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In, and flash.
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Aug 22, 2023 08:34
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Fat Jesus posted:In, and flash. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=un8EW82GwKc
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Aug 22, 2023 08:38
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In, I'll take a flash
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Aug 22, 2023 09:04
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Vinny Possum posted:In, I'll take a flash https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SAVgJQVo2oE
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Aug 22, 2023 09:09
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Crits for Week #576 Crits done in judgemode Overall note: as it happens I haven't read any of the prompt books, so I decide to do zero research and judge the stories completely independent of that part of the prompt. Also, for some reason the hive mind wanted to write monologues this week. Cool. But the risk when you write stories that lean on voice and direct narration with little to no dialog is that the other characters can often come across as flat. February Azure: This is solid. The voice here is challenging in its density, certainly. But it doesn't drag, doesn't really get repetitive, and we get just enough hinting at characters beyond the narrator to anchor him in a world. High. Dear sir, thank you for the assignment but I regret to inform you that my circumstances are very special and very unique and therefore I cannot accept it. I am really under a great deal of strain at work, you see, and,: Interesting twist on the meta opening, I guess. I don't think it adds that much, packing that into the title. Another single character monolog, this one with a good deal of substance behind it. High middle. Fashionably Late: Another single character story, in fact more so than the others, but with more plot and puzzle box than contemplation, giving two versions of a narrator that don't add up to very much. Low middle. Uprooted: Like the preceding stories this is essentially a single character piece, with one other character viewed retrospectively through that lens. I think that he ends up a bit flattened there, and that the main character isn't quite as richly developed either. We have a single extended metaphor that works here, but there's not that much else. Middle. Collisional Cascading: And again. There's something compelling about the meandering narration, moving from interesting bit to interesting bit, barely connecting a weary narrator, defying need for resolution. High. 1966: The first multicharacter story opens with a bang, a torture scene that is stylish and amoral, no immediate sense of the stakes and sides involved. We start to get a little of that later. There's a reason we write out numbers in prose and dialog, especially dialog. Using numerals lets you forget the cadence of the line, which is good here except that one line with two numerals. In the end, this ends up as a nice concise amoral and stylish spy thriller, sort of caught in an uncanny valley between those aesthetics. Middle high Squaring the Circle: Are we cyberpunking here? Comparing to the outside of a television is a variant I haven't seen before at least. But no, we aren't, although we are in the realm of alienation. Blinding children is an odd specificity. Sort of like the majority of stories this week, shifted to third person. Middle. Climbing Season: The opening here is slow, and in a story that runs over the count it would probably be a good place to make some cuts. Overall, this is an okay story. I wanted the narrator's own team to be more interesting than the side characters, though, maybe for them to do more than observe. Middle. Transit: Okay opening, estaishes a character and a bit of mystery. Present tense is tough to maintain, I'll be watching that. Mostly good there. But the story, there's not much there, with a wet fart of an attempted punchline ending. Low middle. A proof than Mr Hermann was not crazy: The opening paragraphs don't do much draw the narrator as more than a featureless cypher. The title does more to draw a reader in at least. It looks like we're back to monologues, with a subject more interesting than the narrator although their job is an interesting question. But the resolution is muddled, I don't see how a hotel secret shopper or similar roving troubleshooter would consider a guest a client or why he would know much about him. I just feel like the twin questions point at a more fantastic, possibly Gaimanesque explanation, and "oh, he's rich" is a copout. Middle. Gull at Pike’s: And we close off with a seagull monologue. Okay as an exercise, but there's not enough point to it really. Middle
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Aug 22, 2023 09:53
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The Cut of Your Jib posted:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ZocDT3TmAE nah I'm good, this song fuckin rips. thanks for introducing me to it.
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Aug 22, 2023 13:45
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In! I’m excited, this is my first Thunderdome.
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Aug 22, 2023 16:31
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The Cut of Your Jib posted:RIP Too late I already am
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Aug 22, 2023 16:44
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In. Flash me.
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Aug 22, 2023 17:07
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thunderdome winner
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Chernobyl Princess posted:In. Flash me. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W_W7ydnPtB4
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Aug 22, 2023 17:20
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TheMackening posted:In! I’m excited, this is my first Thunderdome. e: look up the original video if you want. It has doggies in peril https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DrEIyLxHSdk The Cut of Your Jib fucked around with this message at 17:41 on Aug 22, 2023 |
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Aug 22, 2023 17:31
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Crits for Week 575 A very strong week overall, as you can tell by the fact that half the entries warranted positive mentions. Good job, all. Beginnings and Endings and Naming Conventions by Cut of Your Jib I wanted to like this one a lot more than I did. There's a lot that's going on here that I like. I'm a big guy of the sea, I've spent a lot of time on boats and ships ever since I was a kid, so I'm a sucker for anything nautical. There's a really ambitious attempt at playing with time and narrative structure, which I appreciate, but it's also kind of your downfall. The problem is that I just didn't really get it. I had to read it twice to get a handle on exactly what was happening when, and why; I'm still not sure that I actually know with any certainty. I have very little sense of who the narrator is as a person/character, and the other characters are even thinner, with the exception of Spike. Spike was well done, you manage to deftly describe his deal with just his name and the way in which he acquired it, so good job there. But there's a lot of other characters that are just names with no discernable characteristics except "they were also there." This was saved from a negative mention for three reasons: 1) the nautical action and descriptions of the boat and the job were all right, tight, and correct, which mattered a lot for this brief. 2) The ambition of your writing choices. I was left scratching my head by most of them, but you swung for the fences and I have to respect that. 3) The actual prose is very, very good. I think if you scaled things back a bit, settled on a max of 2-3 characters, and fleshed out our narrator a little more you'd have something really good here. Mid-low Siege Defence for Beginners by Fat Jesus I got immediately pulled into this one. Writing the whole thing from an essentially second person perspective in a strong vernacular voice was a real gutsy choice, and one that I think mostly paid off for you. The technical aspects are all quite good and, as far as my mispent youth as a milhist geek can recall, quite correct. Explaining things to a blank-slate audience surrogate lets you work them in a way that's very natural and very immediate; some of the other stories could feel a little distant from their subjects, but this one remains very visceral. I didn't think it was a huge problem that the precise date and place weren't crystal clear. I personally pegged it as being somewhere in the Balkans or Eastern Europe in the late Medieval (late 14th-early 15th century at a guess), correct me if I'm wrong. It could have been broadcast a bit clearer for the readers who didn't have picture books about castles when they were in grade school. And there were a few places where that bold choice of voice didn't work out as smoothly. The descriptions of actual action and the introduction of other characters feel a little clumsy, which is going to be a perrenial problem with the choice of perspective. When it's all done as a stream-of-conciousness monologue you don't have the luxury of omniscient prose or stage direction, but I think you managed it pretty well. All told it was rich, gripping, and had a lot of good, crunchy detail. High. Underwater Welding: Principles and Hazards by Ouzo Maki Another ambitious formatting/POV choice that gets points for doing something different, but doesn't quite stick the landing. I'm always very fond of this kind of "found-footage"/epistolary storytelling, and there's a lot to like about this one. We get some very nice pictures of who Samuelson and O'Roarke are as people, told very economically from their banter and interactions. Tina felt a little flatter, I think she could have used a little more oomph behind her to really figure out who she is. The little dissertation on the actual craft of underwater welding was quite good and, again, layered very naturally into the flow of the story. In a week that was all about trade secrets, technical knowhow, and job details, this story was one of the strongest in this regard. But it fell down a bit in the "making me care" front. I don't dislike that the actual cause of the weird cave-in/sinkhole type disaster is left vague. As I like to say: mysteries are cool, answers are boring. But for that work you need to have a, you know, mystery. And there isn't really one here, just an unanswered question. Anything would have helped, some detail about why the geologist would want to see the disaster site, a brief mention of our welders seeing something unusual or impossible, anything; or maybe a bit more on the surviving O'Roarke who's filing the lawsuit, something that would ground this in a more emotional reality and provide tangible stakes. As it is the story just sort of... ends. It's a bit unsatisfying, which is a bummer because the first ~2/3s are really good. Mid-high Little Red Lamp by Green Wing This one had a lot of nice creative energy behind it. I'm always a fan of the "Heaven is a bureacracy of wonders that is rendered deadly boring to its functionaries" trope. The descriptions of the impossible landscape and the unreal tools and setting were lively and well-textured without being overdone or dragging away focus. The same is true of the characters. Neither Raz nor Zaq get a whole ton of detail, but they dont' entirely need it. I know these guys, I've worked with them. The fact that they're literal, no-poo poo angels doesn't render them not Those Types Of Guy. I thought the ending, in particular, punched really hard. The concept of the apocalypse as a mind-numbingly tedious task to be overseen by bored gently caress-ups really tickled me. I think it could have used a little more technical detail about what, exactly, an angelic workday looks like when you're not on doomsday duty, and/or why Zaq was consigned to that thankless task. Still, it did a very good and economical job of mixing the fantastic with the mundane, good job. Mid-high anti by derp This one won, and for very good reason. It's a gripping and unsettling tale of a dangerous obsessive in his element, a character that not only knows and enjoys his job (and very elegantly explains its workings to us, the readers) but is fundamentally shaped by it. He's rational, knowledgable, composed, and utterly unhinged. There's something darkly comedic about a man who has shaped himself into a sociopathic ultra-Darwinist laboring away at a lab to make a life-saving substance he despises. The two blemishes lie in the general underbakedness of Tina as a character and the jumbled length of that stream of conciousness paragraph in the middle. The first one is something I wouldn't mind seeing corrected, but it's also not a huge priority. The fact that our unnamed narrator views her as being little more than lab equipment adds some layers to his unsettling characterization. The other point also isn't terrible, I don't mind the rambling nature of the paragraph, but it feels repetitive in its subject matter and word choice, which makes it go from fast-paced and rambling to merely jumbled by the last third. Another pass to clean that up and I'm not sure I'd have any real notes on this one. Great job. High My Gun Shoots Fondant by Thranguy I thought this one was the most fun of the lot. I loved the intial framing device/metaphor of the Old West gunslinger riding into town to settle a feud between bitter rivals. The prose crackles and moves, but never feels rushed. It's full of fun asides and details, but doesn't feel bloated. It doesn't have an ounce of padding or fat to be trimmed. The actual technical details of cake making/decorating are a little thin on the ground, but I think you definitely captured the sense of a jaded and experienced professional. The business end of meeting with customers, anticipating trouble, and having seen it all and done it all gives the narrator a richness and depth with remarkable economy of words. Setting a dust-up at a wedding to Ballroom Blitz is an inspired choice. I also loved Darla the dentist and the little sting at the end about her catching the boquet. It may not have had quite the technical depth as some of the others, but I really loved this one. High Stay Inside The Basket by Chairchucker You can tell this one was squeeked in under the wire. The first 1/2-2/3rds is quite enjoyable, but it kind of loses its energy and forward momentum after the reveal of the boyfriend's proposal plan. There's just... not a lot that happens. It's less of a look inside the craft of balloon piloting than it is a memoir on the voyueristic nature of transit professionals. The narrator doesn't do a whole lot, they're more of a witness to the story that's being enacted by the couple in the balloon, the actual characters with agency. Nothing about the writing is bad, per se, but when there's no real tension or stakes and our POV character is more of a camera than a person I'm left with a feeling of "who cares?" It's a shame this had to be rushed out half-baked, but I do applaud you for getting something submitted. Mid-low How To Surf The Multiverse by Fuschia Tude This story had a really interesting premise and really fun, charismatic Baron Munchausen-esque narrator-protagonist, but for all that came out a bit of a mess. I'm usually a real sucker for that timey-wimey, high-concept bullshit sci-fi, but this just didn't work for me. I think the most fundamental issue is that there's too much telling and not enough showing. For a story that was supposed to take us into the nitty-gritty of the secret life of 'verse-jumpers I don't feel like I have any understanding of what Jules does or how. Anything would have helped here, some brief treatise on the metaphysics of the art, a rundown of the sensory experience of plane hopping, an aside on how he discovered the ability. Instead we get a lot of nonsense about fighting alternate versions of himself and his passenger which, again, lack any real substance or description. I can't say that I have any sense of what that battle looked like and what the bold strategies and conceptual violence that won it were. There's a lot of good ideas in here, but it seems like your reach really exceeded your grasp. I don't know if it was the time limit or the word limit, but either way there was something missing here and it all ends up feeling disappointingly slapdash. If you decide to take another stab at this concept then let me know, because I'd like to read more about Jules and his adventures, just with some more structure and polish. Low
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Aug 23, 2023 02:51
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In, flash
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Aug 23, 2023 04:11
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Antivehicular posted:In, flash https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RqqWaz6TfjA
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Aug 23, 2023 04:25
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Slightly Lions posted:Crits for Week 575 100%. Serbia didn't have anything but mercenaries after the Battle of Kosovo where basically everyone died, Turks eventually cross the Danube and siege Vienna (the first time, they kept trying). Forests of impaled were a feature.There were all kinds of forgotten castles and strongholds in their way. The use of Halberds and pole-arms in movies and video games has me like Leonardo DiCaprio suddenly seeing something on TV. They all have them whacking each other over the head, everyone's got a sword. their chain mail is crocheted wool, I can go on. Thanks to all the critter's, much appreciated.
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Aug 23, 2023 06:02
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In
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Aug 23, 2023 18:45
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[freebie] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=25y3cMC9i94 The Cut of Your Jib fucked around with this message at 19:34 on Aug 23, 2023 |
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Aug 23, 2023 18:58
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early but I'm gone doing man things a few days. WAIL OF THE BANSHEE 1764 words On the night Tavish McKenzie passed from this world for want of money, he declared on his deathbed that should none cry nor lament his demise, he would return. As the dreadful news spread throughout the glen, the men of clan McKenzie gathered in the tavern lamenting their ill fortune. It were soon decided after much drink that some keening women be brought, lest the dirty old bastard actually return. Signs and portents were all about them, and the beastie had been seen again by Diarmad McKenzie. After the hat had been passed around a few dozen times they looked upon the fifteen pence the forty of them had managed, stunned by their own generosity. “Me mother, she cuid do, she be a fine one ta wail.” Gordon McKenzie said, eyes affixed on the riches before them. “Is ye mother nae ninety six?” Kennan McKenzie asked, slamming his glass upon the coffin’s lid amongst the clutter. “Aye. She’s a guid one fer a wail, trust us, McKenzie.” All gathered McKenzie nodded knowingly. “Och, she’ll ave tae do. Na carry th’ howfin’ bastid ou’side fer a air, so we can shut th’ windae.” Said Fergus McKenzie. Six stout McKenzie lifted the simple pine box covered in butts, ash and spilt Glenlivet and took it outside to the freezing sleet. They put it on trestles on the gravel road, and went back inside as dog came and pissed on the trestles, a sure omen of sour times ahead. Gordon McKenzie had sat his mother Cullodena McKenzie in a chair besides the grave they had drunkenly dropped the coffin in. They had dressed the old woman in black and she sat there chewing her gums, thick glasses covered in dew that she appeared not notice. She stared down at the encrusted boot sticking out of the box with it’s lid ajar, as the parson droned his usual tale of a pious life well lived. Finally done, he slapped his book together and left begrudged back to his sherry with nothing but a promise of payment to come. The crowd of two then gathered by the old woman’s side as she stared blankly at the box. “Garn ma, gie a keen, oh ‘’ow ye miss ‘im, and ‘at.” Gordon said to her ear. “Hoo’s ‘at?” she croaked. “That be Tavish McKenzie.” Kennan said. “At bastid?” she tried to get up. “Deid at lest! Deid at lest!” She cackled with laughter as the McKenzie’s eased her back to her chair, looking to each other as she clapped her hands and stamped her feet, screaming with triumph. “Burn, burn, burn in hell, ye devil!” She clutched her chest and rose suddenly, falling forward into the grave with a thump. The rain swept across the loch where Auld Cullodena was laid to rest as far as possible from where she had collapsed from grief, her great keening too much a toll. The two mourners had told the gathered astounded McKenzie of her final deed, and how she had wailed. Gordon McKenzie and his cousin Kennan had later near come to blows dividing the fifteen pence evenly, but had settled the blood feud at the tavern by buying a pence of ale and drinking half each, measuring carefully each sip. “Yer wealthy noo Gordon, kin ye mother rest.” Kennan McKenzie toasted. “Aye, a dinnae ken if the keening worked, we done ah best. Well that’s me doon the road.” McKenzie got up, hitching his kilt. Soon Gordon McKenzie were on his way home after midnight with the mists rising from the moors of the loch when he felt a chill. The winds had come down from Ben Lomond, and as he gathered his coat he stumbled, falling with curses into the bracken and rising unsteadily in confusion, staring with horror at the small rock that stood motionless before him. McKenzie was quite sure the rock had not been there before. He fled through the shadows of Jock McKenzie’s backyard and back to his house, firmly locking the door, as was his habit. When Gordon McKenzie had got to the tavern the next evening, he found Kennan McKenzie sitting alone, white as a sheet. “He’s back… me bagpipes, they’re gone! I cannae play me pipes a dawn whin ah finish mah baking!” “Aye, he tripped me doon and I felt his cauld win oan mah bahookie.” “Ah heard Jock McKenzie's daughter, her panties gaed missing fae th' line.” Connor McKenzie said. They all shook their red heads. “Och, that be ‘im, clatty bastid.” Gordon McKenzie affirmed. More McKenzie arrived, with more tales of strange goings on. A penny missing, Kennan McKenzie’s bagpipes had been found, stabbed full of holes. Connor McKenzie had found a bone in his haddock and chips. Fergus McKenzie’s sheep had gotten out. The door suddenly flung open as Diarmad McKenzie staggered to the bar in his fishing gear. “Th' beastie is traivelin aroond th' shores o' th' loch!” He told the aghast McKenzie, reaching for the bottle. After some drink it were soon agreed Auld Cullodena had not finished her Keening, and the ghost of Tavish McKenzie walked again, upsetting the water beastie, among other things. “I ken a woman!” Morag McKenzie announced. “A sassenach fae aff Devon, she bides in a tent nearby!” All McKenzie looked to the barmaid, then to each other. The hat went around, many times, and soon McKenzie was on her way gripping the twelve pence, first walking widdershins three times around the graveyard before she left, for Auld Tavish McKenzie had been a devil about the lasses, fathering half the village. The dark night passed and morning finally dawned, and Morag McKenzie returned with a sassenach witch dressed in long robes with mysterious symbols embroidered in gold. The McKenzie gathered warily. “I am told you wish to hear me sing the song of my people, dear quaint Scots folk. Your glen and loch are so beautiful, yet not on a map.” McKenzie's looked to each other, struggling to understand the witch’s tongue. She waved her hand above her head, holding a strange black mirror, looking into it smiling as she turned her back to the McKenzie, who watched in awe. The mirror gave a tiny flash brighter than the sun, causing all McKenzie to step away in unison from the witch with shouts and gasps, shielding their eyes and avoiding her gaze, making signs to ward the Eye. But Gordon McKenzie had bravely stepped forward to confront the witch. “Och, we wid lik' tae hear ye keen. Me mam, she tried bit it weren’t tae ‘is taste. Be crakin' if ye cuid keen let tae nicht.” Gordon McKenzie slurred. “You mean midnight? Yes! How about on that hill?” She pointed to the graveyard. McKenzie blood ran cold as their eyes followed the witch’s red-tipped claw, pointing at the grave of Tavish McKenzie. “Theit be a nice spot. Aye. We waant somethin’ that wull keep ‘im doon.” Gordon McKenzie gave a start as the strange sassenach witch looked at him quizzically, her once black mirror now shining as the moon. After midnight the gathered McKenzie stood close as waves of mist drifted through the gravestones as they awaited the keening sassenach witch. They huddled in fright, hearing the sounds of an elk’s spectral call drifting across the moonlit glen. “Tis’ the White Stag.” Keenan McKenzie said, greatly afeared. McKenzie's murmured a concerned agreement, wide eyes darting around by the light of their torches. The baleful sound slowly died away as the winds came and swirled the mists and gloom. The sassenach keening witch appeared from the bracken, now dressed in the darkest black, and stood before the empty can of Irn-Bru that marked the empty grave of Tavish McKenzie. All gasped in fright, noting her hair matched the colour of the can, an uncanny resemblance that chilled them to the core. Cloud darkened the moon casting spectral shadows as she spread her arms and began her ghastly song. A dreadful screeching sound emanated from the keening witch, going higher and higher as McKenzie's clapped their hands to their ears in pain and alarm. Her wailing grew with their terror as they saw that her eyes made false tears, a Banshee! “NOBODY LOOOVES MEEEEE!! NOT LIKE YOOOU DOOOO!!” The Banshee’s earsplitting shriek shattered the silence of the glen, as the brave McKenzie rushed the Banshee and tackled her to the ground before she could call forth the dead. “Aye, she wur innocent, went straight tae th’ bottom o’ th’ loch.” Keenan McKenzie shook his head and downed his whiskey as the crowd of McKenzie did same. “Tha water beastie, he wid hae taken her, hae tae feed him.” Gordon McKenzie reminded them. Several McKenzie’s grunted affirmation. “Be as it wur, her wailings, thay surely sent Auld Tavish back tae hell. A've nae heard sic a racket afore fae a sassenach witch.” All McKenzie nodded. “Aye, Ah cuid thole it nae langer, th’ witch’s noise.” With that Gordon McKenzie went back to his paper, turning to the back page as Keenan McKenzie read the front from across the table. McKenzie’s listened with interest at their weekly Scotsman brought that morning by postman Padruig McKenzie. “Och, three oot againt th’ Rangers Seturday, Robby McBobson, ‘e cannae manage.” Gordon McKenzie announced sadly to all. McKenzie’s all huffed in agreement, for McKenzie hearts were heavy that week, having lost to Hibernian 2-0 the week before. “See, seys anither tourist missin’ near th’ loch.” Keenan McKenzie raised his eyebrows as all did same. “Sixth this yar thay say, th' polis ur boggin'.” Connor McKenzie said. “It’s Auld Cullodena, ah kin cop her aboot in me waters,” Morag McKenzie stated as she wiped the bar with a tartan rag, “We shoud nae hae fed her tae th' beastie.” All McKenzie murmured worriedly and made the sign. They suddenly turned in shock as Diarmad McKenzie crashed open the door, face stricken with dread and raincoat in tatters. “Ah seen th' beastie roam agan! He's a hungert laddie!” He uttered, out of breath. All McKenzie bewailed the dire news, as a dread as dark as the moonless night descended like a wraith upon them. “Och Aye, we’ll hae tae fin' anither keening woman.” Gordon McKenzie had made his mind and cast his eye to Morag McKenzie, her ruddy face set grim. “I ken a woman. She bades near, fae far aff Eire.” A dark wind blew open the ajar door, sweeping a bitter cold through the tavern and into their bones. McKenzie’s passed around the hat as the beastie’s mournful cries drifted from the loch.
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Aug 24, 2023 11:39
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In!
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Aug 24, 2023 19:58
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Aug 24, 2023 20:41
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[freeb] - some strobing lights at the end of this video, from about 4:00-4:30 please take care https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uudKrJ--BjE The Cut of Your Jib fucked around with this message at 21:23 on Aug 24, 2023 |
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Aug 24, 2023 20:45
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and a flash pls tyvm
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Aug 24, 2023 21:34
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Tyrannosaurus posted:and a flash pls tyvm https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DC5HXFnUlpE
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Aug 24, 2023 22:54
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Thunderdome Week 573 Judgement That was a lot of words, mostly pretty darn good. Good job to everyone who wrote. That said, we there were a couple that stood out in a bad way. So the a single DM goes to Fat Jesus' Larry and Mae's Boys of Steel, and the loss belongs to Tars Tarkas' Unchee Beep Beep Car is Go's The Bedrock Express collects a fanfic dq, obviously. But on to the happier end: HMs go to Slightly Lions' Surf and Stones, Albatrossy_Rodent 's Babble, and Dicere's The War for Hearts and Minds. And our birthday win, more special for not coming with the requirement to judge a following week, goes to QuoProQuid for 26 Seconds in Dallas!
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Aug 24, 2023 23:54
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Week 574 crits blub Being bold is the right thing to do in the almost infinitely low-stakes world of thunderdome, and this is nothing if not bold. I mean i once gave victory in a brawl to someone who submitted a video of herself thrashing round in a mask and american flag and playing a ukulele badly, over someone who’d written a perfectly competent story, so i get that. Buuuuut this is just sort of lazy? Also fish don’t say blub. It’s like having a story with people where they just go yakkity yak yak and every word is yak good lord I’m yawning just thikning about it. So yes be bold, don’t do whatever this is. Rise of the memecats This got a dm which was i think warranted, but this is actually a better example of pushing the boat out stylistically than the preceding one. You have a real swagger in how you don’t bother with keeping to traditional grammar and spelling etc, and there’s actually plenty to like in the way you lean into your sort of vaguely cartoon cat premise. Where it falls down is it’s just really, really annoying. ‘Hooman’ gets my back right up, and i don’t think the memecat theme is really explore sufficiently to make up for that. What you end up with is a set of standard cat antics with a memes coat of paint. Still, I’d take that dm with honor, as there’s a fair bit to like here. Kanaloa Oof this is an annoying piece. Not because it’s especially bad, more because it’s very bland. Octopuses are trapped, oh no! The rescue octopuses come! Will they win, yes. Hurrah! I feel like you were very excited about your color communication idea and the story used to convey it is largely vestigial. Because of that some of the clunkers land in a more annoying way than would otherwise be the case, e.g. your protagopus cursing his inability to speak, which is like one of us cursing our inability to communicate in modulated pheromones or w/e. Basically this is an assemblage of hasty character sketches to put across a story that’s way less interesting than its (actually perfectly decent) premise. Mouths to feed This is an instructive companion piece to the three before it, because everything they get wrong, it absolutely nails. Each character has a reason to be there and a believable set of characteristics and motivations, gets in and gets out at exactly the right part of the story and talks in an interesting and charactersome way. I particularly like the interaction with the guard - this is the sort of thing you can do as a gesture, but this story doesn’t. The husband, ditto, bless his little barely sentient heart. I also like the negative space of events that’s left these lonely desperate humans begging for power from intelligent anglerfish, and i can sit with that feeling once the story has finished and i move on with my life. Very nice piece, deserved winner. Out to pasture This starts out really well, and up to about halfway through i’m completely on board with its douglas adams style musings on divergent evolution. There are some good gags in there, you’ve got a nice breezy style, and the implicit ‘hey maybe being civilised isn’t all that and a bag of chips’ is well enough presented. Buuuuut then it just keeps on going and the interesting notions get buried in a not particularly interesting set of explanations. If i was changing it I think I’d look to have some kind of arc that moves through the different animals? Decent materials, the house they built is a little wonky. Treasure hunting I feel like you came up with the idea of a raccoon with a backpack which is don’t get me wrong COMPLETELY ADORABLE then wrote a story around it, luckily for you it’s actually really solid story. You’ve got the classic td character with goal has small action scene then comes back to safety victorious, but the details are all extremely well-drawn, the imagination is very precise, and some of the ideas are great (raccoon backpacks! Static screen eyeballs!). For some reason I don’t like the ending, risking life and limb for coffee is kind of twee, which doesn’t tonally match with the rest of the story - without that this could well have won, but really a very solid chunk of words. Legacy code Ooh, this is a lovely piece, treading honestly some fairly well-worn ground of cybernetic upload but anchoring it to a rather more human set of considerations than the usual chrome and uzi nonsense. I particularly like the ending, tying it to an annoyance that has persisted into charm, saying something thoughtful and wordless about humanity. In retrospect, probably sshould have got an hm. The remains HmmmMMmmm ok so this is entirely competent, and is certainly story shaped with its characters and goals and events, and your descriptions are fine, but hooo is this some generic video game rear end story telling. That said, I’m sure you told the story you wanted to tell, but for this kind of genre stuff it’s always worth thinking on a way you can quirk the standard progression of events. There are only two things you can do in fiction, give people what they expect or what they don’t expect, and when you’re working with a very predictable baseline you have a lot of options to gently caress with the formula.
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Aug 25, 2023 10:59
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gently caress it, in  You can give me a song if you want, but I will only be writing to this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oDhOws90Nlg
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Aug 25, 2023 23:21
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curlingiron posted:gently caress it, in https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p6Cnazi_Fi0
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Aug 25, 2023 23:38
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Squeeking In under the wire.
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Aug 26, 2023 03:01
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The Cut of Your Jib posted:Free to use or not: A bit early, but if I keep messing with it, I'll overthink it. Here's my first submission to Thunderdome! -- You Can Take the Boy Out of the Mountains 945 Words Culture shock is a hard thing to overcome sometimes. Maybe years go by, and you feel settled into your new home and then something hits you. There are some things you may never get used to after leaving home. For Billy, that was solo night activities outside. He lives in suburbia now, fairly close to two large cities. When he bought his house, there was a police officer busting people for rolling through stop signs just up the block. When Billy asked her about the neighborhood, she laughed and told him it was pretty safe. These stop sign tickets were about as rowdy as she’d ever seen it. Folks take leisurely walks through the neighborhood at all times of day and night. It’s the strolling at night that Billy couldn’t figure. He grew up in Appalachia, and there are a few good unspoken rules back home. One of them is not to be in the woods alone at night. Another important one is you don’t look into the trees. The suburban neighborhood he lived in now was certainly not the woods, but there was a patch of woods on the backside of his property, so it felt close enough. Hell, deer came out of those woods and nibbled the grass in his backyard every day, along with the foxes and groundhogs. There was enough familiar there that he could not shake those unspoken rules, even this far from the mountains. Of course, nothing lasts forever. That feeling did eventually start to fade. Although, he always remembered to shut all the blinds at dusk. You never really want to see what’s on the other side of the glass, out in the dark. It was a quiet summer night with the beginning chills of autumn whispering on the wind. The neighborhood was peaceful as usual. His partner and kids were visiting family, so Billy had the house to himself. He spent some time on the deck, relaxing. The night air was just cool enough to enjoy, so he decided to do the unthinkable and go for a walk. He did the circuit of paved trails around the area and stopped to sit at a bench near a park. From here, he could see the stars almost as well as when he was back home on top of the mountain. He sat there for some time identifying the constellations, until he was tired enough to head home. It was when he stood that he saw it. A large, black dog. Billy’s Mamaw had been a great storyteller and she loved telling folk stories that would scare the hide right off you. She had more than a few stories about black dogs. The one on the path ahead, blocking his way, fit the description of a Snarly Yow to a T. A big, shadowy dog with a red mouth, glowing eyes, and massive paws. ‘What the hell is that doing here?’ he thought to himself, his heart racing. He tried to glance at the path going the opposite way without taking his eyes off the dog. Of course, it was blocking his way back home. He looked back at the dog… and it was gone. Was his mind playing tricks on him? ‘I could have sworn I saw it,’ he thought with a shake of his head. He let out a slow, steading breath and started walking back home. Around the bend of the path, and Billy heard a quiet growl from behind him. He froze, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. The growl got a little louder. Looking over his shoulder, he saw something move in the shadows. ‘poo poo, poo poo, poo poo, poo poo,’ he cursed mentally. He was ready to bolt. He turned back to start running, and there it was, right in front of him. He backed away slowly, raising his hands. “I, uh… My Mamaw used to tell me stories of you, Snarly Yow. You’re called dog fiend, shadow beast, and black dog. I know you.” He spoke with a steadier voice than he expected. The dog stopped, cocking its head. “You’re a long way from home. You did a good job of scaring me. I know that’s what you like doin’, and you’ve sure scared the hell outta me tonight. You… you don’t actually hurt people, though. At least my Mamaw said not directly. Just, uh… don’t scare me into running off a cliff or into a broken branch, eh? You done yer job. Get on back to the mountains now, won’t ya?” The black dog continued to look at him curiously, its body blending into the shadows. Only its red mouth and glowing eyes were easy to see. Billing started to try to edge around it, and it growled again. It ran at him and jumped. Billy screamed, throwing his arms in front of his face, and flinched away. As the dog leapt into the air, lunging towards him, it seemed to dissipate into the shadows and disappeared. In an instant, it was gone. Billy’s heart still pounded, but slowly the sounds of night bugs and frogs picked up. He hadn’t realized until he heard them again that they had been absent. Hurriedly, he headed down the path. He kept an eye on the path and his surroundings, but he made a point not to look into the trees. God only knows what he might see looking back at him now. Getting home, he went inside and locked the door. He leaned against it with a heavy sigh. You can take the boy out of the mountains, they’d always say. But you can’t take the mountains out of the boy.
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Aug 26, 2023 05:06
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Slightly Lions posted:Squeeking In under the wire. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xbOkU70zx3U mebbe this is proto shoegaze or whatev, it's night vibe
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Aug 26, 2023 05:30
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Slightly Lions posted:Crits for Week 575 sebmojo posted:Week 574 crits
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Aug 26, 2023 05:36
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May I have a try?
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Aug 27, 2023 06:29
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BaldDwarfOnPCP posted:May I have a try? The current prompt is a story that conveys the night. It can be a mundane graveyard shift office job, or a rave, or spooky stuff, or even a little romance. That doesn't matter so long as the vibe feels right. Shoot for 1750 words or less, but if you go a little over, that's OK. Take this song as inspiration, but if you have an idea or a song you think fits your story better, then cool. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mBrNGXBPCC4 Note: it's under 24 hours until the submission deadline, so you better get a move on. Midnight EST, or you can scroll back a page to find some more deadlines if you're on the other side of the world. And though I'm editing this, I want to remind you that once you post your story, you are not allowed to edit it, so if you catch typos or what ever, too bad. I'm not judgy about typos, but sometimes people are. but NO REVISIONS ONCE YOU POST is part of the game The Cut of Your Jib fucked around with this message at 06:52 on Aug 27, 2023 |
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Aug 27, 2023 06:47
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The Cut of Your Jib posted:The current prompt is a story that conveys the night. It can be a mundane graveyard shift office job, or a rave, or spooky stuff, or even a little romance. That doesn't matter so long as the vibe feels right. Every car passing under the new street light takes on the tone of an emergency services vehicle, to the clerk. Once a customer had asked him why the light was that color in a very earnest way as if expecting him to answer with an authority he didn't have. He worked in a shop and didn't have anything to do with the putting up or maintaining of suburban infrastructure and wondered how the guy could so plainly ask him that. The ones who call you sir not out of some sly disrespect or a knowing joke but with total sincerity. They bother him. The ones that wheedle and plead not for anything in particular but just a license to continue on their way without fear of--what? The slap of a newspaper? The burn of a cigarette on their skin? What do they expect from life that causes them to address a total stranger with all the authority of a pricing gun or a headset as sir? If he and others like him go around perpetually with an external locus of control what will happen if something put that out, or caused it to flicker? He supposed there was no flickering for a man like that it was always on or if once lost, well the mind reels, Lovecraftian horrors. The light is blue he supposes and as it glints off the glass and paint of passing cars the frequency of it shouts to him cop or ambulance. Some gut feeling that says something is emergent in the corner of his eye every time they pass. That light is special in his mind and shouldn't be misused it signifies something and is diminished by the wearing away of one after another. How would he know a real cop car now out there? Because he's always waiting for one isn't he? That's disturbing. He hadn't done anything wrong. But had he? Was he afraid of another? Needing intercession? The regular asks him to double bag the bright red hand grenades of hard apple something. She buys a lot of them most nights which wouldn't be noteworthy but she's real small. He's carded her more than a few times absentmindedly because she looks like a child and he wonders sometimes if it's fake and he's selling to a delinquent but his boss knows and sells to her too. She's a grown woman you can see in her eyes and hear in her voice but she's really small. At first he thought they must be for someone else but no, and then he wondered how she could drink so many with her size. She mumbled something about dropping them before that was masked by the air conditioner and it's clear even though you can't see in her walk that she's lit. She's overly familiar in the way of the drunk and ever present as if you must know not just her name but her mother's as well. And then she does, out in the parking lot she drops them. He wouldn't have pegged her for it. Thought she must have some kind of grace to her in spite of the booze because she's really beautiful in a way and so must. He figured the drinks were tougher too but nope at least three were taken out in the fall and she's coming back in. And she's with someone, suddenly a car arrives and she is known and they must be going out together. Her compatriot is at least sober he thinks but then is he even a good judge of that now? The new woman goes back in her slip ons and pajamas to get her own drinks and the little one follows without an explanation and grabs replacements for the fallen comrades. She sets them on the counter to his left away from the driver's purchases by just a little as if to say she's next in line. He rings the thank god someone's in charge here woman up first and she heads out towards the door. The measure on the wall by the door of every shop is for the cameras and the witnesses for the inevitable robberies he supposes. Not sure how useful it is he's never even practiced on regulars or even this one who might be shorter than five foot. The girl with her hair dyed the same shade as the glass bottles she now reaches for follows in step without paying, alluding to the smashed ones she left on the sidewalk out front. Dumbfounded the clerk just lets it happen and the two walk out in to the night to a car to a party or a concert or a club that he can't attend. He has to hold the counter down and clean up the dribbling remains of her party fouls later. He lets some customers obviously steal or take that way if they have the right attitude. His boss who supposedly watches at all times would not like that but has never said anything so he wonders if he's taking advantage. Guy has a kid on the way and can't be watching video feed from several stores all the time like some lesser god using a phone app to peak down on him and check on the floors or the stock that he should be cleaning and primping in low spots in the night. Sometimes he doesn't remember to turn on the outside lights until late in his shift but there is no complaint from the customers or a boss. Sometimes he deliberately doesn't sweep and mop before close because he doesn't like the job and doesn't want to keep it. He really doesn't get a lot of complaints and it makes him wonder if he's just great, or being ignored or maybe he's not really here. On enough dissociatives those kinds of thoughts do run rampant. In life in general it seems like feedback is at a lull and in the dark at night he sometimes wonders if after the plague and the ongoing war most people don't want to engage with the small stuff. He knows there are types of people who believe there only a few others in the world or none, besides themselves. Solipsists who think that a few actors or holograms make up a small universe to test or contain them and how lonely that must seem. He believes in other people but feels like the world is depopulated some nights. If there was a nuclear exchange out of the blue and the pulse knocked out concentric rings of communication cutting people off from the wider world when does the notification come? Checking a phone for a signal that isn't there, if news or weather doesn't come up and then text and last to be checked actual phone service is gone what then? In a fit of ebullient paranoia he decides the girl actually likes him and wanted him to join her later and had left the broken bottles mostly full of booze by the trash instead of in it to entice him. He guesses it would taste good after the initial stench of alcohol is washed away by its effects. All he'd have to do is pick one up from over by the trash and walk away from here drinking. In the direction of music and the smell of hot food. He had the run of the place, money, snacks, all manner of intoxicants all at his fingertips and all held down by himself alone. Could walk away at any time to follow them down the street and hope he wasn't some kind of sicko for finding someone that young-looking attractive. Part of him knew the consequences to all this would be tremendous. His lost sobriety, the crashing realization of unemployment, a little tease from a girl who would probably lose interest in him immediately after sex. She'd laugh and go on heedless and he would probably go to jail again somehow for job abandonment and theft and whatever they do to people who walk away thoughtless into the night after strays. He never cleans up the bottles and leaves them for the wanderers. Locks the place up and walks under the blue light looking down the road towards a club she might be at and back to his house. After The Fourth there had been some fireworks set off in the city, even though it was forbidden as a fire hazard among other things. Some nights there would be a string of explosions that sounded to him like gunshots. He was almost as worried about gunfire as he was about how embarrassing it is to think about drive-bys in a tiny quiet city like this. He speculates he should have told the guy it's so not to attract insects. He plans out a lie he'll tell someone else about it knowingly as if he'd read it in an article. There aren't any bugs circling around the flat head of the thing. There is no bulge either like there was before for a yellow bulb like before. He wonders about the lack of bugs and whether it has do with a somehow shrinking biomass. Is the world getting thinner? You'd think if it were dying there would be more flies to feed on the corpse. Engines revv and shriek and howl in the distance and in his imagination they are road warriors in from the dirt on missions to steal identities and wifi and sell dope for food. Pick up girls like they must with their tattoos and shiny chrome. Always at the periphery since the cars he sees come in are modern sleek and efficient, or at least bloated gas hogs with mortgages. No toy cars like in Mad Max but serious adult vehicles of people who have careers and families and places to go at night. But out there beyond his scope people are wild and free and careless. They don't sleep alone or maybe that much at all and probably smell like sex and gas and booze. All the things he sees leaving from here but never for him. And when the fear grips him at night after all the pills settle in up down and sideways and he is content he checks the news. It's true people have been shot around here, one in front of his house, another in a club. This woman was murdered in her home but they don't say how. He wonders if he was the murderer sometimes because he reads those stories and has seen the movies, his own kind of Tyler Durden id because he seems so dispassionate, even to himself that there must be something more under the surface. A killer, maybe a rapist. Something awful and animalistic and real. Does the murder necessitate rape? He feels guiltier about the idea of rape than of murder. Being able to see his place of work from his home is disconcerting. It's not that small of a town but he managed to finagle a job that near. People used to live at their jobs, farms and mills and mines just right there, like incidentals in a video game. The light is very efficient in only illuminating the road beneath itself. It doesn't scatter everywhere messily like those old yellow or orange ones but that leaves him in darkness very quickly across the way. Walking up the driveway he has to be careful not to stumble on loose pavers the light is so low and irregular. Maybe people need to watch for stars he thinks, or satellites at least. At least he can see that he's turned the sign off at work to settle his mind.
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Aug 27, 2023 10:39
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https://thunderdome.cc/?story=11399&title=Internal+Thoughts+Projected+On+Setting
Ouzo Maki fucked around with this message at 22:49 on Aug 28, 2023 |
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Aug 27, 2023 14:36
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The Evil Queen 2102 words I’m naked in front of the mirror, and I look good. I look more beautiful than any other woman in the nation, and I know this for a fact, because I have been here almost every night since I was married. “Ask the question,” he says from over my shoulder. I ask the question, and the mirror assures me once again that it is me, undisputed queen of being the prettiest woman. Once again satisfied that his is the prettiest trophy wife, my reward is five minutes of unfulfilling sex. “You love it, don’t you?” he asks. I don’t, but say I do. “Of course you do.” He finishes. I barely start. We could be asking this mirror way more pressing questions than whether being the only woman to live in a palace and have regular baths and makeup is still giving me the edge over women a decade younger than me. It strikes me as unreasonable that an item of furniture gets to be the arbiter of who’s the prettiest. I expressed this to it at one point, and it said it’s just based on popular opinion. I know we could be asking more interesting question, because I have asked it about neighbouring countries, (at this stage non hostile) the meaning of life, (beyond its remit as an item of enchanted furniture) when he will finally make a widow of me, (the future remains unclear) and look I know that looks like a poor success rate, but at least I’m branching out in my questioning. I also know that the gap between me and other women is gradually closing, and I don’t know how he’ll take it. ~ The moment has arrived, although I do not know it yet. I’m naked as always, because the mirror has told me that boosts my perceived beauty. I ask the question, and reflected back at us is another woman. You know what, I see it, she’s gorgeous. “Can’t even be better than some peasant,” he says. “Work on it.” Once he’s left, I get dressed. I’m not sure how he wants me to ‘work on it’. She's much younger. I’m on my way down, she’s on her way up, according to whatever criteria the mirror uses. I know it said it’s just majority rules; I would wonder if it’s just men’s opinion that counts, but on this occasion, I think the mirror got it right. Hell, I’d consider myself lucky to be with her. I mean, not her, I could almost be her mother, but someone that looked like her. Maybe just someone who’s not him. I’ve planned ahead for this, though. I just didn’t really want to do this. After a brief chat with the mirror regarding the borders of our country and conveniently neutral areas, I call for Stuart. Stuart’s one of my friends’ kids from before I was queen. Back when I was thrilled that the mirror had apparently told the King that I was the prettiest of all the women, and he’d asked me to marry him, and well… you just say yes when the King asks, right? Stuart had also grown into quite an imposing figure, which is very useful for what I had in mind. I just needed her to not be in the country, right? Just for a bit, just while I figure out what to do next. So, he arrived, I told him what I needed and pointed out the place on the map. You don’t even really notice it, the map has it as impassable mountain; I guess the cartographers didn’t go everywhere. ~ For the next few weeks, I’m back to being the prettiest, and can concentrate on just surviving having a jackass as a husband without having to worry about whether he’ll try to replace me, and what method he’d use to get rid of me so that he is better able to replace me. And then, one night, bam, up she pops again. He sighs, like he’s telling me off for something I did. “I thought we talked about this.” If it wasn’t for the fear of what he might do, I’d really enjoy the nights where the revelation that I’m not the prettiest in the country means he just can’t bring himself to give me the dubious pleasure of his company. ~ The next morning, I call for Stuart again, and once he arrives, explain the situation. “Ah,” says Stuart, and looks a bit embarrassed. “Sorry about that, I’ve sort of been seeing her, and…” “After you did the whole tough guy thing?” He shrugs. “Well, I may have made it seem like you really wanted her dead, but I didn’t, so…” I sigh. “Can’t you just… convince her not to come across the border at nighttime?” “Sorry,” he said, “this situation’s kind of hard to explain to her. You’re better at that kind of thing, why don’t you explain it to her?” “Like, leave the palace? Don’t think His Highness would allow that. Also, how is she going to react to an explanation from someone who she thinks wanted to kill her?” He shrugged. “I’ll convince her to hear you out. With the King, couldn’t you just say you’re going for some beauty treatment or something?” “Hmm,” I say. He’s right; that’s probably the one reason my husband would let me leave. He offers to take me; being able to visit your new girlfriend under the guise of Royal Business is clearly an opportunity he can’t pass up. I’m not sure I trust the usual carriage drivers with the location, so I accept. ~ The trip takes a few hours, so I see how if she came over to visit Stuart during the day, she might still be in country while my husband is having me conduct my nocturnal beauty check. We arrive at a wooden cottage built into the side of the mountain. Out the front, a small, bearded dwarf is tending the garden. “Ah, young Stuart. Snow’s just out at the moment, singing with birds or whatever it is tall women do.” I get out of the carriage, and the dwarf raises an eyebrow. “Another one? Leave some for the rest of us, ey?” Stuart chuckles. “It’s not like that. This is, uh…” he pauses, then shrugs, “…the Queen.” “Oh, me too, lad. I’m the King and Queen.” The dwarf looks me up and down. “Are all you tall women this beautiful?” Stuart laughs and turns to the horses. “I’m going to tie the horses up and then go find Snow, if that’s all right.” The dwarf nods, then looks at me. “It’s getting close to lunchtime. Come give me a hand, Your Highness.” This last bit is said in a teasing voice. “Oh,” I say. “I don’t really know what I’m doing in the kitchen.” “Just follow my directions.” The dwarf walks me through the process, but I mostly stick to chopping things and stirring when I’m told. “You learn fast.” I shrug. “Maybe I would’ve made a good cook, although I’m a bit old to start learning new skills now.” A shake of the head. “Never too late.” The two lovebirds arrive, giggling as they come in the door, and she starts giggling even more when she sees us. “I’m always telling you, Hilda, you don’t need to wear that thing.” The dwarf takes off her beard and hangs it on a hook. She looks at my expression; I realise my jaw is open, so I close it. She shrugs. “Some people don’t take a stonecutter without a beard seriously.” ~ “Delicious as always, Hilda,” says Snow once we’ve eaten. “Her Highness helped.” “Oh, you already know she’s the Queen?” “Come now, I was just playing along,” says Hilda. She looks at our faces. “Really? Well, then. If I’d known, I would’ve curtseyed.” “While wearing the beard?” I ask. She chuckles. “Bowed, perhaps.” I shrug. “I’m not your Queen anyway; the border is why we’re here in the first place.” She winks at me. “You can be my Queen if you want to.” “Hilda!” says Stuart. She shrugs. “What? She said it herself, she’s not my Queen, so this isn’t inappropriate at all, when you think about it.” Snow rolls her eyes. “So, Stuey tells me you don’t want me dead after all?” “What?” says Hilda. “It’s a bit complicated,” I say. “I feel like wishing someone dead is a simple yes or no,” she says. So, I explain the whole thing, with being chosen by the mirror, and moved into the palace before the wedding, then married on my eighteenth birthday, (Which is weird that the mirror picked out a seventeen-year-old for him, right? Like that means a majority of people would’ve thought a seventeen-year-old was the prettiest at whatever time he asked, and given what the mirror’s since told me about how to make myself seem prettier, maybe it was when I was bathing or changing, like that’s a bit much, right?) and my husband first introducing me to the mirror a month after our marriage, and almost every night since then, and at first it being a bit of fun, but as I got older it getting scarier and scarier… Well, I try to explain the whole thing, but the look on their face… I trail off. “So, what’s this got to do with me?” asks Snow. I shrug. “I’m not the prettiest anymore. And that’s going to be a problem for His Highness.” Hilda snorts and shakes her head. “Can’t believe he’d rather ask for a survey than use his eyes to see how gorgeous you are.” “You think he’d leave you for me?” asks Snow. I shake my head. “He’d be too worried about appearances. He’d need to be a widow first.” “And then he’d want me as a wife. Or whoever the next pretty young girl is.” I nod. She turns to Stuart. “Stuey, I’m getting an idea. I need to chat with you in private. You’re going to think it’s a lot, but then you’re going to realise I’m right.” So, the two of them go to her bedroom to talk, and Hilda and I sit awkwardly for a moment. “Do you need a drink?” asks Hilda. “Because I need a drink after hearing all that, and I’m not even the one it’s happening to.” “Please.” She pours two drinks and we’re halfway through them when Snow and Stuart return. “All right, so here’s the plan,” says Snow. “We’re faking your death. You tragically fell off a cliff. We need your clothes.” “Um,” I say. Hilda raises an eyebrow. “Not sure she’ll fit into mine; are you lending her yours, or is she hanging out with nothing? Either works for me, but it can get cold at night…” “She can wear my spare dress, and Stuart will send more later. You have to stay here though, for the same reason you wanted me to.” “Aren’t you just inheriting my problem, then? And what does that mean for the two of you?” “Trust us,” says Stuart. And I do. Or at least, I want to badly enough, that I’m happy to do what they say. ~ Later, the part of the story that people are interested in hearing is not the part that I’m that familiar with. I hear snippets; like how after a month or so of mourning to keep up appearances, Snow is moved into the palace. How the king is tragically killed by a bear in a hunting accident after the wedding, but before the consummation of the wedding that night. How Snow, the new Queen, grieves for a year before marring Stuart. I don’t tell people that Snow made sure she knew where the mirror was, and what kind of questions it could answer, like the location of various types of wildlife. And besides, while most people find that exciting, it’s not my life. What’s exciting to me is learning how to do things other than be a King’s trophy. Eventually learning how to cook by myself, and to garden all the things that we’re going to be cooking. What's exciting is, one night after a glass of beer, kissing Hilda as kind of a joke, but also because I realised that I’d been really wanting to. What’s exciting to me is that from that night, and every night following it, I am never in any doubt that to Hilda, I am the most beautiful woman in the world, and she doesn’t care what a mirror thinks. What's exciting is actually getting to finish.
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Aug 27, 2023 15:38
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Theme: Eine Kleine (Week 577) Word limit: 1,750 Flash: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ZocDT3TmAE Word count: 1,371 Six Minutes at a New Jersey Diner He warmed his hands on a mug of coffee, huddling over it like he was telling it a secret. The heat radiated through his fingers, marking its advance with pinpricks. Outside, winter raged. He squinted at the window. Through the ghost of his reflection, swirls of heavy, hard-driven snow obscured whatever view the tar-black night was willing to relinquish. Somewhere in the invisible distance, the 9th Street Bridge stretched proudly over Great Egg Harbor Bay. At its peak, it was roughly 65 feet from the railing to the water. Not fatal, but not fun. Last he’d checked, the water clocked in at a touch over 40 degrees. Fatal, but not quick. One-thirty in the morning in the middle of winter would never be a particularly busy time for a barrier island diner, but the storm thinned the crowd out even further. He’d come in only a few minutes ago and done an immediate inventory while shaking the snow from his coat and boots. It didn’t take long. In one of the small corner booths sat a young couple, their hands and eyes glued across the laminate table, their conversation hushed. A few tables, an old jukebox, and a pastry display away — not very far, really, but across the diner nonetheless — sat a very drunk older gentleman who’d clearly stumbled in from the inexplicably open bar next door and was being given the leeway to sober up a bit. Each in their own world. Galaxies between. Just emerging from the kitchen had been the waitress. She pointed him toward his booth with a warm smile and was pouring coffee before he even had his coat off. Her voice, complexion, and fingernails — not to mention the weight of her perfume — all indicated a heavy smoker. Her jittering hands and the storm outside indicated it had been a while. Regardless, she couldn’t have been nicer getting him situated. He’d been left with a menu and his mug of coffee. He hadn’t even touched the former yet. He continued staring out the window. The waitress fiddled with the coffee station. It sounded like she was loading a new pot into the machine. Off to one side, some shuffling footsteps got his attention. The drunk older man had gotten to his feet and made it to the jukebox. He slowly and deliberately reached into his pocket, pulled out a quarter, and dropped it into the coin slot. Nothing happened. The box was unplugged. The old man grumbled something to himself, smacked the glass, and wandered back to his table. A few steps in, he turned slightly, waved, and apologized to the machine for losing his temper before slumping back into his booth and resuming his stupor. Back in his senior year, there was very little reprieve from the loneliness of being a commuter. One time, torrential rains had forced him to be a few minutes late to campus. He pulled into a spot and checked his phone to find an email about class being canceled — then spent the next hour with the car off, listening to rain pound the roof. There was a serenity in that juxtaposition, that contrast. A feeling of safety. It ran through him, made him calm, made him content, drowned out the loud parts and stalled their progress. He found something similar there, in the dull glow of the diner’s recessed lighting, watching the winter punish Ocean City. The waitress finished up at the coffee station and walked down the counter to the register. She bent to reach under it and grabbed a few paper placemats for one of the unset tables. She licked her finger before peeling them off the pile. He smiled to himself and looked down at his own placemat, with its coffee ring off to the left from where the waitress had filled his mug to the brim as he sat down — and, on the edge of one side, the faint impression of what had been a damp fingertip. The placemat itself was nothing but ads for local businesses. Mostly construction. One psychic. Someone willing to buy junk cars. A landscaper. A masonry company. A gun range. Quick. Ostensibly painless. But firearm laws in New Jersey complicated things greatly. Not worth writing off entirely, but probably more of a last resort because of the time and expense involved. He sipped the coffee. It was bitter, a little burnt. Over at the young couple’s table, the girl laughed loudly. She surprised herself with it and took a sheepish glance around the room. For a fraction of a second, across the diner from one another, they made eye contact — then broke it and went on with their lives. The boy and girl whispered to each other and laughed quietly. They contrasted so heavily with the faded, worn red padding of their seats. He had to jolt himself away from watching them. Two booths away and four years prior, he and six other friends crammed themselves into those gross padded seats at 10:30 one night and didn’t leave until the sun started lighting up the eastern sky. They’d made the trip down from campus — this was when he still lived in the dorms — the morning before to spend a day at the boardwalk. They visited what felt like every single shop, weaving their way through the modest springtime crowd, making slow progress up and down the three-mile stretch. When night came, they grabbed an irresponsible amount of pizza and sat at a picnic table in a small food court laughing and chatting until a security guard ushered them away hours later. Unwilling to let the night rest, they’d found their way here — and, being young, decided stomachs full of pizza shouldn’t dissuade anyone from night waffles. Only six months later, two of those friends were no longer speaking because one had slept with the other’s ex. Another had dropped out because their alcoholism was no longer of the functional variety. The other three, perhaps feeling weighed down by the drama, perhaps growing as people, perhaps just in pursuit of more interesting company, all dispersed in their own ways. To the best of his knowledge, each — save for the one who dropped out — went on to graduate. Of those five graduates, one didn’t make it through the summer. He’d gone back to his small town to live with his parents while the job market decided what it wanted to do with him, and one night on a dare with some local buddies he tried to swim across the town lake and just … never came up. They wrenched the guy’s body out of the tangled vegetation about 12 hours later, overcast skies hanging low over a gathered crowd of shaken friends and neighbors. He thought about the dead one a lot. In part because that’s just what you do, sure, but in part because he couldn’t shake himself away from wondering what was going through the guy’s mind when the situation turned. Did he believe right up until his last second of consciousness that, bad as it looked, he was going to escape and laugh about this later? Or was there a moment, surrounded by pure blackness, where he realized what was happening? None of the others from that day in Ocean City showed up to the funeral. He sat all the way in the back and didn’t say a word to anyone else during the entire service. When it was over, he quietly slipped out the back, got into his car, and drove nowhere in particular for a few hours. “Been a long while since we saw one this bad,” said the waitress, staring out the window. It startled him, and the booth seat gave a loud, indecorous grunt. She either didn’t notice or didn’t care. “Figured they were done with.” She glanced down at his still-closed menu, then at him. “You ready to order, or are you still deciding?” Two minutes to lose consciousness. Depending on who you ask, it’s either one of the most guttural and terrifying experiences imaginable or shockingly calm and peaceful. After that, it’s another eight or 10 minutes before the body succumbs. He shook his head and stared down at the coffee. “Still deciding.”
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Aug 27, 2023 16:21
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Awakening 990 words I’m awake. Confusing, it’s pitch black. Silent too. Creepy. Maybe if I do nothing, I’ll go back to sleep … OK, that’s not happening. What time is it anyway? 4 AM?! gently caress me. I just gotta try harder to fall back asleep, my alarm goes off in like 3 hours. Yeah, nah, I’m officially awake now. This is what I get for going to bed early, like a responsible adult. Ugh. What to do. Lying in bed is nice, it’s warm … but sooo boring. Where’s my phone? Ah, charging. Dammit. If I get up to get it, I might as well get up for real. Fine. gently caress, why is it so cold? Where’s my hoodie? OK, to the kitchen. Quiet past Niko’s room, though he’ll probably be up soon anyway, he’s got early classes. He’s a … what’s the opposite of a night owl? A morning … wren? Gotta be something small and cute, like him. ANYWAY. With the door shut he won’t notice the light on. Argh, why’s it so bright? I swear they’re not this bright in the daytime. It’s quiet out here. Like the whole world is sleeping. Which everyone is, except for me. Phone’s charged, nice. There’s not even any cars driving by, not that I notice them normally, but their absence is weird. Did the clock always tick so loudly? Surely I would’ve noticed that before, so annoying. What the hell am I going to do for three whole hours? Let’s check the phone … yeah, no new messages since 10 PM last night. Big surprise there. Would boiling the kettle be too loud? Nah. If I’m wrong, then too bad. I’m not being awake without coffee at loving 4:20 in the morning. Ha, nice. Oh, there goes a car. Poor bastard. At least there’s no traffic, I bet. Kettle’s boiled … ah yes. That coffee’s hitting just right. Cool. But I’ve still got sooo much time before my first class. Normally, I have to slam the coffee down in my rush out the door. Now, I get to savor it, like it’s the weekend. Who knew there was all this extra time at the beginning of the day? Right, I’m savoring my coffee. But there’s still nothing to do. It seems wrong to turn on my computer. I mean, I could, but like, what would I do? Definitely not in the right headspace for games. gently caress, imagine the absolute degenerates playing at this hour of the day. And I’d be one of them. Hell no. TV? Nah, Niko wants to watch that season finale together. That dude needs to come out of his room then, probably chatting up a new flame or something, or else I’m just gonna watch it myself. Not this morning, I’ll give him another chance. Hey, there’s that book he got from the library. Said it was “pretty good.” Huh, magic and dragons and poo poo? Not usually my thing, but I’ve got nothing else to do. Maybe make another coffee … … Was that a bird? But it’s still dark outside. What’s this bird singing about? No idea they did that. Sounds like it’s just the one bird too, who’s he singing to? Not me, dude probably does it every day. Early bird gets the worm? Better be hustling instead of singing, bird. Not that I mind, it’s nice. And literally the first signs of life from the outside world. Wonder why super-late nights never feel like this? Probably ‘cause I’m usually drunk as poo poo by this point. Nice not being hungover. Right, now where was I? Niko was right, this book’s pretty good … … Uh, that wasn’t a bird. That was a person. God, I knew the first-floor flat was a mistake. Joke’s on you, would-be burglar, it’s the one day where I’m awake! You’re not getting my computer! Or Niko’s vinyl collection either. Now, what’s the heaviest thing … Oh. They’re humming. Probably not a criminal, then. Who is that? Ah, I bet it’s Joe going to the gym. drat, that’s dedication. Although, the blinds are glowing. The birds are going nuts out there. The cars are driving past more frequently. Yep, the sun’s up. Sort of, the light’s all cold and pale, like the sun isn’t quite awake yet either. It’s nice though, makes everything look fresh. Maybe this is why Niko gets up early? OK, that’s enough of that. What time is it? Ah, I’ve got time for one more chapter at least … … “Oh, hey Niko.” drat, that just-out-of-bed look looks good on him. “That’s my book.” Oh no, he isn’t happy. “Also, your alarm’s been going off for the past ten minutes.” gently caress. “Sorry, sorry!” Argh, I’m such an idiot. Does this mean he hears my alarm each of the, like, five times I hit snooze? Oh my God, embarrassing. Whew, he looks happier now. And he still hasn’t combed his hair, nice. “I didn’t know you read books like this?” he asks. I haven’t combed my hair either, I bet it looks terrible. “Oh, uh, I don’t.” Real smooth. “Not usually. But this one’s good. I mean, I haven’t finished it yet, but so far … yeah, I like it.” I sound borderline illiterate, but he smiles. “What part are you at? Oh, wait, do you have class?” Ugh, he’s so responsible. What’s the clock say (can hardly hear the ticking, strange), and what’s my schedule today? A flash of pure rage: my first class is at 10 AM. I got up early for literally no reason! But Niko’s scooting over to make room for me on the sofa. Looking at me as if he’s seeing me in a new light. Thank God I didn’t watch that season finale without him. I smile. “Nope! This morning, I have plenty of time.” Maybe not no reason … … Epilogue: gently caress, it’s 2 PM and I’m exhausted. Send help. Or coffee.
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Aug 28, 2023 00:51
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night thoughts 1200w removed derp fucked around with this message at 01:00 on Dec 15, 2023 |
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Aug 28, 2023 01:42
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Graveyard Shift 1695 words It was the Godless hour of night known only to criminals and 24-hour retail workers; the time when sunset is a distant memory and dawn an unreliable rumor. The hour of bloodshot eyes, jaw-cracking yawns, and the gritty feeling that is your diurnal brain telling you you’re a real rear end in a top hat. The fluorescent bulbs rattled and buzzed overhead casting flickering, fishbelly-white light across the racks of potato chips, dish soap, macro-lagers, and energy drinks. The PA speakers rattled off Top 40 pop in a faint and tinny drone. The air smelled like lemon Pledge and boredom. Behind the register Marissa checked the clock above the door, judged the time to be right, and started rolling a joint. She took her time with it. She was a meticulous person like that. She carefully picked fragments of stem out of the weed, added a pinch of rolling tobacco, tossed it about like a salad to homogenize it and carefully, delicately sealed it into a slender cone. She savored the anticipation of the smoke, something that would let her mind pleasantly wander and eat up the hours until dawn and shift change. She walked over to the front door to lock it and put up the “Back in Five” sign when she noticed the walls were bleeding. Hoarfrost bloomed across the door despite the unseasonal warmth of the October night. The intricate crystals shaped wailing faces and grasping fingers, and beneath them words scrawled in a rough and frantic hand: I HAVE FORGOTTEN THE MEMORY OF SPRING. I HAVE FORGOTTEN THE SHAPE OF YOUR FACE. WHEN THE TERROR COMES WE SHALL CRUMBLE. Marissa rolled her eyes and sighed. Again with this poo poo. “Go to Salem State,” her parents had told her, “They’ve got a great theater tech program. It’s near home and soooo affordable. Get yourself a part-time job and you’ll graduate with hardly any debt!” Easy for them to say. They’d never worked graveyard shift at the loving Tedeschi’s on North St. She supposed it served her right for not job hunting over the summer break, if she wanted booze money she had to take what she could get. Still, it was insulting to do this crap for minimum wage and all the American Spirits she could steal. She swallowed hard, fighting to keep her gorge down as music from the speakers warped and twisted into guttural, wet-sounding chanting and agonized shrieks. Involuntary reaction, she told herself. Just part of the experience. Follow procedure and you’ll be fine. The lights flickered and started casting queasy-making colors she’d never find in the scene shop paint supply. The shadows of the shelves began to twist and bubble. The speaker-voices shifted from tortured glossolalia to a nails-on-a-chalkboard voice that wailed and howled “MY FATHER HAS TURNED FROM ME. THE LIGHT HAS LEFT ME. I AM SCOURGED WITH LASHES AND BROKEN ON STONES. THE TERROR CONSUMES, AND I CONSUME IN RETURN.” The worst part about ghosts, Marissa reflected, was that they’re all drama queens. She shuffled back behind the counter, her feet squelching in some kind of nameless viscera that coated the old linoleum. She rooted around back there, ignoring the rotten-meat reek that was growing really quite oppressive. She tossed aside her parka and the oversized backpack with the Hello Kitty ornaments her parents were sure she still liked. There it was, a big orange plastic box labeled FOR EMERGENCIES. She popped it open and sorted her way past tubes of burn cream, boxes of off-brand Band-Aids, a roll of gauze, until she found the gray plastic pouch emblazoned with “GHOST KIT.” She rifled through it to a collection of crucifixes, selected one at random, and threw it over the counter. She peeped over the scuffed plastic counter and saw a clawed, almost skeletal hand coalesce from the thickening shadows and grab it. At first the flesh of the hand bubbled and smoked, threatening to decohear, but with a shriek of effort from the speakers it crushed the little cross which evaporated into steam. She groaned, exasperated. Of course it couldn’t be that easy. Marissa chose another charm, this one a silver St. Michael medallion. She trudged wearily down the aisles, stepping with practiced ease over yawning, toothy mouths that opened in the floor. There was a tricky moment where she had to duck underneath a twist of razor-wire darkness strung between the ice cream chest and the Slurpee machine to reach the mop closet. She fished the smaller bucket out from under the dump sink and looked back to the store floor. Yep, right on schedule the space in the corners of the room began to warp and shift into unreal angles. The shop rattled with a feeling like trying to take a deep breath through pneumonial lungs, air choking past thick fluid and phlegm. From the diseased non-space another clawed hand burst forth and began grasping for purchase on the linoleum tile. Marissa blew a lock of stray hair out of her face and turned back to the sink. She opened the tap and started to fill the bucket, but the first vesselful of water was oily, black, and stank of spoiled seafood. She dumped it out and let the tap run until the water ran clear and filled the bucket half full, tossing the medallion in it. She looked over her shoulder to check the apparition’s progress. It had hauled itself about halfway into the real by now. Long limbed and emaciated, it looked like a nightmare scarecrow, all rotten leather stretched over warped bone. When it moved its joints bent in unwholesome directions. It looked around, its head an oversized goat’s skull with a mouthful of needle-like teeth and burning red eyes. Around its neck it wore a length of hempen noose strung with fingerbones. It howled: “LITTLE FLAME, LITTLE FLAME, YOU FLICKER IN THE DARK. GIVE ME YOUR WARMTH CHILD. IT IS EVER SO COLD DOWN HERE.” Marissa reached down and grabbed a large carton of sea salt from under the sink. All the screeching was making her ears ring, she made an annoyed mental note to bring ear plugs to work from now on. She picked up the bucket and ducked back out of the closet heading for the open space by the door. The caprine ghost-thing leapt up on top of one of the shelving units, its gaunt eight-foot-tall bulk scattering Fritos across the floor. “THE REEK OF THE LIVING IS ON YOU, GIRL-THING. I WILL BE AVENGED BEFORE THE TERROR. I SHALL BREAK YOUR BONES AND CAST AWAY ALL JUDGEMENT.” “Yeah yeah, sure thing.” Marissa muttered. Always the same with the bones and the terror, these loving guys. She carefully set the bucket down by the register and stepped into the open area between shelves and counter. The ghost thing cocked its head at her, nonplussed. She opened the container of salt and poured a measure around herself in a broken circle like a large C. “Well,” she said, “If you’re going to eat me then get on with it, I haven’t got all night.” With a screech like brakes failing the creature leapt at her, toppling the shelf it had perched on. This was the tricky part, she thought to herself. You’ve got to time it just right to get the thing in the circle before you close it. She could feel fetid breath on her face, smelling of rotten grain and poisoned earth and moldering cloth. She jumped to the side, careful to tuck her feet up under her so as not to disturb the salt. As her feet hit the floor she was already tossing a fresh line of salt to close the circle. There was a soft but audible snap as it sealed. The ghost thrashed and flailed in the binding, slamming clawed fists into an invisible, but very tangible wall. There was no way it should fit in the little circle, but space did funny things at the edges, keeping it locked in place. Its gibberish shrieks grew fainter, sounding further away. Marissa grabbed the short step ladder from behind the counter, climbed up with the bucket and, careful not to disturb the circle, dumped it all over the ghost. It began to melt. Rotten skin and warped bone ran runny as hot wax, the goat-skull of its head dissolved like a sandcastle in an incoming tide. A dark, colorless goop sloughed down the sides of the invisible barrier, collecting at the bottom and slowly drained away. Suggestions were revealed of a slim figure, young and feminine, in a severe dress. She seemed to be weeping. “Everyone’s got issues, lady,” Marissa said to herself, “But you don’t see me ruining your Tuesday night.” After a minute even that disappeared, leaving a dingy, viscous puddle and ring of damp salt. The lights went back to their normal, mundane flickering. The speakers played a new Taylor Swift remaster. Space returned to its regular dimensions. The smell of fetid water and rotten food remained, though. Marissa put the ladder away and got out the mop and broom. She carefully swept up the sticky, crumbly detritus and dumped it in the trash, then mopped up as best she could and sprayed scented Lysol around the store. She righted the toppled shelving and put its contents back in order, making a note in the day book about damaged goods. She marked off a case of Modelo as being destroyed and put it in the back of her car. When she was done straightening up she sat on a milk crate out back of the store and watched the sun rise while she smoked. An hour later Luis came to relieve her. He wrinkled his nose as he came in the door. “You have an incident, Marissa?” “Yeah, nothing major.” He sniffed again, noting the smell of stale water and salt. “The Captain again?” “No, I think it was one of the witches.” “drat, that sucks. Hey, before you go can you run down to the basement and just clear a space for the Coke delivery?” She scowled as she slung her bag over her shoulder, “No loving way, man." She shivered, "It’s creepy down there.”
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Aug 28, 2023 02:22
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