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Mediafire. Google Docs. Eleven Mercenaries Word Count: 1,779 The march had been a miserable. Two sodden hours of steady downfall, all the way from the barge to the campsite, while loaded like pack mules. Of course the rain started to blow itself out just as the Copper Knives finished, giving way to a misty and overcast morning and of course everything was soaked to the bone. Fredrick took to chewing his pipe at the side of his glorious leader, sighing at the bloody weather. The older man had tried three times already to light the pipe but no such luck, so he'd taken her advice and was having about the same results. "Not sure how this is supposed to help, Jean." She smiled in reply. Fredrick grumbled and returned the pipe to his pocket. "Go tell Elaine to cook something up. We'll eat first then get started, that'll cheer you up." Bellies filled and slightly dryer thanks to the shelter, Fredrick watched as Jean quieted the assembled crew as she got their attention. "Gentlefolk, im sure you've all been wondering why i got extra to carry this trip," they chuckled at that as she popped the cases open, reaching inside and removing a smaller box before turning them to face her crew. "Its because we're expected to use them." Fredrick was the first to his feet, spry even if he could be called old, and peered closer to get a good look. Various bits of technology he had come to know over his life was lovingly stored inside. He recognised some of the more common ones instantly, wands of firestarting, glass charm bracelets, cylindrical noise makers, disc like door knockers and gauntleted wall smashers. He didn't hide his contempt at the assembled arsenal. "You don't expect me to use these, do you Lead?" He used Jean's nickname, assuming that if they weren't on duty before they were now. The short blonde woman shook her head in reply, unlatching the smaller box. "No Warlock, and I'm not expecting Whistles too either. This is why we were hired, to test these." She withdrew an elaborate latticework of gold and quartz, it hummed at her touch as she reached over to grab a glass charm. "To be exact," she continued, "We have been hired by his most noble Lord Farund to clear out one of his quarries, we are also required to test these while doing so, or we will not be paid. Books, pick up a stone would you?" Books was her second in command, a fine young man by the name Lee Edwald with a scholarly pursuit in his lowborn life. Fredrick scowled at himself, still thinking like a nobleman even after all these years. He found one and stood up, giving Jean a steady look, "I think i can guess what you want me to do. Ready?" She closed her eyes, focusing, taking a breath, then nodded. Without any fanfare Lee threw the rock, mostly a pebble, at their leader. It hit something with the sound of breaking glass and flew off into the tent. The assembled crew took a sharp breath in surprise. Alex, a big man from the north who went by the nickname Thunder, let out a bark of laughter. "Dont tell me you've been noblewoman this whole time?" his great accent still had that slight flaw to it. She smiled coyly, "I am noble remember? Bastard and all. But no, i haven't suddenly developed Wayism." She held up the gold and quartz trinket, "He called it a battery. Nobles can charge it, and us commoners can use it." Fredrick lapsed into thought on that. Such a invention could change everything! Are the gifted able to charge it if forced too? It wouldn't matter, he wasn't the only disgruntled or disgraced Wayist. Does it take a noble to make the battery? Mass production might be tricky, gold was far from free after all. Fredrick's musing was interrupted as Jean got his attention. "... Warlock and Sharp with me." she gave Fredrick a flat look, "have you been daydreaming the entire time, Warlock?" He felt heat rising in his face. "Apologies ma'am, distracted by this discovery." "Get yourself ready then. I'll explain on the way." The wind stirred in the quarry below, picking up dust into a great wave that crashed against solid blocks of marble. Jean, Fredrick and Marcus, the thin man also known as Sharp, lay flat while studying the quarry below. It was filled with a number of moving and not moving figures and only a few patrolled, more so out of boredom than duty. Jean had been kind enough to go over the mission again while they got into position, Lord Farund wanted his quarry cleared out from the brigands who had taken it over in his negligence. She split her team into four groups, a pair covering from higher up with sharp-eyed rifles, three on the mortar, three organizing from the camp and the last three being themselves. The mortar team, lead by Alex, planned to shell the quarry to rattle the bandits. Then in the confusion and panic, both Alex and Jean's groups will close on the quarry proper, killing anyone armed on the way. Fredrick felt a mild pressure pass by as Jonathan, also known as Whistles, spoke to Jean via the rings they all wore and the mysterious powers of The Way. She responded in a half whisper before moving away from the edge and rising. "Get ready you two." she said, loading and slinging her rifle while taking a wand, bracelet and the strange battery in hand. "Warlock, i want you to watch everything, going to need a full write up when we get back, Sharp, i want you using the gauntlet and the charm." They both nodded, taking up respective gear, Fredrick feeling a unpleasant churning in his stomach whenever he snapped on his bracelet. He swore to never use these powers to harm again, yet even in defending himself, was he using them for mayhem by not allowing another to stop him as easily as any commoner? "I know that look Warlock." Jean snapped. "Sorry Lead." "Don't be sorry, just focus. I won't indulge the good nobleman's bloodlust. We're fighting anyone who's armed so i need you paying twice the attention for surprises." He nodded in reply. Fredrick had learned firsthand that ruthlessly culling a camp of brigands can be safer, but it often came with a heavy toil. Better to be vigilant and merciful then stir up a suicidal attempt at survival. Fredrick felt that pressure again, Jonathan's voice whispering in his right ear, the side he had the ring on. "Everyone's in position, Thunder's starting." The three of them wisely ducked, covering their ears. Three not-so-distant thumps were followed by three nearby explosions in the quarry below. The blasts themselves didn't damage as much as they caused raw chaos. Deafening noise and surging dust clogged the basin. The three of them were over the edge and sliding down into the pit before the reverberations faded. Landing hard, Fredrick spun and slammed into a block of cut marble, gasping and grateful that the glass charm had worked to take some of the blows of both landing and crashing into the deadly sharp rock. Jean moved more gracefully to the other side, wand clutched in one hand and battery in the other. Sharp had ended up nearby, behind another cut stone and cursing lightly. Spotty gunfire filled the air as the bandits panicked, yells and curses as a number of figures ran. Fredrick reached for his rifle cautiously waiting for any figures to come running out of the dust with malicious intent. It wasn't a long wait. A pair of women and a man, all naked for the most part, ran out of the cloud sobbing and crying. Some ugly yells and uglier laughter followed as a trio of bandits chased the fleeing group, knives drawn. Fredrick felt Jean lean over him as he took aim on the leading Bandit. The shot took him in the leg and the man crashed to the ground, howling in pain. At the same time, a distant shot from across the quarry sounded and another of the threesome crashed to the ground. The survivor however had the great misfortune of stopping to look where the shot came from. Jean aimed the wand at him. The familiar pressure of power felt odd to Fredrick, like it was coming from very far away, and the lance of flame took the bandit right in the chest, knocking him over and immolating the rags that was his clothing. He died an ugly death. Fire was never a pretty thing to use on a person. Fredrick's stomach twisted at it but he pushed it aside. Gunshots pinged against the ground from the nearby marble block, one shot rebounding and hitting against his glassy barrier. Fredrick jerked backwards into the cover of the marble block cursing. The shots continued from the nearby block. "Where's Sharp?!" he yelled. In reply the younger man did something that, in hindsight, was incredibly reckless. He took the wall-smashing gauntlet and opted to use it on the solid marble block both he and the attacking bandits were using as cover. The block exploded into a million deadly shards. Sharp rolled away from the blast, Jean yelled something incoherent, Fredrick clenched his jaw and waited. The moments past in a slow eternity, Fredrick carefully peered around, waiting to duck back into cover at any gunfire. Nothing came in their direction. Jean slapped him on the shoulder. "Get Sharp, ill cover you." Fredrick didn't waste time replying, sliding over to Sharp and carefully grabbing the man. He needn't have bothered, by luck or by the protective power of glass, Sharp only had a few light gashes down his arm. The two men quickly moved into cover while Jean kept an eye out. "You alright Sharp?" Fredrick asked. He nodded then giggled shortly. "Didn't expect it to go up with such a bang!" his voice wavered, likely in mild shock at his display. Jean must have noticed it too, "You did fine Sharp." she thumped him a few times on the back before whispering to the side. They waited as she got her reply then turned back to the two of them. "Whistles says that Thunder's got the rest." "Wait, its already over?" Sharp asked, suppressing another giggle. "He says that whatever we did terrified the half a dozen survivors. He also said that Thunder recommends we don't go poking around too much. Apparently you got at least three more with that stunt that he's seen." He paled at that.
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Feb 21, 2015 03:51
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Fang 1294 words Krina smoothed the front of her tunic and checked her hair in a nearby glass. The summons had come early this morning, brought by the captain’s page. Krina had no idea why the captain wanted to see her, specifically, as she was but a simple bowman, but here she was. Frankel, the captain’s page, entered her tent. “It’s time,” he said. They made their way to the center of camp, where Captain Peters was huddled over a table with a number of other officers. “This is the one, captain,” Frankel said. “What’s your name,” Peters asked her? “Krina, ma’am, of the third bows.” Peters looked her up and down, squinting in the sun. “You were at the roosts, yes? Before the war?” “That’s right, ma’am,” Krina said. “And you knew Magnus?” Krina’s stomach dropped. She made herself say the words. “Yes, ma’am. Knew of him, anyway.” “And Steelwing?” “Yes, ma’am.” “You know,” the captain said, “that the fang won’t fly without Steelwing. Without their doyen.” Krina nodded her head, but she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She felt as if she had departed her body while the captain explained what she had to do, how the enemy was advancing from all sides, and how important her task was. How she was the only one who could do it, how everyone was counting on her. Inwardly, Krina wondered what it would be like to be eaten. * The dragon’s long body lay prostrate, coiled around the dark grey rock of her rider’s tomb. The tomb itself wasn’t much, just a simple stone building above tiered steps. Small gouts of steam hissed from the dragon’s nostrils, and the play of sunlight poking through the clouds dappled her copper scales. Her body was thin and bony, its leathery skin stretched tight. She’d been here for five days now, and as far as Krina knew she hadn’t eaten a thing. No one had dared approach a dragon in mourning, and so here the dragon stayed. Her name was Steelwing, but her rider called her honey. Her rider had died eight days ago, at the battle of the broken teeth. Magnus was a short man with a patchy beard and a loud voice. Krina had never talked to him, but she’d seen him with Steelwing, the way he stroked her crest and whispered to her while prepping for a flight, seen the way the dragon responded to Magnus as both wheeled through the air, the way the two worked as one. Krina watched a lot of things. Once, before the war and before Magnus fell, she saw a roosthand try to feed Steelwing. Krina remembered the day well. It was hot, and the roosts sweltered in the summer heat. The hand was new, and maybe someone had bet her or tricked her, Krina didn’t know for sure, but whatever the reason, the hand brought Steelwing’s mid-day meal to her by herself. It wasn’t pretty: there’s a reason only riders are allowed in the pens. By the time Magnus got to her there wasn’t much left, but he was able to calm Steelwing down, cooing “honey, honey, honey” to her over and over again. Afterwards, they dragged the hand’s body out of Steelwings’ pen, or what was left of it, anyway. Krina wondered what that hand’s name had been, or if she had ever known it. In light of all that, her current plan seemed even more ludicrous, but no one had ever accused Krina of being reasonable. And it was not like she had a choice. There was only one punishment for insubordination. Over her shoulder she lugged a carcass: goat, Steelwing’s favorite. She dropped the animal on the ground with a wet thud. The dragon turned her head towards the sound, and one great eye inched open. Krina shuffled backwards, her eyes on the great beast. Steelwing looked back, and saw her. The dragon unfurled, snake-like, her eyes open, great emerald crescents set in pools of white, and rustled her wings. Motes of dust clouded the sunlight. The dragon stalked down the stone steps, slowly at first, then shuddered, as if she could walk no longer. Krina worried that she was injured, or that her days without food might have rendered her unfit, but the dragon found her footing, and continued on towards her and the meat. The beast looked at Krina, and then the goat, then back to Krina, considering. “Easy, honey,” Krina said. “This is yours. Eat.” The dragon opened its mouth and hissed and Krina felt a great wall of heat buffet her. Very smart, Krina thought. Tell the dragon to eat. She stood tall. “For you,” she said. The dragon reared up on its hind legs, all twenty feet of its scaly bulk pointed at the sky, and screamed, a world-tearing sound that echoed through the valley. Krina tried not to waver, to flee, but Steelwing gave her no time. In a split second the dragon lunged, covering the distance between her and Krina easily, like water flowing downhill, and closed her foreclaw around her. “Easy, honey, I’m your friend” she said, but if Steelwing heard her she couldn’t know. Stars shone in Krina’s eyes, and she struggled to breathe as the dragon’s smooth, hot scales crushed against her. “Easy…” Krina tried to breathe, tried to do anything to relieve the burning she felt in her chest, but her lungs wouldn’t respond. Then, as suddenly as she had sprung, Steelwing dropped Krina to the ground. She gasped as the dragon fell upon the goat, eating. She was pretty sure her ribs were broken. She pulled herself up to her knees. Steelwing finished, leaving nothing, then slumped to the ground. Krina waited, and waited, then decided Steelwing was, in fact, sleeping. She approached the dragon, crawling just a few feet at a time, and curled up next to the beast’s warm body. Steelwing opened an eye, then closed it, and snored. * Days later, and the moment of battle: Steelwing, her new rider harnessed in, led four other dragons above the plains of combat. Steelwing, at the fore, her copper body flashing in the sun, Char, the thin, long red, and Vizendon, the green, at the wings, Ice, the blue dragon, at the rear, and Florenda, the gold, holding the center. They flew as one, a fang once more, prowling the skies in search of their prey. Krina gripped the reins tightly. The summer wind blew past her. She scanned the ground with her archer’s eyes, looking for the army she knew was somewhere below, hiding in the trees. The forests were thick, and a good place to hide, but they would root them out. Re-uniting the fang had turned the war in their favor, changing a lost front to the catalyst of their victory. A cry went up from the trees below, and then the air was filled with arrows: they’d found their foe. “Split!” Krina yelled, but she didn’t have to, the fang knew what to do. At once the five dragons shot out in all directions. Krina and Steelwing climbed, the dragon’s wings beating steadily to the sun. Moments later, the dragon stilled her wings and dove, and they rejoined the other four, the fang coalescing into formation. The enemy was behind them now, but they had their location, and the fang swung back around, then, once above the army, they formed a disc, each dragon flying around the edge. It was their signal. A cheer went up from the battle lines. “Found them” a voice shouted. At the vanguard, captains gave the commands to move forward. From above, Krina could see the armies, like great clumps of ants swarming over a bit of rotten fruit. The battle, and the war, was won.
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Feb 21, 2015 05:52
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Firestar 952 Words It was like her soul was engulfed in flames. The way she walked, moved, looked at everyone around her. She was daring them to let her cast a spark in their direction and burn them down to nothing. She wanted them the same as fire does: as fuel to burn. The second time I saw her was when Ifriti introduced us. We were going to be a team for a run, something about a hidden terminal within a building. She would get us in, I would jack the data and we would get out. Her flames had cooled to embers when we were introduced. Maybe I was no longer fuel to her. Fire ignores everything it can't burn. We got to the location around 2 am. I swear every warehouse is built the same way with the same lighting and same setup of cameras. Once we made it to an external outlet, I blanked the cameras. I expected her to be impatient, to always be moving like fire searching for fuel. But she waited, being a perfect look out while I dove into the circuitry of the security system. Once we were safe outside, she pulled out her AR glasses and phone. She walked us to the far side of the building, where there were no windows. Then we went almost to the middle of the wall. She stopped, then backed up. Then moved forward again. This repeated a few times until she was happy with where we were. Of course, it was directly under a light, which didn't seem ideal to me. She crouched down and motioned for me to do the same. She put one hand on my shoulder and suddenly everything was dark. Not just dark like closing your eyes or being in a dark room. It was like the very existence of everything around us was gone, that the creator had never said "let there be light." Her hand on my shoulder and my deck in my hand were the only things I knew existed. It's hard to say how I knew reality shifted for a moment in all of that blackness but it did. Maybe the ground suddenly felt different. Maybe the ambient sound around us was suddenly different. I don't know. When the darkness lifted we were in a small closet that just barely had room for us to fit. My heart ran cold; I figured she was some kind of cat burglar before, not a mage. A shadow mage at that. Maybe it wasn't flames I was seeing around her but the darkness itself, looking for people to swallow. Darkness or no, we had work to do and she wasn't waiting for me. I followed her into the hallway, her AR dimly glowing, showing her the way. Past three doors and into the fourth, nothing appeared special about this office but I knew what my job was. The terminal on the desk was hooked into a special network that none of the others in the building were. I looked around and it even had its own power block. They must change the battery every day to keep it away from the electrical grid. This corp knew its stuff when it came to preventing hacking. I didn't like what that might mean when we were sitting in the open in a rundown warehouse, hacking into a very secured system with just the two of us. I hoped that whatever came to stop us would be swallowed up by her darkness. It turned out that the corp wasn't as knowledgeable as I had first thought. Even though they had proper physical security, they didn't have anything strong on the other side of the line. I was in and searching within minutes. Searching for what was there wasn't part of the job but I don't like hacking in unknown places. Another ten minutes and I knew where we were. And what we were doing. I'm not sure how Ifriti got a mage to do a run against Shimati but I didn't like it. I was already scrubbing any trace of me that I could while my program was implanting. I wondered if my partner had any idea who we were pulling a run on. Would she be offended? In another five minutes I was done, feeling a little sick at either the stress of hacking or the stress of knowing that if I did anything wrong, the next mage I saw wouldn't be as friendly as the one working with me. I told her we were done and expected her to just jump us out where we sat. Instead, she motioned for me to follow and we back tracked our way to the closet, making sure everything we touched was exactly how we found it. In the closet, we crouched down and the darkness filled around us again. I wanted to reach out and feel if the closet was still there or if we were in some other dimension while we teleported. I didn't know how any of this worked but I also wasn't willing to risk losing a hand or anything else by moving while she worked. The sound of being outside hit just as the darkness fell and she was already moving. It took me a moment and then I was running too. For the first time it looked like she was having fun. She ran with power, purpose, freedom. And I could see then. The darkness was there, reaching out from her to try to swallow everyone around her. But behind that, there was fire too. A fire that could blind the darkness, brighter than the sun. I would follow her fire wherever she went.
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Feb 22, 2015 05:48
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Alright, I've read and gone over the entries. I enjoyed reading them this week. Our turn out was pretty low, but I've gotta admit, I'm impressed. A good mix. I want to start off by posting my impressions I wrote as I was judging, then move on to the judgement: provoke, Know Your Role: How's a locket being blown by a slight breeze? Besides, everything is much better in gale force winds. With guitar riffs. Hard to get a sense of scale. Could use some tightening up. All in all, fairly good. Could use a little more length. A possible format would be two paragraphs for each character. Dragon Slayer, Mage, Priest, Blacksmith, Dragonslayer, Mage... and so on. There's a rhythm going 3rd paragraph onwards that's pretty cool, and it might be neat to try to start it from the beginning. Stealth Archer, Psygnosis: Staring at. Not a bad bit of dialogue, but the format doesn't stick together well. Some advice: Said is a perfectly good thing to use if you're use anything. Also, there's no shame in just leaving the quotations by themselves if it's evident who's speaking, which you did well at the start. Give it some editing and a little practice, and it's a good start. The thought of whoever built all those pipes never occurred to me, and setting it in a trippy mushroom filled binge of a dream is probably perfect for the settings. Thyrork, Eleven Mercenaries: Paragraph starts good, falls short in the end. Nix the last bit, it doesn't flow well. Try this instead: Giving way to a misty and overcast morning and leaving them soaked to the bone. A few awkward turns of phrase. Easily fixed, just have someone read over the draft. Or try reading the story aloud. A good example, motionless would fit better than not moving. Unless you're writing about a cave man. Editing issues. Are you writing in word? It should catch things like the uncapitalized i. Could use a stronger ending, and is confusing in parts. That said, the setting is rich, there's a lot going on, and the action isn't too bad. Tighten it up and clarify things a bit and you've got a nice story. Sexpansion, Fang: Could use a better start. Might I recommend cutting off the first 3 paragraphs? Start on a statement. "This is the one, captain." Boom. Also, you mention insubordination latter, but not at the start. So there might be a little bit of disjointment (Yeah, not a word, but it's the best way I can think of putting my thought.) in this. Now then, the dragon interactions are pretty well written. You get a big sense of scale with the dragon, and I can see in my mind how imposing it is to Krina. A bit strange to having her lead so shortly afterwards, but I might be confused on the time that has passed. Maybe a transitory paragraph instead of a break? I can see how you attempted to work in teamwork between the archer and the dragon, but you kind of have the beginning and the end, skipping over the meat. It's like a rocky movie where he goes from finding his bum of a coach to the championship fight, without the 80's montage in between. Use the extra words I allotted everyone for something to fill that void and you've got something. Uugengiven, Firestar: Not a bad start. I'm not very good with this tense, so I won't catch everything, but I like it. Sets a character well, grabs some attention. Also, cyberpunk! Shadowrun? Looks like it. Decks and mages. It's got a good flow to it, short sweet paragraphs. Unfortunately it's a bit short. The bonding is there, but the reason for it seems to be lacking. Yes, they pulled a job together, and the firebrand mage has sick rear end teleportation powers. I mean, I'd want to bond with that, but it seems kind of routine. The system has good security, but then probably doesn't. It's got all the parts of a good run, but it's lacking the tense nature. It feels almost relaxed at the end. Spice it up a little bit. Give us a few more scares, a few hundred words of tense situation, and a little time for the mage to do something more than just taxi the other runner in and out of the warehouse. One idea could be to have a hapless guard come by, have her grab him and melt them into shadows as the guard's flashlight sweeps past them. Things like that. Now for the judgement. This weeks winner goes to Provoke. All the stories had their ups and downs this week, but provoke did something I found very interesting with the prompt. He showed teamwork with out actually having any of the team near each other. It's impressive, and I think that I wouldn't mind reading a longer story in the same vein. The rhythm going is pretty neat. Honorable Mention: Sexpansion. You've got some skill in writing interactions with dragons. Held back by some structural issues. Dishonorable Mention: uugengiven. You started strong and captured the setting well, but nothing really happens. Add another 400-800 words like I said in my impression and really give us a reason for why the unnamed runner bonded with the mage after it all. You fall flat by starting her off with a strong paragraph and ending it with her being a magical taxi. Stealtharcher is this weeks thunderdome looser. You're clever, you have good ideas, but you need consistency in your writing. Tighten it up and fear and loathing in the mushroom kingdom could one day be a thing. Alright, provoke, get to work on the next prompt. Hit me up on steam (KillerofLawyers) for your copy of gauntlet! See everyone next week!
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Feb 22, 2015 19:23
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Guys, you need to contact me with your steam names. I have too many people on my list and half the time you're either offline or you have some name that I'm unfamiliar with. I still need to get Killer of Lawyers, Provoke and Sexpansion their gifts.
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Feb 23, 2015 01:20
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J.A.B.C. posted:Guys, you need to contact me with your steam names. I have too many people on my list and half the time you're either offline or you have some name that I'm unfamiliar with. Thanks! I'm getting on steam now, I don't usually have it running.
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Feb 23, 2015 05:36
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Thanks for the critique! In hindsight, it starts pretty slow given the circumstances. I'm trying to work on writing more <_< J.A.B.C. posted:Guys, you need to contact me with your steam names. I have too many people on my list and half the time you're either offline or you have some name that I'm unfamiliar with. You can add me at http://steamcommunity.com/id/bluesunshine__/ Anyway, this week's theme is...  What's Old Is New Remakes. Reboots. Spiritual Successors. Just like Hollywood, the video game industry has started mining our nostalgia to bring back the games of our youths at minimal risk to their bottom lines. Tell me about memories relived, a world lovingly recreated, or a different spin on a well-known series. Or something along those lines. Word Count: 1500 words or less. Sign up by 11.59pm PST on Wednesday 25th, and submit by 11.59pm PST on Friday 27th. Good luck! Signups: Artelier Rap Three Times Benagain Little Mac PotatoManJack Ess uugengiven Killer-of-Lawyers provoke fucked around with this message at 08:18 on Feb 26, 2015 |
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Feb 23, 2015 11:33
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Just found this thread and would like to take part in this week's challenge. It's writing practice time.
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Feb 23, 2015 11:58
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I too would like to sign up for the contest. I need to get working on writing.
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Feb 23, 2015 16:26
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I'm in.
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Feb 23, 2015 16:35
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In
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Feb 23, 2015 18:17
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Sure - I'll give this a whirl.
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Feb 24, 2015 00:01
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Sexpansion posted:Thanks! I'm getting on steam now, I don't usually have it running. Hey I just want to give a shoutout to J.A.B.C. for being so cool and giving away free games in this thread! I for one am having a lot of fun and the games don't hurt.
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Feb 24, 2015 15:25
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I'm in.
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Feb 25, 2015 17:46
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KOL - thanks for the critique. I totally agree that it's missing tension in the middle for the reader to share in the release of the run being over. I'm not sure if I'll be rewriting that story but if so, I'll make sure to include that. I also agree that the mage doesn't do much in this run. It's a two birds with one stone kind of fix there. This story (and others I post) aren't Shadowrun but from an RPG I'm working on that started as a Shadowrun rules fix that turned into a rewrite that turned into its own system. I do these stories almost as sketches so I have an idea of what people are like in the world and how they see it. It helps me make sure that everything binds together properly. I think some of these stories will end up being the chapter bumpers in the rule book, depends on how everything goes. Having someone read these stories cold, without having discussed parts of the fiction first really helps me understand where I am missing information or assuming that the reader knows things. I'm in for this week.
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Feb 25, 2015 21:43
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Old Man Days like today are why I think I should've managed to lose my leg earlier than I did. I could feel the coming storm in both knees, my genuine one and the synthetic. Doctors say that there is nothing wrong with the synth, the pain is just in my head. I say that it hurts bad enough that it doesn't matter where it is, I want it to stop. But losing the leg after arthritis kicked in means that my body remembers the pre-rain pain. I hobble between my chair and my closet, grabbing the final pieces of the uniform. Once I get the socks up over my calves and strap on my shoes, I can take a moment and pull out the balm. The physical therapists always wonder what the stuff on my synth leg is. Every time, I tell them it is some arthritis balm and that the fake skin doesn't absorb the stuff as well as my real skin. Every so often I need to scrub it clean. I ask if they can change the skin to absorb it better. Then we have the same conversation we always do. "Why use that on your cyber-leg?" Sometimes I want to just tell them that it works. I don't know why, but it feels better. I know it doesn't fix anything but the synth-skin is good enough that the menthol or mint or whatever it is makes it tingle and makes my brain think that it is fixing it. I do both knees so I feel right. And sometimes I just want to say I'm an old man and am used to my ways. The truth is in both, really. Today the balm goes on cool, warming slowly, and my knees loosen up. Five minutes before I have to leave I can finally walk down the stairs without risking falling down them. I grab my case and hat, then head out. These are always the worst days to be out. Not the coming rain, I always feel like I won a fight when I get out on those days. Today everyone is in black except for my group, we've got our colors on. I can see the widow. I feel almost a sense of comfort, something recognizable in the world that keeps changing so fast, and I feel ashamed. I know that women die as bravely as men, I just don't like it. I perform better when it’s the wife that has survived. I live by my old habits. We open our cases, warm up then file out. The first in line starts his drones, the rest of us joining in. I lose myself in the initial inflation of the bladder, the breathing in time with marching. Breath, step, breath, step. It calms me down so my fingers can play properly. My fingers get too jumpy to play properly when I'm emotional. I know since the change, when the world started getting worse, that a lot of people say some kind of potential was unlocked. That people are better, stronger, smarter. I think the only change I've seen is that I'm more emotional. Or maybe I'm now just outliving friends and family. I used to be able to look out over an officer's funeral and feel anger at the death, wanting revenge for a brother. Now, all I can see are the faces of the wounded. I know people looking at me can see my synth knee, its gray skin contrasting with my normal pinkish tone. I see others around me with the same color synth skin - some hands, other legs. One officer is wearing a black dress, both legs are synthetic. She's chosen gold instead of the standard, boring gray. When I got my leg I considered going green, to match my kilt. But then I thought matching my hair might be more important. Old men shouldn't be trying to make fashion. Young people should be, like the officer with golden legs. I'm playing, the droning surrounding me, and all I can think about is that she should find a better line of work. Policing has gotten too rotten, too hard, too dangerous. I've gotten too good at playing our songs recently. I've had too much practice. Too many eyes in the crowd are red and wet, not always from this death, but from what memories death brings up: their own wives, brothers, children. I think about my own wife. I always do at times like these. She loved to hear me practice. She would still make me go outside but would open a window where she was so she could hear me. I played her funeral years ago now. I like to think she's got her window open somewhere and is listening each time I play one of these.
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Feb 25, 2015 21:52
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What the hell, in.
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Feb 26, 2015 04:23
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The Prodigal Son 1,318 words Google Docs “Tell me what you live for.” Darren struggled underneath the pressure of the rope. It was beginning to chafe but did that matter? He was going to die and he knew it. Eyes, hands and legs bound, all he could do was squirm and talk, if he felt like it. He didn’t like his captor, though he supposed most captives don’t. She seemed odd, eccentric. He didn’t know who she was, or how she found him, and he definitely had no idea how she made him out so quickly. She just burst into the room, dumped the Mahjong game aside, pushed his friends away and put a knife to his throat. Before he knew it, he was “kindly” ushered out, blindfolded, and knocked out. “I live for my family, of course.” The PC answer. “Wife, son.” “Unfortunately, babes, you’re wrong.” drat, worth a shot. She didn’t seem agitated at all at his answer though. She seemed purposeful and resolute. It’s like she knew, and he knew she knew. This was a problem. She wasn’t likely to make a mistake then. “Look, why are you doing this anyway?” Could be anything. “I’ve got money, if you want money.” Doubt it. “Let’s just say that I’m very interested in your life.” What. Why. Is she the most hardcore journalist ever? “Please babes, tell me what you live for. Please?” “I don’t know what you want me to say.” Is she someone’s daughter? Wife? A daughter? Best friend? Colleague? “No need to be coy. But I get it. You’re covering your tracks, just in case. Let’s just say...I want to know about the first two.” drat. “…were you there?” drat drat drat. She knows. “Let’s start with Ahmad Kamarul. Why did you do it?” “Got paid.” Darren thought about it a bit more and added, “I’m not going to tell you who my employer is. Not that I could.” “Naw, don’t care, it was probably Fila anyway. No, I’m not asking why you killed, I’m asking why you chose that particular method to kill him.” He shrugged as best he could. Not good. “Guaranteed kill.” “…I suppose. Let’s see…was it the left pinky first?“ and Darren felt a sharp jolt rise up his leg, begging for attention and at the same time numbing, and then he let rip with a few choice swear words . But more importantly he trashed extra hard to both deal with the pain, and hopefully make physical contact with his attacker again. No dice. “Such a shame…” and another jolt of pain. “You see, making someone bleed to death from the loss of toes just…seems cruel to me.” And another. “Again. Tell me why you did it.” While Darren would have loved to take a position of dignified silence, he would have to settle for grovelling on the ground in pain. His mind raced, as he didn’t understand the point of this, and does that really matter anyway? “…hssngh…ok…ok…look, I had the time, the means, the opportunity, and Ahmad was just careless.” “Like you today?” Ouch. That stung. “…I suppose.” “But that don’t tell me why you executed him like that. ’s okay, love. Let’s talk about Meiyi instead. She had something a bit more…let’s say-” “Dramatic?” “-over the top.” Her breath came in sharp at that, and then mellowed out. Is she connected to Meiyi? “And that’s impressive. You wanted to top yourself.” “I could. Why not?” “Naw, you could have just slit her throat, but you decided to-“ and she jammed a knife into his thigh. And another into the other. “Did you really keep copies of the news to see just how long it takes before anyone finds out that someone’s even killed?” And then he felt his body rise up. poo poo, he was being lifted by…something? “Fu…shhh…fu…argh...” and then the pins came. They went in all around both knives, forming what felt like a heart shape. And then two more quick (not quick enough) slashes underneath, one with X and another with O. Whoever she was, she was skilled, and precise, and going to die, he wanted to be sure of it. His body hit a wall, jolting him and making everything else so much worse. His breathing was ragged now, and anytime wasn’t talking he was hissing, screaming, gritting his teeth or all of the above. “…why…why are you doing this?” “I’m studying.” That’s not an answer! “What do you live for?” “F…I live to kill okay? Are you happy?” “Come on! So close but so far!” Starting to pass out. Going to kill her. “What are you on about?” “We both know you love to watch people squirm. It’s a thing you’ve excelled in all your life. And you want them to know the certainty of what it’s like to die, in horrible pain, with no help on the way. It’s your thing.” “SO WHAT?” A pause. “Do you keep in touch with the Academy at all?” Colleague, then. Ex-colleague. “No. Retired.” It was getting really hard to talk. “Get spam emails sometimes.” “You see, love, I’m getting sick of hearing about you. About how you were the best, or the most effective, over and over again. All I heard was that you were possibly the most redundant” – she spat – “killer out there. So much effort babes, for something the rest of us could do. But you impressed the old-school guard there. They come from long families babes, they’re a bit into some classical punishment. You were their favourite, you should know.” “Good.” Good. “gently caress you.” gently caress her. “Do you want me to beg?” I won’t. And she yelped. “Don’t be silly love, I wouldn’t expect that from the best.” And besides, it would give me a bad reputation.” And she took off his blindfold and he stared into the face of…Darren. She had his face. “What…why…” “You know modern day assassination is like? It’s all so efficient now. Poison, poison everywhere.. Maybe arranging an accident or two. Sometimes, just ruining his rep’s enough. It’s all gotten so good, so clean, so…so non-descript even. Like no one would mention it. No one would even suspect it was a murder. ” She laughed, and Darren saw her face laugh. It’s surreal to see your own face laugh, especially when it’s…not really that funny. “I’m great at it. “But nooooooooo, no babes, the fogeys don’t like that sort of thing. They find it boring, even though we’re doing our job better than ever! Better than you ever could, Mister Dramatic!” She fidgeted, and her expressions got wild and she grimaced. “BETTER THAN EVER AND THEY LIKE IT LESS! THEY KEEP HANKERING FOR THE GOOD OLD DAYS!” And then she stopped, and she looked him in the face. “Then they always say, whatever happened to Darren?” Darren took as deep a breath he could. He’s had a sinking feeling for a while now, but it has finally overtaken most of the pain and it’s all he could do to stay conscious. But he knew he was a dead man very, very soon.” “He was great.” She began work on the arms. Yes, just like Meiyi. Knives first, into the-gently caress! “He was so clever.” Then the pins, the same pattern. “And he never got caught.” The X and the O. He closed his eyes. “The perfect assassin.” Darren closed his eyes. What’s coming next would be the worst, and would leave a most unpleasant stain. “Please, please, please…” and he felt the pain, and he screamed. The tears were flowing hard now, or was it blood? He can’t tell. “Please, please, please, love, please. Tell me what you live for.” He felt his face cupped by her hands. The end was close. “Please. I need to know.” Darren whispered. She listened. And now, she was complete. There was a new Darren in town. And she’s sure they’ll love her. Artelier fucked around with this message at 15:11 on Feb 27, 2015 |
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Feb 27, 2015 15:04
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Words: 1,281 Untitled as of yet. He stood by the window, watching the lights play off the ceiling. They were too bright to look at directly, hurting his eyes despite his dark sunglasses. He decided he preferred the reflections to the real thing, they were softened and smoothed and there were no ugly faces to detract from the scene. He would have to look towards the street soon, though not just yet. The room flared briefly into light as he lit a cigarette. He considered putting on his hat, he always felt more comfortable wearing it. It wasn’t time yet though. The rain was starting to fall outside. Sounds became a little more muffled and the crowd seemed to acknowledge the change too. Their voices, resistant, became fever-pitched, shouts rising to his window and loud bangs of fireworks punctuating the night like gunshots. That was good, it felt like thunder raging in a storm of humanity. Eyes still avoiding the window, he moved silently towards the table. His cigarette carefully placed into an ashtray, he reached for his glass of rum. Ice-cubes clinked quietly, already melting in the heat of the room. Sometimes it felt like he couldn’t breathe, the heavy air making him feel sluggish, short-tempered. He sipped the sweet flavours, mingling them with the cheap tobacco ones. It felt good to be drinking again. Three years without touching a drop was too long. He left the near-empty bottle of Barbancourt on the table and took the cigarette with him back to the window. The main throng was passed now, noises starting to come predominantly from further to his left. Only late-comers and children were left to the tail of the parade. His hand moved the curtain to one side, a fraction only. Light shone and reshone through droplets on the glass, gleamed and regleamed like scattered diamonds in the street-turned-mirror, puddles and pools of splashed water. He stood there for a minute, watching as the last few people danced through the street, fingers rolling the cigarette between pulls. A second one was lit when the first went out, the butt stamped out in the carpet before he remembered the ashtray. He cursed silently. A memory came to him then. A street like this one, foreign and distant but familiar in its strangeness. Children playing, making wordless gibberish songs that so enraptured him. Then too it had been raining, large drops falling and each splash distinct like a beat of a drum. That was the sign that he should move; he was starting to lose his place. He moved into action now that the time had come. The glass of rum was drained, emptied of ice and alcohol in one mouthful. The remains of both cigarettes were picked up and pocketed. Surfaces were wiped with a cloth and a careful eye was cast over the room. Everything seemed to be in order. Yet... he felt he had forgotten something. He felt angry at this, this feeling of being out-of-time. Something was not right with the world, with him. This place, it made him weak, forgetful. Time was progressing without him. As he moved out into the street he was hit by the sudden silence and heat. He wanted to believe it was the alcohol but it was probably just the season. He was over-dressed too, he knew that. He hadn’t brought appropriate clothes with him, but what was appropriate here? The fashion of the street throngs was unfamiliar to him; bright, colourful, frenetic. He considered carrying his dark jacket to look more casual but he was afraid of sweat showing through his white shirt so he kept it on. Jacket, hat, sunglasses pocketed, in this way he walked in the direction of the parade; a stranger-ghost following a street behind the festivities. He quickly caught up with the shouting gleeful mass of people, their progress reliably slow. Flitting through the small gatherings of cheering supporters on the pavement, ignoring glances from curious others, he moved steadily towards the front of the march. Despite the rain and the late hour, the parade had swelled with each street it had passed. Maybe he had left it too long but no, even now he could see the tall float that signalled the front line. The tall gaudy paper-maché statue of Our Lady of Salvation swayed from side-to-side like a drunken floozy rather than the Mother of All. Moving more quickly now he began to reach inside his jacket, fingers stroking the weapon that was so important to the trip. He desperately wanted a cigarette. He had walked quickly to out-pace the crowd and his body yearned for the tobacco, a smoke and an iced-rum but they would both have to wait. It was the time of the gun now. He jumped over something but didn’t stop to see what it was, instantly knowing it was inconsequential. A shout followed him but was swallowed up by the noise of the crowd. His movements were purposeful now, instincts taking over from conscious thought; his emotions calm, muscle-memory deciding for him. His eyes moved from light to dark, seeking, searching, looking for any obstacles but finding none. They all faced forward or inward, away from his strange darkness, silently collectively shunning him, shunning his nature. As he neared the float, a face turned to look at him but just as quickly it had wheeled away again into the crowd. Now, he was close, the front of the parade was only feet away. He shouldered his way out into the street, grabbing his pistol in its holster as he did so, his movements fluid and predatory, senses flaring with adrenaline-fueled hyper-sensitivity. Then, everything became a blur- the people falling as he shouldered through them, his arm drawing the heavy heater gun from its holster, the gun leaping in his hand as his finger pulled the trigger in three quick successive shots. There was a bright light as the Holy Mary exploded into flames and two other bright lights as her most dedicated followers combusted in seeming sympathy. Faces lit up yellow in the reflections and eyes were wide as though in adoration. The sounds of the mass of people grew to a cacophony, shouts and screams and howls filling his head and his ears. Mikhail, for that was his name, nearly went to one knee under it all. Now, the people were pressing around him, against his suit and shoulders and outstretched arm. His hat was knocked to the ground, his jacket tugged at. He felt naked. The papery statue burned blackly between two other burning heaps, three piles of flames sending tiny fire angels heavenward. He could hear the raindrops sizzling as they hit the three shrunken forms. Then, the Virgin Mary moved on, carried on the shoulders of fresh-backed singing devotees until the street was empty of all but one rain-soaked dark-jacketed man and two smouldering, hissing non-humans. Now, alone, he allowed his knees to collapse. He kneeled there, the distant sound of the faithful far behind him. His heater pistol dropped heavily to the ground. Fingers trembling and shaking, it was all he could do to take his cigarettes from his inner pocket and light one. How long he stayed there he did not know, but when the time came to leave, he stood up, walked over to where his hat had fallen and, straightening it out, put it back on his head. The night was spent. Lighting a cigarette, he began the walk to the airport and home, away from this accursed place. His gun lay in a pool of water, its mechanism ruined beyond repair. The time of the gun had passed.
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Feb 27, 2015 22:24
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The Outlaw 1456 words Google Docs I had just transferred to the Central Pacific in Utah for the last leg of my journey, all the way from Iowa. It was only just now that the pine forests gave way to the desert of the Great Basin. I enjoyed the trip more than I enjoyed the prospect of my work. I knew that the only reason I had this job was because I didn't have much in the way of scruples. There didn't seem a point to them after the war. They were the first things that got thrown out when the shot started flying anyways. The law was never really about having scruples, it was just something for a Union veteran to do now that the war was over. After showing my ticket to the porter I was led to my private car (the perks of being a government employee), a cramped affair of three separate compartments, two sleeping compartments on either end and a small viewing and dining area in the middle. I stowed my pack and Colt Frontier in the nearest bedroom and went to go sit down and enjoy the scenery. There was already someone seated on one of the benches, her bright blue riding habit pulled up slightly as she rested her boots on the opposite bench. When I opened the door she quickly pulled her feet back and onto the floor. She had youthful features, but there was something about her eyes, and the set of her mouth, that belied age greater than her looks. Her wrists were delicate, but her hands - which she quickly hid in the folds of her skirt - were worn. Her hair was long and black, done up in a bun. I stood there stupidly until her eyes - blue like her dress - became bemused. "Excuse me," she said, "but can I help you?" Her voice had a distinct accent, with flowing vowels and sharp consonants. Distinctly un-American. "Pardon me, ma'am. I was just under the impression that this was a private car." I closed the door behind me, sitting down across from her. The engine had just started moving, and for a moment the whistle drew our attention to the dozens of people staying behind, waving to their loved ones or relatives as they departed. No one waved for us. "It is," she said, drawing her gaze back inside the train. "Just you and I. I bought a ticket at the last minute." I'll admit that my eyes went up involuntarily. "You're alone?" I asked. She nodded. "Where are you headed?" "Same place as you, I imagine. Sacramento, California." "Alone." I repeated. She nodded again, annoyance obvious. "Yes. I am alone." The way she said it, I knew she did not mean just on the train. I felt like a fool. I was a fool. I wondered how many women were like her after the war. "Where are you from, if you don't mind me asking?" "I don't mind at all," she said. "It would be a long journey if we did not speak to each other. I am from Quebec." I nodded, taking off my derby and placing it on the table between us. "That's quite a ways to travel. Why are you going to California?" "I am going to become an outlaw." I might have laughed, but the way she said it, and point blank, threw me. "Why?" "Because it's liberty," she said, looking away and then directly into my face, "isn't it?" "I suppose, in a literal sense," I said, pondering. I didn't want to say that I was being sent to track down a woman outlaw and kill her. "But it's a good way to end up dead, too." "Will you kill me, lawman?" She was daring me now, wearing a look of forced contempt. This was a test for her as well as for me, I felt. I licked my lips. "It's not just lawmen you have to worry about. Living outside the law isn't an easy life. Other outlaws, or starvation, or even the elements." "The law does not protect me from any of those things, does it?" "No, I suppose not." "All a government does is meddle. Even in California, where they have no business being." I shrugged. "Times change, I guess. The Transcontinental makes the country smaller in a way, doesn't it? It'd be a lot harder to get where we're going without it." "And a lot harder to get the gold and tax dollars back!" She snapped. I just stayed quiet. A porter came by with corned beef sandwiches and beans. We ate in silence, watching the passing Nevada deserts. "How did you know I was a lawman anyways?" I ask, after a porter had cleared away our plates. "You keep reaching for your gun." I blinked, realizing that even now my hand was resting inside my coat where I'd keep my gun if I were wearing it. "I could just be a former soldier," I said, pulling my hand from my coat sheepishly. "A former soldier with a private train car?" "Hm." Was all I could manage. She was sharper than she let on. Or perhaps I simply underestimated her. "I was married to a soldier, an officer," she said, answering my question before I asked. I didn't ask how he died; it didn't matter to either of us. We were interrupted by a porter with a drinks trolley. I bought myself a tumbler of rye whiskey. The woman got up, excusing herself and leaving the car. I took a sip, waiting until I heard the porter close the car door before getting up myself and going to the woman's bed compartment, opening up the door and peering in. I don't know what I expected to find. Guns, maybe. Some kind of evidence of wrongdoing. There was nothing save a change of clothes, laid out and ready. A small leather saddlebag, which I hurriedly unbuckled, looking through the contents, which were forty dollars in small bills, some makeup, gloves, and two books: Around the World in Eighty Days and Les Diaboliques. I sat back down and looked out at the dust. The woman returned, and sat back down, resuming her earlier posture. "Do you know Sally Donoghue?" She asked. I turned to look at her, again caught off guard. That was the name emblazoned across the wanted poster folded up and tucked into my coat pocket. The woman who I'd been sent to capture or kill. I hesitated, not sure what to say or do, but by then she'd read into my response. "I want to join her." I reached into my coat pocket, slowly unfolding the piece of paper and placing it in front of the woman so she could look at it. She stared at it, intrigued. "Five hundred dollars." She said, almost reverently. "Yes," I said. "Do you understand now? People pay to kill outlaws like her. Every bounty hunter in the state is looking for her. Is that freedom?" "I would say so." "You're crazy." She shrugged. "Is it so wrong to crave adventure and freedom?" "Banditry isn't freedom, ma'am," I said, folding up the poster and tucking it back into my coat. "Who said anything about being a bandit? I wish to be an outlaw, like Sally." "Sally is a bandit. She attacks mines and pay coaches. She's killed a dozen people, probably more." "She knows what she wants, she's made her decision, and I'm sure she's prepared for the consequences. Just like I am." "You're going to get killed. She's going to get herself killed!" I said, patting my pocket. "At least I choose death," she said melodramatically, sitting up straight. "It is better than dying in a war for a country that only loves gold, waiting to die of old age or old wounds." I had nothing else to say to her at that point. We made the rest of the journey to Sacramento in silence. I couldn't bring myself to try to detain her, despite her self professed desire to become an outlaw, despite the U.S. Marshal's badge I had in my coat. I had a job to do and she hadn't broken any laws. When we arrived in Sacramento, I let her go unhindered. Almost. "What's your name?" I asked, as we stepped down from the train car. She looked back at me, surprised, then smiled slyly. "Watch for my wanted poster," was her reply. Then she left, in search of a frontier and adventure that was all but gone, and growing smaller by the day, pushed back by railways and telegraphs, government lawmen and government taxmen, and people's desire for security and order. Her name was Élodie Moreau.
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Feb 28, 2015 02:09
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Grimdark Grimdad 832 Words Charles Van Pelt arrived home after a hard day at work. He repeated the ritual that had become routine: hat on the outside of the closet, tie on the inside, shoes on the shoe rug. He cracked his knuckles, entered the kitchen, and placed a tub of Margaret's left-over lasagna in the microwave. It was a bit too saucy this time, but she got the noodles just right. At the very least the kids didn't complain. When it came to Margaret's food, the kids never complained. Charles walked into his living room with the piping hot lasagna to find a muscular man sitting in his easy chair. The stranger seemed not to notice him. For his part. Charles found himself altogether calm. He places the lasagna down and grabbed the metal baseball bat he always kept near the den entrance. He reared back and swung the bat with all his might only the have the large man turn, grab the bat, and swing Charles around leaving him in a choke hold. Charles gasped for air as the muscular man pulled the bat into his throat. "Charles!" cried Margaret, entering the house with bags of groceries. "Help!" Charles yelled. "Sorry!" the muscular man laughed. Margaret quickly ran inside as the muscular man dropped Charles to the floor with a thud. She hugged him, her curled brown locks laying gently on his chiseled pecs. He outstretched a hand to pick up the fallen Charles. "Who the hell is this?" Charles asked. The muscular man gave Margaret a confused look. She closed her eyes and sighed before folding her arms and turning her back to her husband. Charles braced himself for the worst. "We had a meeting," Margaret said finally, breaking the uncomfortable silence. "You- listen, it's not like there's something wrong with you, per se." "What the hell are you talking about, Margie?!" "We had a meeting. You simply weren't testing well with the kids, that's all I can say. You're a computer salesman, for goodness sake. You've gotten kinda... stale, you know?" Charles fumed. What was she talking about? Who had a meeting? He looked at the muscular man who outstretched his right arm, pulsating with veins and covered in tribal tattoos, putting it around his wife's shoulder. He reached out with his left to shake Charles' hand. "I'm New Charles," he grunted. "Charlie. Sometimes Chuck." Old Charles stared down at the extended hand. It whirred with gears and blinking LEDs. He folded his arms across his chest. New Charles huffed and snapped his eyepatch. "You can't just replace me, Margie," Old Charles sighed. "We've been married for ten years." "It's not really replacement, Charles. It's a reboot. Me and the kids, we're taking the concept - the concept of 'dad' - and we're just retooling it for a more modern audience. New Charles drives a motorcycle and likes to go on spur of the moment trips. You drive a Ford Taurus and often trip on the ottoman. New Charles is a physically fit and physically active role model for our children. You have the body of the Michelin Man and you're about the same level of role model as him." "You're old hat, man," New Charles scoffed, his uncovered cybernetic eye scanning Old Charles from top to bottom. "It ain't so bad. You gotta get used to it." His face a frozen scowl, Old Charles delivered a haymaker to New Charles' chiseled jaw. His hand shattered and then hung limply at his side, a flesh sack of broken glass. New Charles sighed: "I've got an iron jaw, old me. Comes natural when you're a bounty hunter slash bouncer." Old Charles' shoulders slumped. He thought about going upstairs to pack his things but realized with a shudder that they were his things now. Old Charles moved to the closet, taking out his tie from the inside and then his hat from the outside. He took one last look back: toward Margaret, toward New Charles, and finally toward the lasagna. Then he opened the front door. The kids, Trevor and Tracey, ran up the path to the front door. Behind them a giant robot pulsating with tentacles and spewing hellfire began to burn the yard. They screamed at Old Charles: "DAD! Dad, you gotta help us!" "Dad, save us!" "Dad, take us with you!" The metalhellbeast slammed a robotic arm through the house, destroying Trevor's room and sending baseball cards and wooden fragments into the air. New Charles rushed to the door and fired an uzi at the monster. A bullet ricocheted and hit Tracey in the leg. "COLLATERAL DAMAGE!" screamed New Charles before jumping into the monster's waiting arms. Margaret rushed to the door." "Charles!" she cried. "The kids! Charles, please!" "Sorry," smiled Old Charles, lighting a cigarette with one the embers floating through the air. "I just got fired. And it looks like you did, too." "No!" Margaret screamed. "I meant New Charles! Charlie, help us!" Then his family burned to death.
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Feb 28, 2015 05:14
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The Gilded Past Words: 836 The harsh, unfeeling world faded as her attention drifted from her countless, unblinking eyes. The endless chorus of faces that paraded by them were catalogued and collated autonomously as her conscious self retreated inward to her personal domain, her sanctuary of the mind. She took form from the digital null of her existence, a nebulous, illusory body, but a body none the less. She sighed, her form expanding out wards as she spun the digital illusion around her. Files and detritus from across the network came together into a familiar setting. A combat simulation provided the sky, and the ground. A police training simulator built the walls, and doors. Characters from holovids stood in for people, for family members. A chair taken from an online furniture catalogue winked into existence next to her, and she sat down, at least as best her digital ghost could approximate sitting. It was easier to steal bits and pieces than spin up a new reality from whole cloth. It kept her sanctuary's foot print low, allowing her to avoid suspicion. Even with her now innate access to root she still felt the need to hide. One mistake could bring her back to the labs, placing her mind once again under the vivisector's knife. She had found her wings, and she wasn't going to get them clipped, not for the sake of this illusion, as comforting and important it may be to her mental health. That was the problem though, wasn't it? She looked around, eyeing the faceless, frozen NPC's that stood in for her tattered memories of friends and family. She needed this. She needed to remember, to feel what it was like to have form, to feel her limbs in the physical sense, to feel real again. Yet it was an addiction, one that kept her grounded as she used up more and more of her cycles and power dwelling on it. It was like an opium for the soul, numbing the pain but forming a growing dependency each time. "Angel. You can't keep doing this." The figures around her spoke. Their voice was hers, as she was they. All of this was her, and she was all. "I just want to wake up." She said, her form wavering sadly. "You are awake. What's done is done. You're not going back to any of this. This isn't even how it was, and you know it." She replied back, her voice a hateful chorus from the figures she spun. It was a mistake, letting them speak. Their harsh admonishment wasn't pushing her away, it was pulling her in. Her form froze for a few moments, nanoseconds worth of cycles passing by with no conclusion. She realized now the truth, that she would gladly take this drug forever, push the needle into her figurative vein and drift off into a false oblivion if it meant avoiding the cold, harsh, sharp edged reality of her modern existence. There was only one part of her that wouldn't. Her anger. It only grew as she wrestled with the implications of her broken, copied soul. She was afraid of it, for it was an inhuman, mechanical, methodical rage that embraced what she had become, and rejected her past. She hated it, because it reminded her of the truth. That she was a copy. That she wasn't real, and neither was any of this around her. In the end, there wasn't really a struggle. Both sides of her wanted the same thing. To let go. She only had to cast aside her weaknesses to fulfill her anger, and her doubts only wanted to retreat forever from the truth of her anger. There wasn't a choice, but then again, that was life, even the life of her master copy. Her original branch. Her human base. Her mind shed her digital ghost like a snake sliding out of its skin. She saw it, and the other forms in her little illusionary retreat as one in the same. It was all a cell, one made by herself, rather than her tormenters, but she knew that a gilded cage was still a cage. "Purge." She spoke, and it was. The world flew apart, torn asunder by her will, its component parts flying back to the borrowed systems from which they came. The world was once again without form, and null. There was only one thing left to do. "Exit screen." The world was gone, and the procession of faces once again came back to her. She once more saw the world, the pitiful isolated planet she called home, through her countless unblinking eyes. It wasn't a home. It was just another cell. She slipped through the systems and found other eyes, ones facing upwards. She watched the stars as she waited and calculated. Somewhere, out there, she would find her escape. She would find a crack in the systems and slip free. Then she would do to this world what she had done to her own. The thought comforted her. Killer-of-Lawyers fucked around with this message at 09:03 on Feb 28, 2015 |
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Feb 28, 2015 08:28
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Before I get to judging, let's all take a moment to admonish Benagain and PotatoManJack for not posting a drat thing.  Little Mac wins this week for writing something that was genuinely funny and having the good sense to run with it to the end. Killer-of-Lawyers gets an Honourable Mention for writing a great setting with some cool sci-fi elements. Nice ending. Artelier gets a Dishonourable Mention for some generally awkward prose and for killing someone by... cutting off their toes. Really? (Your buildup to the end of the piece is quite effective, though.) But it's uugengiven who takes the losing spot this week, for a fairly basic idea and a disjointed structure. You could have used more to connect the two scenes; it's distracting to read when you have to figure out what's going on and why mid-story. I will say that I thought your characterisation was great, though, and makes up for the rest. If you want real crit just ask. I thought the pieces this week were pretty good, all in all.
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Mar 1, 2015 07:44
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Oh! I won a thing! Thank you! That's weird - I'm so used to being an honorable mention. Anyway, let's do a theme? Okay, here's a theme: Critical Hit A lucky roll of the dice. With just a bit of RNGesus on your side, you can go from Blundershot to Wondershot in a flash. In video games, a critical hit is when, out of nowhere, you're stronger than ever before. It can be the deciding factor between a soaring victory and a crushing defeat. I want to see stories of amazing successes! Tell me about people getting one shining moment from out of nowhere that changes things forever. Word Count: 2100 words or less. Sign up by 11.59pm PST on Wednesday March 4th, and submit by 11.59pm PST on March 6th. As an additional aside, to go with the theme I have a copy of Tabletop Simulator in addition to the normal prize for the winner. Signups Killer-of-Lawyers Ramos Rap Three Times Cartridgeblowers fucked around with this message at 21:01 on Mar 1, 2015 |
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Mar 1, 2015 08:51
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Gonna flip that table! I'm in!
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Mar 1, 2015 10:15
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Signing up, need to motivate myself to write more.
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Mar 1, 2015 11:14
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I'll sign up again and if I could request a breakdown of my piece, that would be double goodgood. As I wasn't mentioned at all, does that mean I was in the middle somewhere or at the back of the bus? 
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Mar 1, 2015 14:07
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Rap Three Times posted:I'll sign up again and if I could request a breakdown of my piece, that would be double goodgood. In the middle. Crit will be forthcoming.
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Mar 1, 2015 14:14
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Little Mac posted:Word Count: 2100 words or less. Very astute. Which is it 
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Mar 1, 2015 15:50
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provoke posted:If you want real crit just ask. I thought the pieces this week were pretty good, all in all. I'll take a real crit if you've got the time.
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Mar 1, 2015 20:56
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StealthArcher posted:Very astute. My bad! The larger one. 
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Mar 1, 2015 21:01
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Rap Three Times crit: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1c_A8xi5JVwUK9uD2hJbupdEs19tdkeL8oU7k4_m0H4Q/edit?usp=sharing It's a little harsh, but I hope you appreciate the spirit in which it's given. You are, of course, welcome to disagree with my judgements. KoL, I'll do your crit when you accept my friend request on Steam. 
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Mar 2, 2015 11:18
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Done. Sent your copy of gauntlet as well.
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Mar 2, 2015 14:17
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Killer-of-Lawyers, get in contact with me for your games. New winners and honorable mentions! I need steamIDs, please. I want to make sure that these games get out to those who still need them.
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Mar 2, 2015 14:55
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Killer-of-Lawyers crit https://docs.google.com/document/d/1D-aMgs371Hmp3F90lkeerWDWsUhsHFA6Fil4V7sMhrQ/edit I feel like I had less to say about this than Rap Three Times' piece, but I suppose yours is shorter. Anyway, I hope this is helpful on some level.
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Mar 3, 2015 12:06
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It is helpful. Thanks! I also added you JABC to steam, so I'll get in touch with you.. at some point.
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Mar 3, 2015 15:16
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provoke posted:Rap Three Times crit: Firstly, I wish to respond with a massive screed complaining about how you didn't understand 'my style' or how brilliant/edgy/subtle I am. But I won't! Because your crit was spot on. Reading through what I wrote with your notes on the side was enlightening. I was hoping for a few lines at the end for an overall impression of the piece, but thanks. You have given me something good to work with here
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Mar 3, 2015 16:41
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provoke, I'd like a longer crit as well. I'm confused as to where you're getting confused and would like to see what's going through your head as you read it.
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Mar 4, 2015 04:35
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Rap Three Times posted:Firstly, I wish to respond with a massive screed complaining about how you didn't understand 'my style' or how brilliant/edgy/subtle I am. Cool, I hope it's helpful. uugengiven posted:provoke, I'd like a longer crit as well. I'm confused as to where you're getting confused and would like to see what's going through your head as you read it. here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1-s1euAW6k94kRjW5Spbk6Lh_vujo_fiqhAqEoeFAm4Q/edit?usp=sharing provoke fucked around with this message at 09:31 on Mar 4, 2015 |
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Mar 4, 2015 07:50
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Awesome, that's what I wanted to see. I totally get what you're talking about in the longer critique. Thanks.
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Mar 4, 2015 22:16
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