireland that publishes for kids, and has open submission periods. Whether, “Kid’s get into a scrape that dooms them on a spaceship,” is well treaded ground in kid’s literature already, I don’t know. It could, also, equally, be an evergreen subject.
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Jul 12, 2023 12:54
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