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Family Meeting 984 words Empress Isla walked from the palace grounds to the Memoriam with no guards; only her daughter, Purslane accompanied her. As they walked under the dome topping Imperial Station, Purslane stared up at the blue-green crescent of the planet below. Isla’s emerald gown shone under the starlight, and the long train of the grown floated a few centimeters off the ground. Purslane wore a simpler version of the same gown. Once, Purslane asked how it floated; the Empress lifted the train and showed her the microcircuitry printed into it, so thin that it could be mistaken for threads. The circuitry led up to a small plug on her hip so that her own body could power the gown. An Empress didn’t need to wait for a breeze to have her clothes be dramatic. As they approached the steps to the Memoriam, two guards in armored pressure suits bowed and stepped out of the way. Their black suits were polished to a mirror shine; the helmets were darkened such that their features could not be seen. Across the galaxy the faceless warriors of the Empress were known and feared, but here, now, they were a welcome sight. The Empress nodded at each one as she passed into the Memoriam. Purslane trailed behind and waved at them, her reflection distorted in their helmets. The guard on Purslane’s right waved back slightly while still bowed down. A respectful time after they had passed into the Memoriam, the doors were shut behind them with a muted boom. Isla walked across the floor, her heels clicking on the polished stone. She reached the base of a dais in the center of the building. Purslane caught up to her mother. This was her very first visit to the Memoriam. The room was tall and airy. Brightly lit, it had a ceremonial air about it. Purslane looked down through the windows cut into the floor. Inside, she saw hundreds of niches built into the walls below her. At the very bottom was a mass of complex looking machinery. Isla took a breath and held it. Breathing out through her nose, she turned and looked down at Purslane. “Are you ready, sunshine?” Purslane looked up at her mother, her face serious. “Will it be scary?” Isla bent low and locked eyes with her daughter. “It might be. Our grandmothers are in deep hibernation. When they wake, they can be confused. They can be angry. But we are their children. We have a right to ask them questions. Be strong with me and everything will be fine.” Purslane nodded. “I am strong.” “That’s my girl.” Isla stood up and faced the dais. She called out, “I will speak to the first Empress.” The machinery at the bottom of the well came to life. A robotic arm reached into one of the niches at the bottom of the building and removed a white lozenge. With a reverence that was programmed long ago, it lifted the hibernation cabinet until it came out of an iris that opened at the rear of the dais. While the arm brought the cabinet out, a table silently slid up from the dais. The cabinet was laid upon the table, and dozens of cables slid out of the table and connected to the cabinet with a quiet click. The assembly faced the Empress and her daughter. As it hummed, Purslane noticed a window near the top of the cabinet. Inside was a woman, old but not elderly, with her hair elegantly shorn in whorls and patterns, and a shock of long white hair on the top of her head. After some time, the cabinet split down the middle, revealing the woman. She wore the same emerald color as the Empress and her Daughter, though hers was a much more practical jumpsuit. Its work complete, the arm slid back into the depths; the three of them were alone. The woman in the cabinet took a shuddering breath and her eyes fluttered open. “Well?” Her voice came from a speaker built into the cabinet. Empress Isla swallowed and pushed down her nerves. “Grandmother, I- “ “Why are you talking from a speaker?” Purslane’s voice was loud in the room. “Purslane!” Nerves forgotten; Isla turned from an Empress back into a mother. “We don’t interrupt.” “Sorry Mommy, but why isn’t she talking with her mouth?” Laughter from the speaker. “Child, I have just awakened from deep hibernation. My brain is active, but my body lags. The speaker allows me to speak with you. If your mother has awoken me, then she needs my help. What is your name?” Purslane looks up at the woman. “My name is Purslane, Empress Grandma. I’m five.” A chuckle. “Empress Grandma. I like that. I will answer any questions you have Purslane – after I speak with your mother, all right?” Purslane bobbed a curtsy. “Yes, Empress Grandma. I will wait.” The first Empress’ eyes flicked to Isla. “You have awakened me in a rush. This is serious. Which one are you?” “Isla IX, Grandmother.” “I remember you. Your mother spoke to me. Vivian VII, I recall.” “Yes, that’s correct Grandmother. I was seven when we met.” “What do you need, child? Why do you awaken me?” “The Victory Gate has reactivated.” “I do not know that name.” “I apologize. I forgot that it was named after you went into hibernation. Gate 754 has been reactivated.” The First Empress’ eyes widened. The longer she was awake the more of her body returned to her control. “The Yan’itar. You are sure?” Empress Isla stood straight and tilted her head. It was difficult to look down on someone who was physically higher than you were, but Isla had been an Empress a long time. “I am the Empress. I am sure. They return.” The first Empress nodded. “Wake the others.” Isla blinked. “W-Which others, Grandmother?” “All of them. Wake the Empresses. We need to convene.”
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Jul 23, 2023 12:37
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Firstborn Skater 1000 words When Jacqueline was seven, she put on her grandfather’s leather jacket. The jacket spoke to her, which in retrospect was very out of character for jackets, but at the time seemed right, and also very cool, because none of her friends had a talking jacket, and they’d all be totally jealous. “Hey there young man,” said the jacket. And while she thought she would like to be a boy, her parents had assured her that she was a beautiful young girl, although they wished she would let her hair grow and be more ladylike in general, so she said, “I’m a girl, actually.” “Oh?” said the jacket. “My mistake. What’s your name?” “Jacqueline,” she said. “But I prefer Jackie.” “Hi Jackie,” said the jacket. “I’ve been waiting for someone like you to put on this jacket.” Jackie didn’t find out why the jacket had been waiting for someone like her to put it on, because then her mother discovered her, tutted loudly and said, “Oh, that’s Granddad’s old stuff, that’s for your little brother.” ~ When her little brother, Tom, was eventually given Granddad’s old heirlooms, he didn’t show a great deal of interest in the jacket, and when she asked to borrow it, ‘just for a dress up party, just for fun’, he said “Sure,” and then never asked for it back. Their mum tutted, and just said, “Well, you’ll have to give it back when he needs it.” Jackie wasn’t really sure when and why he would need it, and was saying as much as she looked at herself in the mirror. She looked tough, she thought. “Ah,” said the jacket, “well that’s because of the prophecy, I think.” She was a bit older, and now knew that a talking jacket was a bit more out of the ordinary than she’d thought at age seven. Still, Stacy had a magic pocketknife with a blade that glowed when there were hot guys around, and around Jackie for some reason, so maybe it wasn’t that odd. “Which prophecy is that?” she asked, and after a moment, “Are you a magic jacket, then?” “Strictly speaking,” said the jacket, “this is a haunted jacket. I’m actually your great grandfather, Kevin. I owned the jacket before your grandfather.” “Ah.” “Glad to see you’ve got it back. It looks good on you, prophecy or no prophecy. It looks right.” Jackie looked at herself in the mirror. “It does, doesn’t it? But seriously, what prophecy?” “Ask your mother.” When Jackie asked her, she sighed a deep sigh, and said, “Your grandma had the gift of prophecy. She told us that our firstborn son would, wearing that super gnarly jacket, recover the Skateboard of Destiny and use it to destroy capitalism.” “Sounds rad,” said Jackie. “Tom can’t skate, though. Doesn’t even like skating.” “It’s his destiny.” “Did she have any prophecies about me?” “No,” said her mum. “One or two about our second son, but we ignored those, since your father got snipped, so we’re not having any more kids.” “Right,” said Jackie. “Well, prophecies aside, I’m keeping the jacket for now, because it looks sick on me.” Her mum sighed again, but nodded. “It kinda does, doesn’t it?” ~ In the months following, Jackie tried to teach Tom how to skate, because firstly, if he was destined by prophecy to do something involving skating, it stood to reason that he should have some level of basic competence in skating, and secondly, skating was awesome. “It doesn’t make sense,” said Tom. “It’s just skating,” said Jackie. “You don’t need it to make sense, you just kinda feel it.” “It should be you,” said Tom. “You actually skate.” “Yeah well, prophecy says firstborn son.” Tom shrugged, and repeated, “It should be you.” “Sometimes I wish I’d been a boy,” she said. “Oh?” “Maybe you should’ve been,” said Great Grandfather Kevin. He was now talking to both of them, but was silent around everyone else. She sighed. “Never mind. Come on, I’ll show you how to do a kickflip again.” ~ Tom had achieved a basic level of competence at skating, which the three of them were thrilled about because, yay, prophecy and destiny, but Tom was less thrilled about because he still didn’t really love skating, and it didn’t seem like he was anywhere close to the level of skill required to destroy capitalism, and every time he tried the jacket on, it just didn’t look like him. Whereas on Jackie, it looked right. Still, Jackie had managed to teach him how to do an ollie, which was a big step for him, and the three of them were celebrating when the empty swimming pool they were practicing in collapsed under them. Fortunately, they were both standing on their skateboards at the time, so they were able to ride the newly forming tunnel underground. Jackie smoothly kickflipped off the bottom of the landslide, but Tom bailed and skinned his knee. “Ow,” he said. Jackie looked around. “Hmmm, feels like an underground cavern is something you’d want to be aware of before digging a swimming pool.” “Good point,” said Kevin. “You should write someone a sternly worded letter. Did they even have planning permission?” Tom had pulled himself up. “So, how are we getting out of here?” Jackie shrugged. “Let’s look around.” Tom found nothing but rubble. Jackie also found rubble, but dug some of it up, and discovered… “Oh my,” said Kevin. Tom came over at the sound of his exclamation. “Huh. Well then.” Jackie pulled out the skateboard she’d discovered. “Is it?” “The Skateboard of Destiny,” said Kevin. “You’ve recovered it,” said Tom. “Well, I can’t… I’d love to,” she said, “but I’m not…” Tom raised an eyebrow. She paused. “Well, I did always want to be…” “Yes?” said Kevin. Jack took a deep breath. “I am,” he said. “I’m the firstborn son.” Tom smiled. “Hell yeah you are,” said Kevin. Jack smiled. He’d always known, deep down. “Let’s go destroy capitalism,” he said.
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Jul 23, 2023 16:22
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Birthright (693 words) Sergio looked furtively over his shoulder, worried his boasting might carry to the streets. “We were kings!” he declared in the privacy of his nook, sequestered away beneath the town bridge. Reflected in the river he could see himself clearly. He was not this crude creature, desperate and frail. Beneath him slumped the body of the beggar he’d murdered, drowned in the quiet of the early morning calm, now bereft of the bread he’d offered to share. “All this was ours,” he said, standing in the stream. There were tears in his eyes as he choked down the bread. Sif rubbed his neck. The castle had grown colder. He was getting older. He stepped from the watergate down into the waiting ferry. Four guards accompanied him, as close as his own family. The boat rocked slightly under their shared weight, but the ferryman knew his business. He took them down the river. Sif exhaled slowly. His breath lingered in the air. Traveling down this river always put his mind at ease. Looking over his shoulder, he spied the castle gaol. It was empty now, vacant, as ever it was, full of cells without people who couldn’t be princes of countries the maps showed never existed. Saymond pinched the bridge of his nose as he paced around the lodge. The emissaries waited. He just needed more time. Leaning against the threshold of the door, he gazed out at the river that ran through his town. He traced its winding, wayward flow. It helped to soothe his nerves. Beyond lay the fields, ripe with grain. Soon would come the harvest, the winter stores, logistics. “What would Stannis do?” He nervously rubbed his neck. He recalled the night of his elder brother’s death, his own face obscured as his brother faced the fire. “What are you waiting for?” He wasn’t. Steppan raised his cup in toast. “To our wives and our land!” There was much agreement. Emerging from the tent, he gazed out on the valley to the river that had been theirs since time immemorial. “How blessed we are.” And how blessed was he to receive the headship, chosen by his fellows, a unanimous decision. But his thoughts began to drift back to Kezik, his friend, his men’s first choice, absent these nine days. His other hand resting on the hilt of his sword, he pinched his nose thoughtfully. His mouth suppressed a smile. Savru stood overlooking the river, the tall grass rippling, as vast as the sky. The long winter months when all was held in common had come to a close. It was time to act. Thirty-six men rode at his command; hunters, trappers, foragers all. With metal-tipped spears and sharpened arrowheads they’d come seeking game. They’d found paradise. Savru bent down to cup the water in his hands. It was cool and clear and crisp on the tongue. In its depths he saw the future of his people. He saw his own reflection, so much larger than before. He saw his own descendents seated at the place of honor. On the far shore were others, human in shape. He turned to face his men. “Get the others,” he commanded. Stephen stifled a yawn. It was still dark outside. Rising from his bed, he yawned again, and rubbed his eyes. A shower and a shave and a small cup of tea. He stood out on his balcony waiting for the sun. He’d chosen this apartment for the view of the river. When the sunrise hit the water it was dyed a brilliant gold. Sipping from a mug, he surveyed the fading night. He used to feel so small staring up at all the stars. He still felt small, but this now brought him comfort. Other tenants rose to join him, each at their own balcony. They only knew each other from this habit they all shared. Some gestured to each other, though few had learned their names. This sunrise on the river was for them and them alone. Stephen smiled softly as he gazed out at the river. He cradled the warmth of his mug in his hands. “All this is ours.”
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Jul 23, 2023 20:00
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Two hour warning.
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Jul 23, 2023 21:05
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Duty Visit 1000w Cathy The retirement complex has its own tiddly little bus, a single-decker that goes all about the houses. Half the other passengers already look dead. Charlotte, who doesn’t give me a moment’s peace the entire way. Always her stomach aching or her phone not working. I give her a clip around the ear, and she screeches. My face burns, people turn, people were staring with those awful, sunken, coffin-dodger eyes. “People are looking!” Shut up, shut up! Why is she doing this to me, why does she make everything so hard? “Sit down! Sit down and be quiet, do you want them to throw you off the bus? Eh? Do you know how to walk home by yourself?” The old man a couple rows behind, I can tell he’s fixing his disgusting rheumy eyes on me. He’s thinking, what a beast, what an awful mother. No idea, not a clue what I’ve been through. Every day the same, spittle and runny noses, cornflakes and school sandwiches and has the old bat ever offered help? Has she ever, spending all day gorging herself on cake, can’t even lift up the phone but to say to me, oh Cathy you’re doing it all wrong, that’s never how I was to you. One more visit and I’d never have to look at her again. Filthy tip of a place, disgusting that anybody lives here. All institutional redbrick and peeling pastel paint, the building looking about as decrepit as the half-ghouls that call these rooms their crypts. The old cow is sat on it all, perched on what’s mine. She’ll tell me where it was, she’s give me what’s mine, what was always meant to be mine, what I deserve. Thea Somebody visiting. Come to ask for something, either money or time. Not that I have much of either. Not now, too tired, sent them back. They never let me sleep, those girls. Always calling to complain about their awful lives and absent boyfriends. “It’s your daughter, and granddaughter. I’ll just let them in for a moment, ok?” The nurse doesn’t wait for a reply, so in they come. Here comes Cathy, proud as punch, always righteous, forever strident. And in tow, little Garnet. Eyes red, head low. It takes Cathy digging her fingers into the girl’s shoulder to bring out a sullen “Hello Granny”. Thinks that she’ll get more out of me by dragging her along in a cheap chequerboard frock. She looks like she dressed in the dark. But ah, she’s animated now. She lifts my hand off the chair and squeezes it, I suppose the nurses think it affectionate, but her grip is strong and my fingers brittle. It won’t be long until you’re here too, girl. Your hands may have more lotion, but in time they’ll be parchment too. I let my eyes lose focus. She was always like this, even at Garnet’s age. So many questions and ambitions. How she drove me to despair, her father to drink, her sisters to rage. Never satisfied with all that we gave to her, always grasping for unearned praise. I was too soft. I know what she wants before she mentions it. She wants to know where I hid it, thinks that it’s her just reward, thinks that a few visits to me will mean I can forget the agony she put me through. “You’re ruining that girl.” That shuts her up. I make sure everybody in the lounge hears it. Silly old fool, they’ll think, doesn’t know how loud she’s talking. “You’re ruining that girl and she’s going to end up just like you.” That’s right, girl. You want to cry, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes, the glowing red in your cheeks. Just like you did every day as a brat, every time I told you “No”, every time I caught you stealing. Cry, let everybody here see what a pathetic little girl you are. You want to know where my treasure is hidden? Well, you can’t. It’s mine, and that means I get to decide who gets it. You are a selfish girl who needs a cold, hard lesson in how the world works. It’s mine and will be mine until the day they pack me away from here in a coffin, and there is nothing you can do about it. Garnet Mummy keeps saying we have to go and visit Granny, which isn’t fair because we can only visit her on a Saturday and it’s been every Saturday for weeks and there’s nothing here and it smells and the bus always makes me feel sick, but I complained about it last week and Mummy got upset so I don’t complain about it anymore. The other girls spend their weekends round each other’s houses. When I asked why we’re visiting her so much, Mummy said that I was a nasty girl who didn’t care about her poor old Granny. Granny doesn’t say much and scares me. Granny and Mummy have just finished talking. I don’t understand what they’re talking about, there’s something in the old house that Mummy can’t find and she keeps asking if Granny knows where it is. I keep saying that if we asked my Aunties to help we’d be able to find something. We’ve only just got here when Mummy grabs my arm and it’s too hard and it hurts and we’re walking too fast too fast and the nurse tries to hand me something but we’re already leaving and we’re already gone. I don’t say anything on the bus, Mum’s too cross and I know not to say anything when she’s cross. I go to my room and wedge myself into the gap between my wardrobe and the wall. Mummy doesn’t know about my secret place, about my hidden door and my special treasure, about the loose wall behind the wardrobe or the special room. She’ll never know because it’s my secret, it’s mine, all mine, and will always be mine.
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Jul 23, 2023 22:50
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Midway 990 words It was supposed to be a celebration. Sixty years in space. Twenty five systems. We of the East Wind were the farthest out into the network of gates that anyone had ever been, apart from our sister ships. Halfway to the new home. There were supposed to be a lot more of us around at this stage, too. East Wing set out with a crew of a hundred women and a virtually infinite sperm bank. That was the first generation. "Where's Alice, dear?" my mother asked. I shrugged. "Probably in her rooms," I said. Alice doesn't come out often. "She's going to miss out on the cake," said Mom. The East Wind's engine puffed out a toot of reaction mass and drifted forward, into the gateway, into the unknown. Moira takes it better than last time. She's been through five gates. Six now. This time she doesn't even start to vomit. I get ready for the drill. The universe, or at least the part connected by the gates, is a graveyard, a battlefield memorial. The fourth interstellar civilization was wiped out millions of years ago, and if the home system hadn't been a deathtrap of its own, of any of the epochs before humanity's had managed to reach for the stars before their mass extinction events, Mars might have still been habitable and they'd had opened the gates. And brought the scourge home. When Mom talks about earth she makes it sound nice, not at all like a planet that keeps almost dying, including the mass extinction they're still fighting back there. The universe is a graveyard, but that doesn't mean it isn't dangerous. Old weapons, pockets of paranoid survivors, solar systems ground down to clouds of razor-sharp debris. The probes are supposed to detect dangerous systems before we go through, but it's not perfect. The day or so each three years or so where the East Wind actually needs a crew had begun. The first part is waiting. The gate flares when something goes through. Bright as a nearby star for something as big as the East WindI. Easily detected by anything watching the skies. So we wait for the light to reach each planet in the new system, the the same time again for signs of a response to reach us. Nothing immediate, from the cold rock we're shifting to a stable orbit around. The others in minutes, hours, days. There is work, meaningful work, for about a dozen of us, and for only a few days out of the year. In theory, parenting was supposed to fill in a lot of the time. The systems were all built to handle a population doubling with each generation. My generation is barely larger than Mother's. Moira has less than a dozen in hers. Theoretically it's not too late for most of us. Theoretically. "We have signal," says Moria. There's a bit of a bored tone in her voice. She gets it from me. I got it from Mother. "Opening contact?" said Gianni. Eager voice. I don't know where he gets it. It's possible. There are radio capable remnant civilizations around, too timid to venture past orbit again, waiting against the day that the mythic scourge returns or hoping that Builder or Mapmaker ancients return to rapture them off to a paradise in isolate space. Moria sighed. "No. Cultural heritage burst. Small. Text and video." That's much more common, the last testament of a dying world. Words in a dead language meaning nothing to nobody. We watched the video. The aliens who left it–crimson skin, bipedal, tall, heads like sunflowers, bifurcated arms that move like lightning compared to their lumbering gait–seemed oddly comical despite the sadness inherent in the message. Maybe they chose to remember themselves in some culturally central piece of slapstick. Or maybe we're all just insensitive monsters. We ate the cake, still waiting for responses from the farther worlds, not expecting anything. "Thirty days now," announces Gianni. Our last chance. About thirty years ago he talked the medical computer into affirmation surgery. They loaded his junk up with chimeric germ lines from the library and our generation could have kids the old fashioned way if we didn't want to use a cold syringe like our parents did. Hardly anyone did. Oh, most of us eventually wound up in bed with him a few times. Population this small and bored there aren't many combinations within a generation that haven't come up. But few enough of us had kids at all and even fewer that way. Thirty days. He hasn't said if it's detransition or suicide he's talking about, but we know. That's how people go, basically. That or neurodegenrative disorders. We should probably all be in therapy but the full-time shrink was the first to do herself and the tenth gen chatbot isn't much more helpful than a vintage copy of Eliza. Plan A was, we build a little society, go as far as possible away from Earth, the rapidly populate our new home and go straight into forming the core of a new interstellar polity. Give the Fifth Civilization a little less of a monoculture. Keep the species alive if a local Scourge passes by. It looks more and more like plan B instead, raise a bunch of semi-feral kids with parents way outnumbered and let them build up from whatever bronze age recreation they can manage once Moria's generation passes on. Better than plan C, where the ship keeps dropping fully feral populations of a thousand or so until a band or two figures out how not to starve to death. I decided to do it. To give Gianni another round. Fully fertile, that is. Give Moria a little sister. It probably won't be enough, but every little bit helps. I want to stand on a planet, to see it to the finish.
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Jul 23, 2023 23:02
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OK, time's up. Thanks for playing.
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Jul 23, 2023 23:53
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DQ or loss or whatevs, I haven't written anything in a spell. I know this is way late and I didn't sign up, but I have a weird schedule in which I never know if I have time on the weekends to tippity-tap a tale, and I want to get back in. At your mercies. Ceramics are Fragile 949 words I don’t claim no strength, except maybe the kind to put up with family. When Gramma said Jimmy was a ghost, we all believed it. But he was alive and well and working at his car dealership in North Carolina like a good ol’ boy should. He had liver trouble as a tyke, back in those days (the nineteen fifties) when little boys were little boys and that was the end of it, except that little boys in those days were dressed up in dressing gowns that made them seem more like ghosts than people. It was pretty easy to intimate that he was dead and gone, even though he was right there in the pavilion saying, ‘Hello, I’m not dead. And I have a good deal on a Hyundai.’ It was still a fair few hours before Lilibet realised he was still kicking. They all love a good misery when they ain’t got one, and there was always something more to Uncle Jimmy that those Presbyterians never let on. I still dunno, but I'm pretty sure. Marco was at the beach, down in the Outer Banks, nephew to some and bro to me, practically trading places with Uncle Jimmy so he wasn’t here to back me up. Lilibet might have been more credulous since Marco can’t keep a straight face on any of that, but I swear it’s true when Pap gave the blessing and said, “Jesus, please come into our mouths and nourish our bodies with your spirit.” Cuz Lilibet wasn’t one of us, one of the pavilion people. You see them hanging out by the lake. The ones who rent the open air gazebo with not quite enough electrics for all the crock pots, arguing about the compost toilets. The ones who inevitably have the guy with a fishing license safety pinned to his mesh hat until the ranger comes around and says this ain’t a fishing lake, it’s purely for conservation and there’s a big kerfuffle. Until, o’course, he sees who’s manning the grill. Nah, Lilibet was a different kinda strength. I stood there in the bathroom, naked. A little fatter than I used to be, a little sadder than I used to be. The full length mirror stood across from the tub, marched next to the sink, and the sink was crooked. The whole floor was crooked, really. But it was super obvious the way the caulking line ran across the tiles of the wall. And the toothbrush holder was green with corrosion. It never seemed to matter how hard I scrubbed it. That’s all distraction, and always was. Every time I looked in that mirror, and I might do some Soderbergh faces and act the goof, but it was never long before I collapsed on the cold, crooked tiles and sobbed. And Lilibet would come in and I’d grab her freckled leg like a crutch and tears were freckles and freckles were tears. She’d tell me of the things I told her. Pap went looking for Peeps, the marshmallow candy, but he called them PeePees, so he asked the stocker at the grocery store, “My wife is really craving peepee, do you have any peepees?” And on any given day that might do it. But that story’s tainted now cuz the day I told it to her, Uncle Bill went bananas on the maintenance guy in Gramma and Pap’s condo because the rheostat was too hot and he wouldn’t grasp that it was supposed to be that way. It was just the dimmer for their dining room ceiling fan, and it was warm to the touch, nothing major. The guy was probably younger than me at the time. Some college-age-something, picking up odd hours doing maintenance at an old folks’ community. But let’s not argue with the extra from Sons of Anarchy shouting about his EE degree. OK dude Nah, distraction is all there was. What else is there? Lilibet would have to stretch and she’d sound like Gramma as she untwisted her legs from under me. And she’d unfurl them stems, shaded beautiful bark, over my broken-out shoulders and I’d wonder if that was poison ivy from working in the yards, both Pap’s and Mom’s. I never really got it before, but it was itchy as a spitchy. Around my ankles, too. Aunt Jane’s son manned the grill, he had aneurysms as a kid and was lucky to be alive. Cousin Frank, I guess. Heir to a concrete dynasty now that Big Frank kicked the bucket. If you ever rode on those highway test patterns where it felt like the road was going to shake your car apart, that was them. Grooved pavement. It never amounted to much but you got somewheres to focus your ire. Gramma broke her hip and got dementia and is in hospice, and I don't know if I have the capacity. And Mom is just relieved. Pap is blind as a bat and I think I’m going the same way, but I look up now, and there’s a face of complete understanding, and a face of complete mystery. But dimples for days. We didn’t last long. Nothing to begrudge there. A time and a place and a love and a family for a time. That’s all you really want. One Lily before is fades out of your life. I did a little spying and Lilibet is doing OK, Singing pro in Philly and probably, actually, more than OK. Uncle Jimmy still plays coy but since Uncle Dan lost his leg he’s been more forthcoming. So much rides on the matriarch just effing off into oblivion. Lil’ Frank still does the annual cookout, but his name is Matt. It always was.
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Jul 24, 2023 09:11
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Thunderdome Birthday Extravaganza: This Dome goes to Eleven Official notice of active shenanigans: the winner of the week that just concluded will be head judge next week. The winner of this week will be otherwise rewarded Where does the time go? Welcome to the Thunderdome's eleventh birthday.  Here's the story: this week, when you enter, you should pick a number from 1 to 572 (no duplicates. Or you can leave it up to judge's choice). That week's prompt is your prompt. A judge will then assign you an Extreme Flash Rule to help make your story more intense. (These are not hellrules. Hellrules are available on request with toxx.) Technical details: if your prompt involves an assignment, you'll get that as well as the Extreme Flash Rule. They may be recycled from those given that week. If your prompt allows you to choose something when you sign up, you can do that. If your prompt involves collaboration, teams, brawls, submitting multiple stories, anonymous submission, ignore all that. Just do one normal story using the rest of the prompt (or one of the prompts for those multiple entries weeks.) Oh, yes. This week goes to 11, and this week's word count goes to 11,111 words. To be clear, there is no minimum word limit; don't feel like you need to go anywhere near that if the spirit doesn't move you. The usual exclusions apply unless your prompt specifically removed one, i.e. poetry only with the poetry weeks. Signups end Friday 11:59 PM California time. Entries close Sunday 11:59 PM California time Judges: Thranguy Antivehicular Chernobyl Princess Celebrants: beep-beep car is go: 256 Myths of the Near Stone Age rohan 440 K-Drama Party Chairchucker: 206 WHIZZ! Bang! POW! Thunderdome! Sebmojo: 107 STAY OUT OF THE MARSH Bad Seafood: 404 Circus Train DigitalRaven: 194 Only Mr. God Knows Why Fat Jesus: 9 Old Sex/Lawn Sounds Paladinus: 360 What If Thunderdome, But Too Mich derp: 506 Surrealism flerp: 81 LEGO Stories with Chairchucker Slightly Lions:414 in from the field Green Wing: 449 Dysfunctional r/elationships ActingPower: 52 Cyberblaxploitation Anniversary Albatrossy_Rodent: 167 Black Sunshine The Cut of Your Jib: 319 LurchinTard:348 dog week 2: this time, you actually write something Idle Amalgam:350 This is the line of division Tars Tarkas: 94 TRULY ALIEN Yoruichi: 135 THEY MIGHT BE FULL OF REGRET Doctor Zero: 339 Die Hard Lord Zedd-Repulsa: 59 WRITE ABOUT WHERE YOU CURRENTLY LIVE The man called M: 532 Paseo Yortuque Dicere: 69 Good, Giving, and Game Thranguy fucked around with this message at 07:32 on Jul 27, 2023 |
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Jul 24, 2023 10:43
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In. 256.
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Jul 24, 2023 10:51
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in, 440 requesting judges pick the tropes please
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Jul 24, 2023 10:58
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beep-beep car is go posted:In. 256. Myths of the Near Stone Age, nice choice. Stampeding Dinosaurs
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Jul 24, 2023 11:01
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In, 206
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Jul 24, 2023 11:06
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In pick me one, also hellrule fuckit toxx
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Jul 24, 2023 11:07
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Added note: if you do go significantly beyond a typical dome wordcount here, be aware that "I didn't finish this" is a valid judgement.
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Jul 24, 2023 11:15
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Chairchucker posted:In, 206 The deserts of an inhabited Mars/Escape! Extreme flash rule: none of your characters have met before the story begins.
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Jul 24, 2023 11:24
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In, 404.
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Jul 24, 2023 11:31
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rohan posted:in, 440 Overbearing parent Iconic landmark Family secret Night of Revelry Enemies are Foils ...and Extreme flash:The Will is a forgery
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Jul 24, 2023 11:32
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Bad Seafood posted:In, 404. The animal you chose in discord was the crocodile. The philosophy you must feature in some way is neo-luddism. Extreme Flash: your characters must stay in constant motion
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Jul 24, 2023 11:43
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sebmojo posted:In pick me one, also hellrule fuckit toxx Week 107 A skeleton beneath the kudzu Hellrule: Narrated out of order, converging on the middle from both directions.
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Jul 24, 2023 12:05
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Since I missed out last week I'm going to crit everyone's story, so you can go to bed knowing at least some guy thinks he read it. I also read last week's entries and cannot understand how The Flying Steel of Doctor Wang didn't easily win. Winner was good, but that was some strong Kung Fu. Postcognition I liked this, a simple ghost story, nice twist at the end. But I can't help feeling you could use a few less comma's here and there. You could easily rework a lot of lines to flow a bit better. At least that's how it seems to me but it does have the same tone throughout. Family Meeting I didn't mind the story but I have to admit I started getting bored after the first quarter of learning what everyone's wearing, and that we're in space and important too. There's probably a neater way of telling us all this, and it might be best to let someone actually smart chime in later on that. Then I had to read the end again, which could have been a little more clear. Firstborn Skater Grandad was Tony 'The Fonz' Hawk and while this sounds normal enough, we're in a world of magic where it is their destiny to destroy Capitalism. Why skaters of all people would do that, seeing they'd be among the first to die like the fatties in Zombieland from what I've seen, I cannot imagine. Nor imagine what they'd do without all the corporate logos they pay money to adorn themselves with. As Things to Rebel Against go, Capitalism is a hard one cause you usually need something to replace it with. I think you need to put the bong down, you've done better. Birthright If I hadn't know what the prompt was I'd probably have no idea each tiny vignette, or w/e you call it, it was about the same family. All their names starting with S is a clue but idk. Each one is pretty well written but at times reads like short statements. I think with a rewrite using a few more words making the relation more clear you'd be golden, because I like the concept of it. Duty Visit This story's really good and I liked it muchly. If I have to crit anything it's whether retirement complexes of the poorest kind would send a bus that picks up visitors. Usually at best it's a bus to take the olds shopping and the doctors. I understand the people who run these places have shareholders and they don't run them out of the goodness of their hearts. Only other thing wrong was the switch between using Mummy and Mum and back near the end, it was noticable and didn't sound right. So ok, a technicality that doesn't really matter, unless it does, and possibly a typo. Midway You're good at this kind of thing, your stories read well and all, but there's something wrong here. There's a lot going on, reminded me too much of the Dune crazy ladies soon as you mentioned the scourge. Would have been cooler if it's how the earth gets populated in the beginning, which I personally believe happened. I can't really figure out some of the end bits about people going nuts and such. Or where's the boys? But there's kids ready to drop on planets. Maybe I'm not following... Ceramics are Fragile Well I'm not too sure how you boys in caroliny flap yer gabs but I'll take your word they say things like 'super obvious' and 'bananas'. Otherwise as language goes you got that dawg on the truck, I like stories of that style. I can see this world, you painted a good picture at least. Just a shame I didn't understand the point of half of it.
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Jul 24, 2023 12:42
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In, pick me one!
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Jul 24, 2023 12:45
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Of course I'm in. My lucky number is 9. I may have choosen poorly Fat Jesus fucked around with this message at 13:02 on Jul 24, 2023 |
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Jul 24, 2023 12:59
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gently caress it, I'm in. 360 noscope.
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Jul 24, 2023 13:23
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Fat Jesus posted:
Boring! The harshest crit of them all  Thanks though, I appreciate you taking the time.
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Jul 24, 2023 13:26
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in 506
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Jul 24, 2023 15:40
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number me
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Jul 24, 2023 16:20
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RNGesus has determined I am in with #414, my sound is This
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Jul 24, 2023 16:43
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You know what, sure. I'll join the festivities, my week will be 449. https://thunderdome.cc/?week=449
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Jul 24, 2023 16:46
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Y'know what? I'm in. How about 52? That's one year after it started, more or less. edit: oh god I should have looked at the list first, I don't know anything about blaxploitation 
ActingPower fucked around with this message at 17:27 on Jul 24, 2023 |
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Jul 24, 2023 17:23
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In hell 
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Jul 24, 2023 18:29
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number me pls (and thank you critter with fast crits)
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Jul 24, 2023 19:16
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DigitalRaven posted:In, pick me one! Week 194, Only Mr. God Knows Why. You may select your own Eurovision song (from 2016 or from 2023) unless you want me to pick one for you. Extreme Flash: Two characters are deeply in love, but never say so.
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Jul 24, 2023 21:40
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Fat Jesus posted:Of course I'm in. My lucky number is 9. Excellent choice of elderly spy fiction. Your Bonus Flash: Your story takes place on a space station under threat! Paladinus posted:gently caress it, I'm in. 360 noscope. Inventions gone wrong! We love to see it! Your Bonus Flash: An object is profoundly cursed and/or haunted
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Jul 24, 2023 21:49
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in. 348
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Jul 24, 2023 22:15
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derp posted:in 506 21st century Dada
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Jul 24, 2023 22:23
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In, can I get a week
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Jul 24, 2023 22:31
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flerp posted:number me Regular subprompt: 6690 Monorail Transport System Extreme Flash: 6497 Twisted Time Train
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Jul 24, 2023 22:46
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Slightly Lions posted:RNGesus has determined I am in with #414, my sound is This Extreme flash:No human characters older than 13
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Jul 24, 2023 23:48
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Green Wing posted:You know what, sure. I'll join the festivities, my week will be 449. https://thunderdome.cc/?week=449 Extreme Flash:Banned for life from the Medival Times
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Jul 24, 2023 23:50
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