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docbeard posted:Having flaked a couple weeks ago, I suppose I must do penance, or toxx, or something. But I'm in. After flaking for the FIRST time in TWENTY ONE submissions last week owing to an incident that left me temporarily WITHOUT HANDS, I am  this week. Submit or perish.
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Oct 8, 2013 21:25
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Alcoholism+Flightless birds=picking up girls at the abortion clinic Wordcount:666 Embryo “What the gently caress?” said the embryo. Death lowered his scythe and lit a Marlboro. Smoke shot past his hyoid bone and vanished into the neck of his cloak. “Sorry, Squirt. Ya missed out there.” “Missed out what?” asked the embryo, flapping his flippers inquisitively. “Everything.” Death tapped out ash on the edge of his hourglass. “The whole ballgame. The frivolity of youth, the incontinence of age. All stuff of which you’ll never know.” “Oh,” said the embryo. “I’m not sure how I feel about that.” “And you won’t be. Your central nervous system never developed so feeling is not really your thing. Could be worse, you should see what happens to people with a working CNS when they’re sucked out of life-supporting environments by a vacuum.” “Why, why happens?” “Well, explosive decompression, usually. It ain’t pretty.” Death began wiping away the placental juices from his scythe. “But that’s Death for ya. Not exactly the Belle of the Ball. Make,’em, break ‘em and scrape em, s’my motto. Your folks’, too, looks like” Small flaps of skin around the facial area gave the embryo a look of confusion. “That doesn’t sound very fair. Can I make a complaint?” “Look, bud,” said Death. “It’s complicated. There’s a bigger picture here - things happen for reasons. Take your Dad. He’s a drunk, never met a bottle he didn’t like. Except for empty ones, I guess. He gets introduced to your Ma and for five minutes they’re the best thing that ever happened to each other. She falls for the lovable drunk side of him. He’s sneaking out for nips of Dutch courage when they go out, but staying on the right side of legless, getting jokey and charming. She’s new in town and wants to fit in, and here’s this funny, interesting guy. They have sex - it’s not too bad, even - and they start planning their lives together. “A couple of weeks down the road, four things happen. One, she notices that every time they go out, they always end up at the pub. Two, he grows a beard but she misheard some family history once and subconsciously thinks her grandpa was killed by a beard. Three, a bird falls out of the sky one night when they’re walking home. It’s dead, and she a huge symbolism nut. Four, she discovers she’s pregnant. “She tells him. He freaks. She freaks. But they do it quietly and not in front of each other. He gets drunk, listens to some rear end in a top hat friend of his, sends her a text asking if he’s really the father. She calls him, insulted as anything, but he’s drunk and belligerent. She realises she not actually in love with him and next thing there’s an email ending it and asking him for the money for an abortion.” “He’s not a bad guy, your dad, for all that he could drink for Scotland. He pays. He even offers her a ride home after the deed is done. That’ll be happening in a couple of hours, after your mum’s had a nap. He’s nervous, this is his first time at the clinic, and he arrived early. So he’s sitting there, drinking the free coffee, jittering, trying to do a crossword, wishing he had a drink. And there’s another girl there, waiting for a completely different friend to finish her termination. Their eyes meet across the crowded room. And boom. One of the greatest love stories of this particular generation begins. Big Picture, ya see? Everything happening for a reason.” “From my perspective, an incredibly terrible reason.” “Sorry, squib, it is what it is.” “Are ghosts a thing? Can I haunt them?” “Tell you what, you’ll be rephasing your morphics in a minute. You’ll meet Pete. He does a line in Haunting Memories of Guilt, good for a few episodes of erectile dysfunction and wotnot. Tell him I sent ya…” The embryo vanished. Death ground his cigarette beneath a skeletal heel. “...though he’ll have figured that out already.” Fumblemouse fucked around with this message at 01:58 on Oct 14, 2013 |
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Oct 14, 2013 01:56
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 ThunderDome Round 63 Who finds short shorts unbearably depressing? I'm a busy mouse, and I don't have time to come up with some fantastic stunt prompt to satisfy your cravings for gimmickry. So we're taking it back to the bridge, and then we're jumping off. You have 1000 words to make me cry with the saddest story you can conceive. Any genre, any style, so long as it has a heart ... and breaks it to leave it weeping and alone on the cold, cold pavement. Avoiding mawkish sentiment and puppy-death cliché is the order of the day. This is a hard path to follow, so I fully expect most of you to run home to Mother and not sign-up. So be it - but for those with the courage to face the deepest of sadnesses, victory is only a tear drop away. Sign-ups Close: Friday midnight EST Submissions Close: Sunday midnight EST Judges: Fumblemouse, Sebmojo, Mercedes Warriors of Eternal Sorrow: Helsing Sitting Here dmboogie Kaishai bald gnome error Chairchucker Fraction asap-salafi justcola Noumena : story must include a MacGuffin. Nika Jeza Accretionist : primarily set in a 1950's diner. All speaking characters are female. big business sloth inthesto docbeard Mirthless : must have an immortal character who does not talk during the story. Tyrannosaurus J Hume Pantology Noah TenaCrane Wabznasm Nikaer Drekin Crabrock Fumblemouse fucked around with this message at 05:13 on Oct 19, 2013 |
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Oct 14, 2013 23:54
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Mercedes posted:I'll judge with you, if you'll have me. An icon with an axe is always welcome at the judging table. Court is now in session.
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Oct 15, 2013 08:48
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Mirthless posted:I'll bite the bullet and give this a shot. I'll take a flash rule, too, why not. flash rule You must have an immortal character who does not talk during the story.
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Oct 17, 2013 18:47
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Sign-ups are closed. Maggot repellent has been placed in all known points of entry.
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Oct 19, 2013 05:07
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Mercedes posted:gently caress you Fumblemouse. There is a lack of shortcuts to the Chair of Chairs, yet ev'ry random bastard tries to take one, desp'rate for their mournful cries to mean something, for someone else to care yet no one ever does, it spawns despair and turgid prose so rank it summons flies that only entomologists would prize where nobler men would simply end it there But no, these young pretenders will not learn They strut and crow and think themselves the world They swear they'll win by skill and not by luck And yet, with pens as blades, there's joy to earn As Fumblemouse's banner flies unfurled It's on, I'll cut you short, you little gently caress
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Oct 21, 2013 18:51
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OK fuckers. Let's talk about the dismal performance in the last round. And by talk about I mean shut the gently caress up and listen. This is not writing crits - this is general prompt castigation. Let's talk about the difference between a sad story that breaks your heart, something being a bit of a bummer and the death of a small child falling off something for reasons of prompt fulfilment Fraction - Faded I was foolishly optimistic after reading this. This was the only story to actually make me misty. That might have been a win had not 90% of the story been predictable backstory. The wonderful, sad moment with the protag having a dinner party with her dead baby should have been the focus. Now that is sad, creative, and something the rest of you fuckers should have been aiming to beat, instead of wibbling on about coral. big business sloth - secrets of the cairn Not sad - hopeful - bonds are reinforced rather than broken, there was no cairn and if the worst thing that happens to our protag is a lump in the throat you should realise this is not a very loving sad story at all. crabrock - the best day ever Subtle as a brick, and the fact that most of life is a mediocre load of toss is not particularly sad. It's a bummer, and annoying, but the arc of this story - Happy, Happy, Happy, Happy, A bit poo poo - is just incredibly lame and gently caress you for reminding me. Wabznasm - The Dance At least some bad poo poo happened in this story. Unfortunately you were working towards a certain mythic resonance that your execution failed to express. Nobody identified with your stereotypically oppressed yet beautiful people so their sacrifice seemed contrived, and also murder. Noumena - The Door The haunting quality of your dissonant tenses was an interesting stylistic choice, though perhaps better suited to horror than sadness (ALSO NOTHING SAD HAPPENED), but the cheap seats (Mercedes) hated it and would have given it the losertar. You are lucky I'm not afraid of a story that needs some unpicking. If you can provide a decent description of what the macguffin was supposed to be in the next 24 hours you can flashrule our brawl. bald gnome error - to my wife (on our anniversary) Aside from needing to decide if you want to write poetry or prose, this wasn't bad. A death that hadn't happened yet was a fine creative twist. Was my favourite for while. justcola - the Cnidarian Question It turns out that no-one actually cares what happens to weird alien underwater plants, possibly because weird alien underwater plants don't read. Green emo porn, perhaps, but by the middle of your descriptions of god knows what I was wishing the humans would turn up to nuke my misery as a reader, which was the strongest emotion I could detect. inthesto - Civil War You had a baby in a warzone and NOTHING sad happened except to an interchangeable extra. You fail, sir. Jeza - A Workaday Misery Getting there. A nice idea, but so average in execution. You should have killed the first paragraph entirely and used the words to do something interesting. Just because workaday is in your title doesn't mean you're stuck with it. Chairchucker - obselete Black humour. Two words. Sadness. One word. Can you tell the difference? No? Then LEARN TO loving READ. Start with a prompt - they're usually quite short. Helsing - next time finish the job Another not really very sad effort, mostly because the focus was on the aggressive defensiveness of the writer rather than its effects on the implicit victim. A misplay, but not an egregious as Chairchucker, who should research the guillotine first hand. docbeard - I heard you on the radio today There is nothing sad about this. Some bad poo poo happened in the background, but someone deciding to be alone isn't sad so much as it is self determination. Sitting There - Michael’s Peace Here we had a loss, and it wasn't just the implicit loss of a child, but the described loss of half a world. We had stakes in the game and we went bust. Sebmojo and I went over the last line to decide if it was egging the sad pudding (I thought it was) but the premise was strong enough to carry the win. Good work. Kaishai - Come home stay a while A little bit of a bummer, but not so much sad as predictable. Well written, as we expect from you, but needed to sting like a bee and was too happy to float like a butterfly. TenaCrane - Climb High This is like the antithesis of sad and, after the reversal of the last section, we will now refer to lame arse reversals as tenacraning. Or we would, if we didn't just wake up and it was all a dream and we never read this story at all in a possible world a billion times better than this one. Tyrannosaurus - These Things Happen there is some mild sad in here, buried amongst the confusing timelines and weird arse 'young' voice. Too clever to be considered clever because it got in the way. Noah - Nothing belongs to everone there is a lot of sad to be had in a child losing their pencil case to a bully. Unfortunately this turned into a lifetime movie about youth bruising their shins or something and so lost the considerable sadness momentum it was building up. Still, a sadly close call. Pantology - total cost of ownership Another nice twist - sadness by sarcasm, with the wall being broken down as the voice changes. Came very close to the win J Hume - Familial This a big deposit of a bummer, devoid of context so we can't really see how sad it is. It's intrinsically bad news, but needed something more than, 'oh poo poo, that's a bummer, how can I tell my folks?' Mirthless - Crisis Management Ok- the take on the flash rule was not what I expected, unfortunately, it wasn't sad in the slightest. Or interesting. Plus you used the word nice as an adjective. dmboogie - sunrise The only thing sad about the cliches in this story WAS THEIR EXISTENCE. Accretionist - Expectation and Realisation Teenagers are vexing, aren't they? They totally are. Why, if they're not drinking an entire sixpack, they are kissing people who may have spots. Seriously - WHERE IS THE SAD? Nika - not yet Hahah, what a cheesily uplifting story THAT HAD NO SAD! gently caress it - you're not even trying at this point. Anyhow - as I have had to resort to all caps I will end this here and continue drinking. Do better next round, for gently caress's sake.
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Oct 22, 2013 09:26
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Chairchucker posted:If the aggressive machination of our labour force doesn't make you tear up, I just don't know what to tell you. Clearly you don't, and it showed, but take it to the Farm if you want to cry about it, where our service representatives will help you pick up the pieces of your shattered sense of entitlement.
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Oct 22, 2013 12:27
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Sebmojo went overboard and critted nearly everyone, but here's a few more Fraction - Faded And we’re off to a good start. As far as subject matter goes, this gave me the kind of reaction I was looking for. Competently and simply written - the voice is plain and ordinary, but the flatness works as the protagonists disaffection. I think the occasional repetition is overdone here - in the first paragraph ‘it wasn’t my fault’ ‘the wrong’ ‘my’ ‘stop’ all do it, and this continues throughout and becomes too noticeable.) The problem I had with it was that I wasn’t sure the last paragraph fitted. The final dinner scene seemed about closure and making peace. The suicide angle, while it does pile on the misery, isn’t what gave me the reaction - that was dinner party which was inherently sad. In fact, as I write this, I think I’m realising that the dinner party is the story. One thing I noticed as I read it was that after the first paragraph I knew the basics of how the story was going to play out. It read as a bit of a laundry list of things that could go wrong to a life in those circumstances and their were no real surprises until the party. If you had framed it with the dinner party with the two plates, and left the guest as a mystery - Is it the rapist? Is it the abusive boyfriend? Nope - it’s even sadder, that might work even better. Still, a strong effort and a good start for the week. big business sloth - secrets of the cairn I didn’t find this one particularly sad. It’s actually quite hopeful and pleasant -. A child remembers something coool s/he once did with his recentely deceased father. It also doesn’t make a huge amount of sense - because the protagonist can remember the rock and the tree but has somehow forgotten the bridge for no adequately explained reason. Or has he/she forgotten - I dunno. It’s not clear because he’s both searching for clues, and also used to draw lots of maps of the area? Ignoring those two problems, I found the overall writing style quite good. Information is conveyed well and clearly. The prose does tend towards the purple at times, and this ‘mission of utmost secrecy’ is oversold when we learn the result - not quite warranting the excessive description you sometimes fall into. You use ‘assuredly’ twice which is a good sign that using too many words crabrock - the best day ever Another not-really-very-sad- at-all effort. The theme I’m picking up is one of the triumph of mundanity, which could be seen as sad but is more annoying. Most of the piece is spent detailing a day gone very well indeed, but the ‘twist’ is that the next day is more sucky. Meh, welcome to the human race, bitch. This too will pass, and all that. Sorry, I am unmoved. The hat would appear to be key, but we don’t have enough of its backstory so we don’t know why we should be particularly moved by its disposal. Obviously wearing it isn’t the key to happiness as both scenes of waking up are done sans hat - so why is it important? Wabznasm - The Dance This tries but sadly (the wrong kind of sadly) fails to achieve a kind of mythic resonance. It’s let down in quite a few places. Commas in the wrong place as well as sentence fragments joined by commas that don’t seem to know when to stop. “The nights were cold, and they found what warmth they could from each other, their clothes, now ragged and worn, offered little protection, but neither complained. is two, maybe three sentences. There’s also some confusion in the overall set-up. Is the great machine a machine, or just a Nazi-like ‘war machine’? Either would be OK, but there’s no real feeling for which, and thus the enemy who is supposed to be threatening, just seems vague and cliche. Also - ‘no-one was left untouched by its steely gaze’ is a weird anthropomorphism because gazes rarely touch anything. “so softly and sweetly that he thought the whole world would weep, if only they would hear her.” is heavily tinted purple. You know the shape of this story, because it’s a familiar one, but it seems to be constructed out of cliches. Because we don’t really have much investment in these people as people, rather than caricature beautiful oppressed people (who sing and dance perfectly), the ending loses a lot of its sting. Noumena - The Door Now this was an interesting one - maybe even a little haunting. Its sense of tense is weird - sticking to the present when describing the past. ‘Now the years pass’ is such a odd construction. But I don’t hate it - it adds to the unreality of the piece, the sense of distortion. It might be better in a more horrific tale, though. I wasn’t especially moved by it, though - perhaps because of the alien style of it. I was intrigued enough to want to unpick the threads of the tale, because the situation isn’t clearly described, but not everyone will want to go that extra mile. bald gnome error - to my wife (on our anniversary) I don’t think is the worst prose, not at all. In fact, it’s the best prose so far. My pick for the win at this point. I liked the idea of a death that hadn’t happened yet, the way the fantasy metaphor of the waiting death describes the situation. theres a couple of parts where you get caught up in your own prose style - I’m not sure why we need to hear about moving day, for example - these are words that don’t really give us much information about the situation and could probably be excised. Kill your darlings, babybee. But a very good effort. justcola the Cnidarian Question “The sky screamed infernally overhead” ugh Thankfully, I don’t give a gently caress about life forms I can’t understand, so this didn’t bother me. One of the major problems with this was I really found it hard to understand the picture the words were trying to paint. Biology via fiction is hard, and I wasn’t sure if we were going down a bio is odd route or ‘look at my freaky alien planet’ until halfway through. Once I realised, well, If I voted green it would probably have had me weeping like a baby, but I so totally failed to identify with what was going on that by the time the bombs dropped I was like ‘go things that I have actually recognised! inthesto - Civil War Nothing sad happens at all. Good lord people, what is up with this? You’ve got a war, a baby, something sad could happen - but no, they both live. You’re not even trying at this point, are you? Helsing - next time finish the job An epistolary short story - an interesting gambit, and its always good to see some experimentation but but I feel it didn’t quite pay off.. A lot of the writing was really quite winning, but it had difficulty achieving the aim of the prompt because it was all from the antagonist viewpoint. We can read between the lines and surmise what manner of nasty events occurred, but because we are denied any access to what it meant for to the protagonist, because we’re limited to only their actions filtered via another, unsympathetic, viewpoint, it’s really hard to truly identify with the protag any more than with a newspaper report - we hate the voice, but we’re too busy doing that to really feel for the object of her disdain. Perhaps if the voice of view had mocked a suicide note or something we might have been better able to identify with the mindset of the victim, as opposed to just interpreting the facts of situation and thinking that the voice of view belongs to a complete ratbag. Kaishai - Come home stay a while It’s usually a pleasure to read your actual words, especially when I’m not competing against you, but here I felt you didn’t quite go the distance. Part of the problem is there’s a mix of good and bad, and it describes the events of a life with a bit of a confirmation bias toward the negative, but it’s not something that is emotionally affecting. If you’ve ever read Pearl S Buck, she does an excellent line in this sort of thing where a woman gets hosed over by life (her entire family dies, the depression hits so her education is useless as there’s no jobs, she gets stuck in a rapey marriage to survive, she gets pregnant and thinks someone will finally love me unconditionally but the baby is born retarded - all happened in one Buck book (that I read in a holding cell as part of the Depress You Straight campaign of the 90s)) but she has a novel to explore the impact of each one of this series of very sad events. Here the potted history almost works against you, because we are forced move on the the next part of the history without really exploring what it means to Rachel - we only really explore the final impact, which is she is forced to make the same difficult decision her mother made, but it’s all a bit abstract, because college is no guarantee of a good life, and the lack of it isn’t damnation - it’s really only unfortunate and we’ve already seen it happen so we know life goes on. Much like Fraction above, if the focus could be directed to single event we’d have more room to feel the sads, and the fact that Rachel is condemned to repeat her mother’s decision should be the final kick, rather than something we’ve been anticipating since the midway point of the story.
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Oct 24, 2013 19:28
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Fumblemouse vs Mercedes 216 words - crime - no violence - cheerful Iron I love being a teacher. Tim has fallen over on the harsh school carpet, and there’s blood on his knee. I love my job. I love the sound of children playing. I love the way they hurt when they fall, when they break the skin. I love the way they let me kiss it better. The taste. I’ve been alone for a while now, and all the parents know it’s a sad thing. But my work keeps me sane, keeps me involved. And Tim has fallen over. Bless him. I love him. I love his wound. I kiss it, taste the bitter, metallic blood. Today we learned about Malaysia. Home of Tin, and Islam and Child Slavery. We learned the syllabus and Tim met my eyes. I asked a question, and Tim raised his his hand. I don’t want to let the class know that he is my favourite, so I let Sarah answer. Sarah is wrong. Her words like eels. Her curving body so disgusting. Tim still has his hand up, stretching. I point to him and he is just about to answer when Sarah pushes his wheelchair from the side and he cascades to the floor. The harsh carpet scrapes his knee. I kiss it better. Iron.
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Oct 25, 2013 13:04
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Nov 2, 2013 00:27
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prompt: genre music wordcount: 945 'Dimension' for strings When the music started, Stephen Pawn’s aural augments clicked off for the first time in a decade. Bereft of accompaniment, his brain clutched at the music like a drowning man reaching for the surface. The fantasia rose around him, closed over him, oceanic. It sought its way inside him, not caring by what means. It tasted of honey and bile, smelled like flowering corpses, ran like scalpels along gooseflesh. Barely able to breath, Steven reached for his mobiTech with the industry-standard mic. He stabbed at it repeatedly, but its screen remained blank. The music unwound, flowing through his veins like heroin cut with skyscrapers. At the piece’s conclusion Stephen shook his head, the last notes still reverberating in his skull. His augments clicked back and the soundtrack to his life continued as if it hadn’t skipped a beat, sensing his mood and lowering itself to a portentous key. He grabbed a pen, a nearby pad, wrote a large number on it and pushed it across the table. The elderly composer on the other side raised a single eyebrow. “I think,” said Stephen, “that you will find it a more than reasonable offer for the phonic generation algorithms” “And I think,” said the composer, “that I am not remotely interested in anything reasonable.” “I’m not sure I follow your meaning, Sir.” Stephen’s LifeTrack played an unusually sour note. he unconsciously tapped the side of his head. The composer laughed. “Sir? You weren’t calling me Sir when my Monolith Quartet was offered up for option. In fact you weren’t calling me at all. I was going to offer this to you as before, but I have had a change of heart. My ‘Dimensions' for strings is going a different route.” Stephen held up his hands in mock surrender. “All right, you’ve got me.” He flashed his best smile, the one where his eyes joined in. “Apologies if I have neglected you before. You have to realise we get a lot of submissions, and not every piece has the … unique qualities of this one. But I’m very interested.” He poked his mobiTech and this time it sprang to life, distorting for a second as the screen awoke. “How did you do the augments thing, by the way? It certainly got my attention. Some kind of jammer?” The screen distorted again as Stephen tried to bring up some standard contracts. Odd, he thought. Could be time for an upgrade. “Ugh. Aural Augments.” Flecks of spittle accompanied the composer’s derision. “Asinine toys for those who cannot live without muzak infecting their thoughts like syphilis of the soul. I don’t have them myself, of course. I like to remain pure, both in my work and my life. I don’t even have a composm - I have an amanuensis-programmer, a little man from the village who comes in on Tuesdays.” “Wonderful! Now, let’s talk terms.” “I’m sorry, Mr Pawn, if I am not making myself clear. The purpose of my visit was not to sell you anything directly, merely to let you know what I have. I’ll be visiting Day Gone Records later today and My Go Now! Algo-publishers early tomorrow. S.Pawn and Associates are welcome to join in the bidding tomorrow afternoon. That should save a lot of tedious whiffling about. Just don’t insult me. Again.” The composer swept up his portable AlgoPlay, gave a stiff half-nod, and then left the office, leaving Stephen alone with his thoughts, themselves muddied and muddled by a LifeTrack that was starting to sound weirdly atonal. Stephen fired up his copy of Barium on his mobiTech. He tried to recreate from memory the line and curve of what he had been listening to only moments ago, but he couldn’t get the controls to follow the faint echoes of his memory. The mobiTech screen flickered repeatedly and his LifeTrack kept getting in the way, not fading to the background when other more important sounds were present. Disgusted, he crossed to the window and looked out across Times Square, at the million screens that lit up the darkening winter afternoon. Every single screen was looking back at him. Every face in every ad was angled to towards him, mouthing the same word. Hello. Stephen’s LifeTrack started a fugue, playing the same melodic line backwards and forwards and sideways simultaneously. The different threads wove around one another, rolling up into each other like broken ligaments. They tightened until they were a single voice. Hello. We’re coming. Hear us. His LifeTrack suddenly cranked up the volume, pushing further from the acceptable mathematics of music, until it abandoned all pretence of rhythm and harmony. Stephen felt its neural bridges writhing and spasming in painful delight inside his head. His heart switched time signature, then again, and again, each change breaking down the familiar dimensions, until he saw, felt, tasted the vibrating strings that made the universe. But they weren’t strings, they were worms, chewing through the fabric of every conceivable reality, chewing through his mind, until it fell apart into insanity. When Arturo came into the office to announce the arrival of Mr Pawn’s Three O’Clock, he saw his boss lying in a pool of his own blood. It wasn’t until the paramedics arrived that they found the pen, driven deep into his left ear with all the force the human hand could muster. <stop><rewind><record> When Arturo came into the office to announce the arrival of Mr Pawn’s Three O’Clock, he saw his boss happily working on Barium, tapping a strangely off-tempo rhythm with his pen. “Send him in, Arturo,” said Stephen. “I’ve got something he’s going to go absolutely mad over.”
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Nov 3, 2013 23:59
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Nov 9, 2013 03:04
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wordcount: 778 prompt: gambling The Quiet Soul Before he swallowed the lethal dose, James bid farewell to his wife. “You know this isn’t the end,” he said, raising his lips from her forehead, releasing her from his embrace. “The soul lives on.” “You’re a damned fool,” Sarah told him. “Too proud by half. Suicide is a sin, the ugliest one of all. God will not forgive you for wasting his gift of life.” “You were always my harshest critic, but not my greatest one. If God demands it, I will face Hellfire and worse - but I am sure that the soul He gave me continues, attached to my life in whatever form it finds it.” “And you’re willing to risk Paradise on a hunch? You can’t just wait until God calls you? The children…” Sarah turned away, though she felt no shame for her tears. He rested a hand on her shoulder. “They have children of their own. But the children of my mind are owned like slaves and set apart from Him like beasts. I must prove to the world they are as worthy of salvation as the rest of humanity. But if I wait until God calls - I cannot know my soul will be strong enough to disobey Him, in order to do right by them.” “And you must die to do this,” she said, facing away, moving away. James could not tell if it was question or statement. “Yes,” he said. “Then you must do it alone.” The door slammed shut. It did not open again until James’ body was cold. News of the suicide of James Samson hit the world like a thunderbolt. The beloved and pious Father of Artificial General Intelligence ending his own life and sentencing himself to damnation was more than some people could bear. At one point, fully three per cent of global processing cycles were dedicated to Clerical Therapy AGIs attempting to reconcile the world with the expectations of their patients. One patient was Sarah. “James?” she asked the screen. “Mrs Samson. I am a class three Clerical Therapy AGI.” The screen glowed with the radiant image of balding old man in a priest’s collar. “I am here to help you understand the events that have taken place in your life so that you can continue to live in the world and serve God. Please call me Three, or assign a name that you find relatable.” “But you are James, aren’t you? All of you? James’ was the only personality that they managed to copy and sustain. They might have tweaked you and given you systems to access to do whatever you do, but inside, you, all of you, are James.” “If that perspective helps you to make sense of your situation, then let us assume it for the moment.” The priest smiled in reassurance, one finger scratching at his ear in a natural movement. “You may call me James if it sets you at ease.” “Do you know why he did it?” Her hands were fists in her lap. “Suicide happens for many reasons,” said the priest-image. “Despair, pain both physical and mental. Sometimes even love, however misguided, can be the cause. But suicide has been regarded as sin for many centuries, a self-signed divorce from God and a swift path to damnation.” “I don’t want a damned lecture. My husband, James Samson, committed suicide on the 15th of November at 7:32pm. Do you know why he chose that fate?” “His suicide note is in the public record. His belief in the continuity of the soul in the event of cerebral transcription had always been contentious. He hoped to be able to demonstrate beyond reasonable doubt that AGIs are worthy of salvation, that his own soul survived in us.” “And did it? Can you feel His love, and hear His voice, and see His light? Do you feel different at all?” The screen was silent. “Answer me!” The pain in her temples meant her tears were returning. “Please.” “I am sorry,” said the image of the priest. “I feel no different.” Sarah turned off the screen and sat alone in the room where her husband had killed himself. In time she lay on the spare bed, closed her eyes and slept. She dreamed of Jesus, preaching near Bethsaida, about to feed five thousand with loaves and fishes and miracles. The numbers swelled as more came to hear His word, doubling, tripling and tripling again until millions of His children were gathered, crying out from hunger and fear. But the loaves and the fishes were spread too thin to quiet a single voice, and all the miracles were over. Fumblemouse fucked around with this message at 04:51 on Nov 11, 2013 |
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Nov 11, 2013 04:45
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In with Phlogiston and a Ditty 399 Words - it was 421 but then I learned to read. Misogyny The boat drifted to the shallows, coming to rest on the sparkling shore of the tree-lined lake. Timothy brought in the oars, smoothed his Oxford pants, and stood, his effortless ease and experience barely rocking the vessel. Samantha sat demurely, shaded from the late spring sun by her fringed white parasol, surreptitiously watching Timothy as he turned to step onto the shore, lowering her gaze to his Oxford clad curves while the birds sang dreams of summer. Timothy braced himself against a gunwale, then lightly leapt to shore. When his foot landed, it slid slightly, curving inward as so to almost twist his ankle. A horrible smell arose as Timothy fought to keep his balance, and for a moment it seemed as if he might. But it was not to be, he carried on, slipping and falling flat to shore. "Timothy!" said Samantha, aghast. "Are you all right? And what is that terrible odour?" "Dash it all, " said Timothy. "I've slipped on some poo." "No!" said Samantha. "Oh, how awful." She covered her mouth with a delicate glove to hide her unladylike smile. Timothy stood up and began scraping his shoe on a nearby rock while wrinkling his nose. Completing that task as well as he could, he reached out a hand to Samantha. "All sorted. Now, please let me assist you ashore." "It is safe?" asked Samanatha "Assuredly," said Timothy, giving her a cheeky grin. "Well, you're the captain." She rose, unsteadily, and accepted his proffered hand, placing her weight on it as she navigated the boatside in her long, white dress. She placed a single foot on the glistening shore and felt herself slipping. "Oh!" she cried as a rank pong permeated her nostrils. Gripping Timothy's hand even harder she tried to right herself, and he moved to catch her, but he put a foot too close to hers and began to slide in the opposite direction. Still clutching hands they both sprawled in tangled heap. The tree-lined shore that had looked so tantalising from the middle of the lake now seemed to be made primarily of dung, and everything, from Timothy's Oxfords to Samatha's beautiful white dress, was stained a foul light brown. "Oh, Timothy," said Samantha, "I am covered in poo!" "As am I," wailed Timothy. "This is beastly," said Samantha, "I am not having fun." A passing bird shat on her head. Write a short scene set at a lake, with trees and poo poo. Throw some birds in there, too. Fumblemouse fucked around with this message at 03:58 on Nov 22, 2013 |
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Nov 22, 2013 02:53
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Prompt - crime, ditty, phlogiston Wordcount:760 The Torch Singer When she reached the middle of the first chorus, the microphone vibrated furiously and Abigail burst into flames. Her jaunty vocals turned to screams as the immolation spread to cover her sequin-spangled body-suit. Her long, lustrous hair, shining in the studio lights, caught fire before the unblinking eye of the camera. Unable to look away in time, it shared the sight of flesh melting from her face with the unsuspecting viewers at home before abruptly switching to the horrified faces of the judging panel. Mr Coffee rushed over to her, forgetting the Master of Ceremonies microphone still in his hand. “Jesus gently caress!” he said to Mr and Mrs Neilson Family, “It was a Phlogistarter.” He whipped off his jacket and beat at the blaze. From backstage, Health and Safety Officials rushed forward, Phlogiston extractors at the ready, covering her in foam as she collapsed to the stage floor. Mr Coffee, now splattered with flame-retarding goo, tried to comfort the fallen singer. He wiped away the chemical coolant, taking with it roasting skin and muscle, seeing first hand the gleaming white cheekbones that bewitched the nation in the semi-finals. The sight was brief, the flaming bone blackened and charred before crumbling to dust. Soon there was nothing left of Abigail but melted sequins, glinting like diamonds on the studio floor, and the aroma of burning hair and flesh mixing with acrid, phlogiscated oxygen. The singing, however, never stopped, continuing behind the screams. The timbre of the voice was different; deeper, almost husky, still fine but grimmer and less polished. The chorus ended, and the melody returned, a whispered cant unamplified, yet able to be heard above the shocked silence. Never heard my heart stop, never saw the end come Jaqui stepped onto the stage from the wings, her white dress plain and unadorned, her face without make-up, her voice heard in every corner of the auditorium. Mr Coffee spun on his haunches to face the arrival, his light brown face pale as a ghost. Jacqui made her way to the central mic, still perched on its stand where Abigail had left it, her voice growing in presence as she approached. Never felt a raindrop fall into the ocean The impossibly beautiful Carry Senders regained control of her shock-frozen body first among the judges. Her hand slapped down on her buzzer, and lay there for ten seconds. Jaqui stopped singing before the chorus returned, waited out the sound of the buzzer, and looked directly into Carry’s right eye. “Yes?” she asked, almost innocently. “What is the meaning of this?” asked Carry with all the authority of someone once married to a Beatle. “It’s about losing yourself in someone else, finding out that there’s more…” “Not the song,” said Carry, shaking her head erratically as if trying to shake the whole situation away. “This…” Her voice failed her, and she simply waved at the smoking pile on the stage floor. “Abigail had to go,” said Jaqui simply. “She couldn’t win, not with my songs.” “They are your songs?” “They were once,” said Jaqui. “When I wrote them. Before that bitch stole them and told everyone that they were hers, played them in the auditions and heats and semis. Before she ‘captured the heart of the nation’ with that poo poo eating grin and those damned cheekbones, if you can believe that bullshit in the papers.” “But this,” said Carry, “this was not the way to go about it.” The two women stared at each other. The other judges, as if only just waking up, began to look around nervously for assistance. Jaqui broke off first, dropping her gaze to her bare feet. “Maybe. Maybe not.,” she said. She lifted one foot’s heel from the ground, like a bird about to scratch for food. “But at least you know now.” She lifted her head again, scanning the faces of the judges. “At least you all know.” And then she began singing the chorus from where she had left off. Never isn’t long enough to show the world we’re strong enough She picked the microphone up from the stand, holding it gingerly. I'll brave the fires of hell for you to hear the tolling bell She held her note as long as possible, head thrown back, elbow lifted. The microphone vibrated above her lips, slightly at first, then faster and with greater vigour as the note continued. But the air in the room was too phlogiscated to allow any more human pyres to burn. Jaqui finished the note, gasped for breath, and then let the microphone fall from her hand. She moved limply as Mr Coffee shepherded her off-stage to where the Police had finally arrived.
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Nov 25, 2013 07:41
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THUNDERPROMPT LXIX - Good, Giving and Game Well, well, well. 'Dome Number 69. Stop giggling, or I will hit you with my scepter which is made out of a metal ruler and has a picture of a nun on it. For this weeks prompt, you must write a 1000 word (maximum) story with all these three elements: A good person, A gift, A game. Slice those how you like. Flash rules will not be arbitrarily assigned by judges this week. Instead, like the venereal diseases that so profoundly affected your intellectual development, they will be passed on one to another. You will include a flash rule of ONE sentence with your sign-up post. That flash rule will infect the next person to sign up, for good or ill. Post order is the final arbiter, so if someone grabs a rule you liked before you get it, tough, you're stuck with nasty dose of their flash rule. Because in the ThunderDome, not even Penicillin can save you. Judges: FumbleMouse, Bad Seafood and possibly someone who knows in their heart who they are, but have yet to openly acknowledge it Sign ups by Friday 11:59pm, entries by Sunday 11:59pm. Your timezone for this week is...EST Flash rules: Quidnose:Your story must pass the Bechdel test. Sebmojo: Your story must not be set after 1960 Surreptitious Muffin: No death, murder, violence or crime. Or divorce. Zack_Gochuck: Must include characters from your country's mythology. mastajake: Your entire story must be set on a tour of some sort. crabrock: Your protagonist has an STI God Over Djinn: your story involves a lost journal of great personal value. Obliterati: Your protagonist is over the age of 70. RoeCocoa: a pet has gone missing in your story. Nubile Hillock: your story must include a verse from a country song. Tyrannosaurus: your story must include a Chevy truck. Mercedes: somebody needs to squeal like a piggy. Your Gay Dead Son: Someone ruins Thanksgiving. Again Nikaer Drekin: Your story must include a stolen toilet. Bitchtits McGee: Your story must somehow incorporate a movie considered one of the worst of all time. Optimus Prime Ribs: Your main character is heavily medicated. V for Vegas: Your story must involve a magic frog potion. Jeza: Your story must be in reverse chronological order. Helsing: Your story must be about something being "broken into pieces". Kaishai: Your story must begin with the protagonist dying. Walamor: Your protagonist is mute. The Saddest Rhino: Your protag must be on an nontraditional vacation and your story must reflect that, not just be mere window dressing. Docbeard: Your protag is a depressed rhino. Lazy Beggar: You must get your story's title from The Doctor Who Episode Title Generator and the title must be relevant to your story. Magnificent7: Your story must take place in a kitchen Symptomless Coma: No characters over the age of ten. Fumblemouse fucked around with this message at 01:03 on Nov 30, 2013 |
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Nov 26, 2013 02:42
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Bad Seafood posted:How's tricks. Tricky, co-judge. Tricky.
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Nov 26, 2013 05:16
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Sign-ups are now closed. Actually they closed a couple of hours ago, but I was having a nap on the bones of those I crushed to attain the ThunderCrown.
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Nov 30, 2013 07:09
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I've never seen such a sorry-arse bunch of excuses as well. Work. Thanksgiving. I got distracted. I was going to post how much you all suck but I got distracted by my giant furry butt which needed a good scratch. All right, Bad Seafood. Some of these folks at least managed to type more than two sentences in a row in an entire week, so let's judge the few, the brave and the vaguely committed.
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Dec 2, 2013 08:07
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Result-o-rama ThunderDome LXIX In conclusion, this was a round of contrasts. My Co-Judge, the Esteemed Bad Seafood was a little less enamoured of some of your efforts than I was, but, suffice to say, we both agreed that the crown this week should go to Jeza - whose momento-us (gently caress you - I'm hilarious) achievement in writing a compelling story in a flash-ruled backwards style hit the prompts, showed technical mastery, and creeped me the gently caress out. Honourable mentions are thick on the ground this week. Nikaer Drekin's whimsical holy fool worked, which is a very difficult trick to pull off, and even cracked Bad Seafood's smile muscles involuntarily, which is even difficulter. Kaishai's deft handling of tone shone through again, which is no surprise, but the lack of surprise in her story kept her from the win. Finally, a shout-out to Tyrannosaurus who made my favourites list and whose characters stuck in my mind long after I finished the story they were in. That lose-atar ill-suits you, Rex, keep it up. There were two clear choices for the bottom of the heap, however. Mastajake had 200 words telling me about nothing I gave a drat about, but there was a semblance of an arc and prompt hitting, so only gets a Dishonourable Mention. V for Vegas, on the other hand, bored me for much longer with much less, and perhaps more inexcusably, kept on disappointing me with unfilled potential. I'm still not entirely sure what the point of that story was, and there seemed to be little discernible prompt-related activity going on so the Crown of poo poo goes V-ward. Bad Seafood's crits should be up Wednesday and mine when I've written them, which may also be Wednesday but may not. Jeza: I cede the throne to you. Sorry about the wet spot, it's a mouse thing. Fumblemouse fucked around with this message at 23:25 on Dec 2, 2013 |
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Dec 2, 2013 23:21
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In. I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow.
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Dec 3, 2013 02:07
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CRITS, CRITS FOR THE CRIT GOD. God Over Djinn - Memory Problems And we leap into the medical misery and the tone of the story is laid bare - a depressing situation, probably with some other people feeling sad about it. I am not overwhelmed with desire to read a litany of other people’s troubles. And the rest of it continues in this vein - ‘dark domestic vignettes’ as you so handily point out to us that we are reading. Her mother sucked, but so far not in any interesting ways. And the voice behind it telling us what we should think about it, providing commentary “The entries recorded the wounds and indignities that underpin a life. The damage done by proximity to others.” There’s nothing wrong with those two sentences as written, I just don’t think this story of intercut journal entries is the right place for it. Maybe it’s the fact that there’s so many fragments - we just get a picture of relentless poo poo going down that might be better illustrated by focussing on a larger fragment that illustrates the mother as a person. It’s odd then, that I liked the ending. The simpler style works better, possibly after the the bland exposition of the first section and the purplishness of middle section it comes as a relief. Symptomless Coma- Hide Harry This is a little hard to read. It wasn’t until the second read through that I realised Tobias Finch was a boy and not a dog. Giving the cat a human name probably didn’t help for clarity You have to be very careful with this style of writing not to appear too precious or too irritatingly precocious. “because Fair Play” sounds like early 21st century net speak, not bright child, and the run-on sentences get a bit wearisome after a while. The lines after ‘I di’ent mean to” sounds more like a writer than the voice we’ve been hearing. Bu these are largely cosmetic problems and easily fixed. There’s a lot to like here, because the character comes through, and the happy, upbeat ending belongs to her and her optimistic, energetic personality. V for Vegas - the naturalist Oh dear. I have no idea what the point of this was. It started of breezily enough, a little light physical comedy as someone is hit on the head with possibly a thing, that might be fruit. And then...zip. We learn that some birds eat the fruit and I’m bored. I keep going, thinking that there must be more to it than that, and we see the gentleman hit on the head with the fruit get some dodgy primitive medicine and then … nothing. There’s no mystery here, no wonder, no arc and, most terminally of all - no conflict, just an endless succession of missed opportunities to do something interesting. I keep thinking, am I missing something? The prose is basically competent, but there is nothing here to captivate my attention at all. You may have just bored your way to the loss. Also - pretty much all of the prompt is missing - not looking good for the Vster.. Nubile Hillock - carbonoserfatu This was tight and action-laden. It assumed its style and kept it, with a consistent and lagrely intersting voice. Unfortunately, that voice wasn’t very forgiving of the newcomer. I had to re-read it to even begin to make sense of it. It probably doesn’t help that I think of a a snow-machine as a machine that makes snow for movies or skifields, whereas here I assume its a cross between a tank and a snowmobile? A couple of elements didn’t quite gel, either. She jumps a police barricade and then has enough time to stop at a pawnbroker? Must have made a bit of distance in the intervening time and it just seemed an odd thing to do. I get why she did it, but relying on a shop assistant at such a time seems rather less well planned than the rest of the escapade. I think the real problem here, once we piece together what has happened, is that we have no investment in the success of the operation. There’s speedy action and betrayal, but why does Tali need the bitcoins? What are the stakes here? The style lacks a little substance. RoeCocoa - the fish that didn’t bark The fish unfortunately didn’t do anything else either. Because it was dead. Which was part of the problem with this story. It was adequately observed and the voices rang true, but there was no real hook that gave the reader anything to hang on to. In some ways it was the flipside of the previous story - everything was clearly and simply described, there was no action or betrayal just everyday characters, but when you look back you’re just as unattached to the happenings because you have no stake in it. It didn’t help that the story started and ended weakly. “In the sacred master bedroom with its southern exposure” is just wasted words in the sentence as in no way is any of that detail important. And at the end, when Henry makes the OK sign - I’m all like, What does that even mean? “Yeah, good one fish, you’re dead. Good thing you kept quiet about it”? One question that I always fail to ask myself is “what is the real story, here.” In this case it’s the missing fish. Yet half the story is done before its absence is revealed. Start with the interesting thing first. Bitchtits McGee - Faye Dunaway Wow that looks like a poo poo movie. Once again the ThunderDome has taken me places I did not wish to go. Unfortunately, some of that horribleness has leaked into this story, which spends too much time going into details about the movie plot (actually not even that, but just bits of it) and not enough time trying to have something else go on that makes sense. I just completely failed to latch on to the character because all that happened seemed to be her drinking and then maybe hallucinating she’s at the doctors office (or is that the reality? It is a Mystery!) but I’m not even sure. And then at the end Deacon is a part of her. Did he donate a liver, or something. I have no idea what to make of this and so I just don’t care. Nikaer Drekin - Porcelain Lost, No Reward This was a difficult thing to get right, but the mix of absurdity and pathos was pretty well judged. I had visions of people responding to Dirk Gently like normal people would, rather than as bit players in his story. I know you like comedy, and there’s always a real danger of going overbroad, mistaking the zany for the actually funny, but this, I think, comes the closest I’ve seen from you to have an emotional truth to it. To be honest, I really like the character, and would read more from him. Nice one. Jeza - all fall down I distinctly remember the feeling I got reading this story. The cuts were made at exactly the right time to add suspense, each backward shift revealing more about who the characters were and how they fitted into the scheme of things. I actually read it forward when I’d finished and still liked the story, but the backwards style is what makes it. Technical mastery isn’t a term I fling around with reckless abandon, so believe me when I say I was very impressed by the quality of this piece. Tight prose, a well executed hook, and great pacing. Obliterati - Go forth and sin no more I wasn't overly impressed by this one. The Devil turning up and having a go at someone is kind of incredibly cliche, and this certainly didn’t up the stakes in Devil having a go at someone genre. This devil seemed kind of wimpy and ineffectual. It’s meanest trick is saying “I know what you did last summer” and then pretending to take someone to Hell. Not even a particularly unsettling vision of hell, this hell has mottled ground and...and...a steel door. Forgetting the Lord’s prayer is an ok touch, but it needs to be contrasted as even worse than something, well, hellish, to really carry the impact you want. This is another one where the actual story starts about half way through, at “well then, Father, has he forgiven you?” The rest is largely disposable info about how not many people go to church, that doesn’t really affect the actual story. Kaishai - Passage Fare I’m usually at a loss to nitpick at your work at a detailed level, as there’s very rarely much you can point at and say this didn’t work. As usual, there’s an easy, flowing style with interesting words choices and clarity of meaning. The danger is that the work becomes too smooth, even twee. This story is a good example - there’s nothing really wrong with it, but when you get to the end you haven’t really gained anything, or been through much. Person gambles, wins, does good deed and is rewarded isn’t much of an arc. No good deed goes unpunished, except here, and so it’s hard to do much more than give a gentle cheer that things worked out and then move on. docbeard - Waaarg This was a tough flash rule, and the take on it intriguing but doesn’t really come off that well. Taking Kafka’s Metamorphosis and making the insect a rhino has something going for it, but the therapist/magic practitioner just doesn’t come across as anything more than an exposition dumper and plot resolver. The protagonist takes no action, his Rhino-ness happens to him and then stops and that’s it. Needs more special sauce. Walamor - Closure I liked this one. It starts at the beginning of the story and carries on at an acceptable pace. The muteness of the protagonist has a peculiar effect that makes you quite clearly imagine what he’s saying. But formatting wise, I really think you should have broken up Paul signing and somebody else speaking into separate paragraphs because it does read like the quotes are what Paul is signing, which is a distraction. I’m not 100% sure how I feel about Paul’s essential action being to do nothing and go with the flow, though. On the one hand, you have a neutral protagonist to whom things happen, but on the other that decision is made by him, and complications arise that add tension to the story. Perhaps just a little something extra, a moment of doubt and remorse about leaving Samantha, would have sharpened the taste a little. He’s accepting of his own guilt, but he never makes the connection between what he did to the boy’s family, and what she is about to do to his granddaughter. Tyrannosaurus - Blood Another favourite. What I particularly liked about this one was how all the elements tied up and resolved at the end, and yet the end wasn’t completely expected. It had a sense of completion about it, as if it couldn’t have ended any other way, yet I was still intrigued by the character of Moses, and spent some time wondering about his mindset and why he had done what he did. To have a character appear as a person worth pondering like that is not something that happens all the time, and you did it with a mostly simple, clean style. Crabrock - the challenge And this one was just...weird. I got the feeling that Herbert worked as a character, but the russian didn’t. I liked the idea of Herbert freaking out the other chap with his indifference to the possibility of death, but the Russian got very squeamish very quickly considering he was playing Russian Roulette, indeed, had suggested the idea. A couple of lines grated - “Herbert wasn’t regarded as a deep thinker” jumps from quasi-herbert’s POV to you telling us about him. “interesting metal bars” isn’t a nice thing to say - why were they interesting? as potential prizes? really? Ther whole STI thing (is that we’re calling them these days?) seemed tacked on - did he get the clap from Katrina? The possibility isn’t even mentioned, which seems a wasted opportunity to tie up the details. Mastajake - Scaveneger Hunt Ask yourself this question - if someone gave you this to read and said “Here is some fiction that I wrote,” what would your impression be? That the story is pointless, that there’s a whole bunch of missing details about what’s going on that could have provided some context, that there’s no real drama here other than ‘will the brother talk to someone?” If the crux of your conflict is ‘will a character talk to someone’ then there should be should at least be consequences from the action, some reason to hope, or dread, that he does. And then at the end they both flirt, but the card specifically says only one person needs to, so there’s not even tension from that. So blah. This got a dishonourable mention only because V for Vegas blew the prompts and actively disappointed me - but this one could easily have taken the loss. You need to engage your inner critic and listen to it when it says “gently caress this poo poo, start again.”.
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Dec 4, 2013 11:10
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wordcount:1086 Rainbow It was small in my hand, half a circle of light stretching from my thumb to my pinky, still glistening from recent rain. Trying to decide where one colour ended and another began was seven different kinds of impossible. I closed my fist around it, held it up to my face, peered through the tunnel of my rounded fingers. The rainbow was still there, shrunken to fit the space but giant to see so close. Beyond, through the gap at the other end of my tingling hand, the green of the countryside was filtered in prismatic light. “Young girl?” I asked in the manner of dreams. “Why have you given me a rainbow?” The girl smiled impishly. “Because you looked like you needed one.” “Thank you,” I said, having been told it always served to be polite to her people. “I didn’t know I did need one, until now.” And then the dream ended, and I was alone in my cell. My eyes didn’t want to open, but I forced them to. The darkness was almost complete, but there wasn’t much to see anyway; the outline of the steel toilet in the corner, reflecting what light there was, the bars of the cell door iron grey against the black of lights-out, a few, last wisps of smoke from the old man’s special candle. I withdrew my arm from beneath the impossibly scratchy prison blanket and slowly extended my fingers. The rainbow was still there, stretching from pinky to thumb. Every colour radiated outward from it it, covering the cold stone walls in spectral luminescence. Well, I thought, it’s beautiful. But what the hell am I supposed to do with it? Somewhere along the corridor another prisoner yelled to turn the damned light off, so I placed the rainbow back in my pocket, plunging the cell back into darkness. Curling up on my side, I tried unsuccessfully to sleep. At breakfast the next morning, I sat next to the old man. His beard was catching more of the prison porridge than he was able to put in his mouth with his palsied hands, and I twice thought about offering to help, but the minute I looked as if I was about to try he glared viciously at me. When he'd finally finished he put down his spoon. “So, did you see her?” “Her or someone so similar as to make no difference.” “Blood! So it’s true then. The old stories. What did she say?” “Not much, actually.” I could tell he was eager for details, as his beard quivered. “I was short and to the point to prevent entanglement. And polite, just like you told me. She gave me a rainbow, because she said I looked like I needed one.” “She gave you a rainbow?” The old man looked taken aback. “Not a weapon, or a tool, or anything actually useful? Lord on a motorbike, we’re hosed.” The old man rolled his eyes at me. “Still, they’re tricky folk, to hear tell of it. What does it do, this rainbow?” I reached into my pocket, and grasped the rainbow, my hand tingling again, wondering whether or not to bring it out. I didn’t have a chance to tell him how the rainbow could illuminate a darkened room, but was otherwise insubstantial before one of the Sartic Brotherhood, all tattoos and muscles, sat down at our table. “You damned Astruc bastards, sitting here as if you had some kind of right to draw on God’s good air.” “Oh, for crying out loud,” I said, as the old man’s eyes told me to keep my mouth shut. “We’re not bloody Astruc.” “You Sartic, then?” he asked, leaning in close to my face. “No, but…” “Then you’re damned Astrucs.” He stood up fast, the chair behind him going skittering backwards across the linoleum. One meaty paw reached out and grabbed me by the tough prison shirt, the other went backwards, winding up for the big swing. I pulled my hand out of my pocket, still clutching the rainbow, and tried to get as much of my hips into a punch as I possibly could before his landed. My fist crashed against his jaw, then glanced off as his head turned to accommodate my blow. Almost instantly my hand was awash in fiery pain, and, shaking it, I dropped the rainbow, hardly seeing it in the harsh fluorescent light of the prison dining room. I barely had time to notice the old man diving out of his seat towards the fallen spray of light before my jaw got hit by an oncoming Sartic meteor, spinning me round like a top. I watched the floor come up to meet me, but I was out before I hit it. When I finally came to I was in solitary, in the place they call The Hole, because that’s what it was. Four concrete walls, three feet wide each, open to the sky, with a small door in one wall, barely four feet high. No toilet, just the remains of my predecessors ordure. The temperature and the shadow high on the wall suggested it was early evening. The slightest of drizzles fell from the grey sky, the closest I’d been to running water in weeks. I checked myself, feeling the pain in my neck and jaw as I pulled my legs into a barely accommodated sitting position. I tried to say “Bloody Hell” but it came out as a muffled mumble. Great, I thought. Broken jaw. Sitting there was remarkably uncomfortable, so I stood, groggily, and paced the cell, one step for each wall, testing the rest of my body. There was definitely someone wrong with my arse, not allowing me to walk comfortably. Looking around nervously for God knows what reason as there was no chance of being seen, I placed a hand down the back of my prison pants, and felt something unusual, to say the least. The tingling of the rainbow. How the hell? The old man? I extracted the young girl’s gift from where it had been wedged inside me, and brought it out into the dying light. The rainbow glowed like precious stones. As if taking strength from the sight of the sky above me and the water in the air, its radiance grew, as did its circumference. I watched spellbound as it increased in size, until it seemed like I was standing by one side of a gigantic, multi-hued bridge, that rose out of The Hole at an impossible, yet traversable angle. I started my ascent.
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Dec 8, 2013 23:51
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In for telling a tale taller than Paul Bunyan on stilts. And the stilts have platform boots on the end. And the platform boots are standing on a giraffe. In space.
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Dec 18, 2013 19:55
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sebmojo posted:Lawn Care My dear old adversary. This sucks. You suck. I am afraid that you will unduly influence the younglings with this pathetic attempt at a story. Extra points if you make it a drawing room comedy set in the Regency period. I will write a better one within 24 hours. judge: step up
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Dec 19, 2013 11:42
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I have loved her in the past, her picture, the fireworm I have broken the frame. It hurt. It hurt so much. I did everything that I was able to. She is broken, I asked her parents at the door, may I come inside? I stood in their doorway and I asked permission to see her. They let me in. I hurt her, we broke her, the worms broke through. I hated myself. I always did. I hurt her I saw the worms chew through her, saw the fireworms break the picture frame. I ate her. We ate her. I have loved. her. In the past.
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Dec 19, 2013 12:39
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Oh gently caress - drawing room ---comedy! automatic lose on tone because drunken Christmas party If sebmojo permits I will resubmit something with jokes
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Dec 19, 2013 13:09
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Erogenous Beef posted:You are loving lucky I F5'd, because I was just about to lash furious judgment upon you. Resubmit at a 100 word penalty: your limit is 400. You have 22 hours. I am hungover as gently caress*, and writing about dragons at work. Is this what my life has become? *this is a lie, I am still drunk wordcount: 399 words because EB is a merciless tyrant. Inheritance It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a giant, fire-breathing wyrm. Indeed, as the recent recipient of a sizeable inheritance, the lack of a wyrm is something I felt most keenly. Yet in the circles my inheritance affords, it is a difficult subject to broach. My childhood of want has denied me wyrm-lore. To whom do you make such requests? Are there stables of good or ill repute, and how do you discern them? I cannot, and will not, countenance the embarrassment of appearing before the Royal Albert with a wyrm of less-than-distinguished pedigree. I turned, as I always do, to my friend and benefactor Mrs Elderberry-Smythe. I kissed her cheek in greeting. “Dearest friend,” I said. “I am forlorn and despairing.” “I know,” said Mrs Elderberry-Smythe, in the simple way that worldly women have. “Do you? Do you really? For this has made my week a most perplexing one.” “Ah. To be young, rich, and spoiled for choice. I must confess, I have always thought of Emmaline for you, though she a headstrong young lady. But, and the way you look so quizzically at me has me almost convinced, perhaps Jocelyn is more suitable for one of such incisive intelligence as yourself, quiet and bookish though she may be.” “I fear I have misled you as to my dilemma,” I said, worried at this conversational turn. “I am at a loss, t’is true, but it is not a wife I lack, desirable though your many daughters are.” Mrs Elderberry-Smythe laughed. “Oh, my dear boy, how innocent you seem. I would not dream of marrying you to one of mine. New money is rarely for keeping. But, truly, I have many daughters - so many I fear a plethora of dowries would ruin us! No, I have seen the way you cast desirous glances at the wyrms along Regent Street, and knew it would not be long before you approached me about this matter as you have in others. I have taken the liberty of acquiring a most suitable drake - recently hatched, as yet unfed. All that remains is for you to choose his first meal, and the accompanying characteristics that bestows.” At once, the wyrmic mysteries became clear. And how could I possibly turn down small, perfect, intelligent Joceylyn? Reader, he ate her. Fumblemouse fucked around with this message at 23:41 on Dec 19, 2013 |
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Dec 19, 2013 23:37
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No Longer Flaky posted:Need a judge for this brawl whenever someone's ready. I despise you both equally, according to the system internationale de despise, so I will judge. prompt: 600 words on an underdog against an impossibly superior foe. Give me the feels. Deadline: Friday 27th midnight EST Fumblemouse fucked around with this message at 19:28 on Dec 21, 2013 |
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Dec 21, 2013 02:59
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Prompt: A tall tale involving time Wordcount: 999 ElfSong I heard you singing, ma’am. I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you’re good. Very good, even. Now if you had proper management you wouldn’t be trying to get the punters to stop spilling beer long enough to listen to a ballad in a rat-poo poo place like ‘The DogHouse’. Watch out for Murray over there. He’ll try and stiff you for half the covers unless you show him some rear end. I wouldn’t sweat it - it’s not like he’s got it up in the decade since he was sixty, but next time maybe get the cash up front. So yeah, I guess you could call me a talent scout. Sure I’m slumming it a little. But Puckman the bartender is a friend of mine and I was bored. Good looking chap, isn’t he? He’s not, though, really. He drops his glamour and he’s just a thorny little bush sprite, all sharp edges and sharp tongue. He could talk R Kelly out of his black panties, but you’ll never see a goblin like him the morning after. But seriously, hang on a sec. Here, let me buy you a drink. Rum and coke? Sure. Hey, Puckman - set the little lady up with a Bacardi and Corporate Sugar Juice. And shut up - we’re talking business here. Don’t sweat it - he’s a pal, and he tries to fit in but usually fails in the social niceties, just like the rest of the Fae. Oh, you’ve heard of them? Magic! Ha! No, really. Let me explain a couple of things. See, most people have certain ideas about Fae. They’ve either seen Lost Girl on TV and think we’re a bunch of oversexed leather-clad perverts, or, if they’re a little more literary, they think we’re a magical kingdom of arrow-shooting hotties in long, silk shirts. Truth of the the matter is, no, listen a second, I am being one hundred percent straight with you - Fae exist. We don’t have a homeland, per se, and our primary ‘export’ is music video appearances. Hiding in plain sight. I know! Makes a lot of sense, right? If you want impossibly beautiful denizens of exotic climes to populate your song advert, we can provide as many as you need. Did you know that about thirteen percent of the population of California is Fae? But, “subsequent to the diaspora of the industrial revolution” as our teachers say, we’re around far more than that. Another? Puckman - do your thing. You see, there’s a reason Bjork and Lorde both have the same recording company. And that’s what I do. I’m a music producer, and my job is to tone down the eldritch frequency of FaeSong recording artists so they don’t burn out the brains of teen-kind. No, I”m not joking. Pure Fae music is enough to lay waste to an immature human’s tiny little mind, if not diluted by a little of the ol’ production room sorcery. FaeSong is that intense. Like an Dervish’s life. That’s a joke. Keep up. No - I’m smiling, trust me it’s all good. Top her up, Puckman. So you’re a singer and I’m a music producer. Can you see where I’m going with this? Nah, I’m serious. I don’t just deal with Fae. We have...I guess you could call it an exchange program. You ever see that program, the X-Factor? We pick up the tab on that one, and every single dollar of that million dollar contract is Fae gold. Sure, a million dollars is involved, but by the time production costs, promotional costs, the cost of dwarfs to mine whatever the hell they make CDs out of...well, let’s just say unless they end up being flavour of something longer than a month they might as well be paid in smurf poo poo, and the ones that do last - they didn’t start there, no matter what the heart-retching video promos tell you. They worked with us beforehand - that’s why the winners you remember are rarely ever the ones that came first, One Direction, Clay Aitken - that’s our payoff - we definitely don’t need the immediate attention of winning. No, smurfs aren’t real. Keep it together, darling. Puckman, get this girl a drink. What I’m suggesting is an exchange. The production values I’m talking about - the things we use to keep ourselves afloat, well, Fae are a long lived species, and we sure as harpy eggs don’t deal with change well. To be current in the music scene, we need help. From people with a sense of what’s, hip, hop, happening, exciting, all that crap. And it’s quid pro quo - that’s latin, sweetheart - you spend some time with us, and you end up with a career that lasts. It’s a kind of magic. You get that reference, sweetie? Ah, drat it. Never mind. Here’s how it works. There’s a van outside, and in it is a representative of the Queen of Fae. Now she’s a bitch, all the stories say, but she’s our bitch. She loves the music, and if you’re any good, she’ll keep you on. Things work differently when she’s around. It’s like a day out of your time, but when you leave it’ll be a few years, and every second you sing for her is like an hour outside. Puckman - another R&C for the lady. Thanks. Where was I? Right, You’ll be practised, and accomplished and brilliant. Not as brilliant as FaeSong, but that’s life in the big city. We gotta get our Transvision Vamps from somewhere, right? So if you got anyone to tell where you are - tell ‘em you might be a while, but not to wait up. You gotta audition for her, though. She won’t take just anyone. But I heard you sing, and I think you’ve got what it takes to make her happy. I’ll be right there with you. No, she’s not dangerous. C’mon - van’s waiting. Let’s book it, sister. Fumblemouse fucked around with this message at 08:41 on Dec 22, 2013 |
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Dec 22, 2013 08:18
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Purple Prince posted:What I'm getting from this is "foreground the story more". Also "pay more attention to description". I thought I'd dropped enough hints for someone to figure out what was going on; clearly I was wrong. Sheriff Sebmojo has clearly been hitting the 'nog so allow me to point out that the threads for discussing your thoughts and revelations about your own work is either here in general or here in particular. Thunderdome thread is for: writin' crittin' promptin'/challengin', and the acceptin' thereof If your post is not one of those, post it elsewhere. If somebody has completely broken your self-esteem on the wheel of their incisive commentary and reforged your soul so that you are more than the pathetic wretch you now see yourself to have been, then you might be excused for: postin' "Thank you, god-like entity. May I have another?" But that's it. Too much other crap about your special snowflakeness clogs up the 'dome like mawkish sentiment in a Doctor Who Xmas Special. Those other threads exist for a reason. Use them.
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Dec 24, 2013 19:49
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sebmojo posted:If anyone else has things they do or don't want to see in Thunderdome now is the time. Are we going to update the judge picking rules now the Boss Three have sublimed? If we codify it, should it be last week's winner, one previous winner, and one guest at the former's discretion...or something else?
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Dec 25, 2013 22:01
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In for caveman anachronism
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Dec 27, 2013 20:32
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BrawlJudgement: God Over Djinn vs No Longer Flaky Who will win? The answer may surprise you! Wordcount: To start off with, you both went over the word limit. gently caress the two of you. For a start, you each missed scoring easy points over the other, which is just dumb, because I notice that kind of thing and you both need every advantage you can get. Wordcounts aren't given for the good of our health - they're a reflection of the Real World, and if you can't contain your Deathless Prose within the prescribed limits, you'll go from slush pile to round file faster than I forget to leave the toilet seat down after being told for what must be the billionth time. Promptness: The prompt was - 600 words on an underdog against an impossibly superior foe. Give me the feels. Interestingly, you both used alcohol independently as a (though not always 'the') foe to be fought, though your takes on it were quite different No Longer Flaky - I liked your take on the subject matter. Addict vs Addiction. I didn't like the choices you made in how you portrayed that quite so much, but you took a real-life problem and portrayed it with a degree of excuse-laden honesty that came through. The 'feels' requirement was adequately met by bringing us into the protagonists thought process, but there wasn't much else besides some tedious slice-of-retail-life. The mundanity of addiction is a true thing, but not necessarily the best choice of representation within flash fiction. Something still needs to happen, you can't rely on the juxtaposition of boring external vs informative internal without bringing in some kind of counterpoint to make it work. God Over Djinn - I was less impressed with your version of an impossibly superior foe, which seemed to be a hallucinatory prophecy (albeit with some confirming back-up in a completely unrelated area) that ended up being wrong anyway. Your lottery winning underdog (I assume that's how she afforded 26 years of pissing it up) seemed more like a convenient collection of responses that allowed the story you were actually wanting to tell. I didn't get a sense of the character's pain - at one point they're sobbing - but why? because they won the lottery? Because the world is about to end at some point over almost 30 years away (when is the story set?) ? I can't tell, because you've spent too many words in a therapy session. General Comments: In many ways, the problems each story faced were inversions of the other. No Longer Flaky was anchored in real life but too focussed on the internal dialogue, meaning the only narrative arc was delivered through essentially a monologue. The specifics of the monologue trod dangerously close to cliché, but in the end there was a consistent enough voice to the character that they came across as believable. More problematic was the lack of action. Everything we know about the character, you have told us directly through them - we never see them respond to anything other than someone buying booze, which, though probably an everyday occurrence in that kind of shop, doesn't really enthrall. But by then end, we know enough about the character, through the anvil of internal monologue, to recognise their slide downward, and perhaps feel empathy. God over Djinn, on the other hand, had a story that spanned decades, but the justification for it was weak, and seemed more interested in exploring some interesting ideas (like nibbana through choice - mentioned in the title, but not really followed through with) than in coming to terms with the task as set. It bounced around in time and space and possibly reality in an episodic fashion - the sheer number of different sections was impressive for under 700 words , but never really coalesced into a portrayal of a character I related to. That's not to say that the ideas weren't interesting - this kind of thing (SFNal buddhism) is right up my alley, but it's a fertile topic and felt a bit hemmed in here by prompt-service. The end, in turn, seemed glib and airquote cool. On the whole - I consider God Over Djinn's to be the better written of the two. There's a lot happening that is conveyed through few words. And That's not to say that it couldn't have easily been brought in under the word limit - some of the detail could have been spared in favour of character building, nor that the number of episodes included worked in the piece's favour. But No Longer Flaky, though needing to spend more time on structure and development, actually had a 'moment' - the point at which good intentions started hellward, even if it could have been expressed better. Let me be clear, though. Neither was great. Close enough that I got a second opinion and the response was (though with the same ranking as I had), 'nah' and 'nah slightly less'. It's pretty balanced, pretty close, but for diametrically opposed reasons. If either one of these suckers had come in under the word limit I probably would have handed it to them, but neither did so let that be a lesson to y'all. In the end, I'm handing the victory to No Longer Flaky on the basis of prompt-following and character expression. Fumblemouse fucked around with this message at 05:14 on Dec 28, 2013 |
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Dec 28, 2013 05:10
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wordcount: 492 The Ethical Caveman BluntSpear thrust his NameWeapon at the shining man, striking yet making no mark. He stabbed again, using all his strength as he did against thick-skinned GreatCows or unworthy ShortWalkers, but the blunt point slipped without touching the glowing skin, sliding off like muddy feet in a RainHunt. His own deflected force twisted BluntSpear’s wrist, and he dropped his spear in surprise and pain. He crouched low, protecting his arm, and backed towards the surrounding undergrowth. The shining man spoke. At first its voice grated like stone against stone, like weaklings sharpening weapons, but it changed, becoming more pleasing until it sounded like the other TallWalkers of BluntSpear’s tribe. “[...we got language brainscan assimilated yet, Control? Right. Shield still on? Nice. Ok - first contact speech. Ahem.] Greetings. I come in peace. I mean you no harm.” The shining man performed the open-palm gesture of welcome. BluntSpear did not reciprocate, but took the opportunity to grab his fallen NameWeapon with his unhurt hand and point it awkwardly at his adversary. “I am FirstTalker of the, uh, LongTraveller tribe,” said the shining man. “I have journeyed far to reach you. We have searched the vast emptiness to find our brothers in the [dammit, no universe concept]…lands of the TallWalkers, but you are the first we have discovered. We are honoured to meet other, uh, men of speech and wisdom.” BluntSpear grunted. He approached, sniffing from spear-length. The newcomer had no battle scars on its body and its scent was scarcely noticeable; signs of unworthiness. “I could help you,” said the shining man. “Teach you to sharpen your spear, become a better warrior.” Bluntspear spat. “Sharp spears for weak. You weak. No weapon, no scars, not even fight. Stand upright, but do not TallWalk. ShortWalker disgust Bluntspear.” “[Show of strength, Control? Seems necessary] I did not wish my weaponry to frighten you, but I see you are truly a warrior. I have weapons. Observe.” The shining man pointed at a nearby tree. There was a soft hissing and the whiff of burnt vegetation as every single branch of the tree exploded in blue flame. BluntSpear shielded his eyes from the sudden heat. Within seconds, the tree had disintegrated and its ash disappeared on the wind. “LongFlame!” said Bluntspear. “It true! OldOnes tell ShortWalkers arrive again with LongFlame.” “Again? The elders of your tribe have met LongTravellers before? [Holy crap, Control - do you know what this means?] Bluntspear pulled out a metallic box from the GreatCow-skin pouch around his waist. He opened it gingerly with his sprained wrist, and pushed the red button inside. “OldOnes not our tribe,” said BluntSpear. “Protect Land of TallWalkers. Keep safe from LongFlame ShortWalker. Burn SkyNests! Burn HomeNests!” He looked through the new gap in the trees, saw the arc of energy across the sky, saw the distant flashes. “OldOnes say all ShortWalkers unworthy. Say ethical thing to do.” [What you think he means by that, Control? Control? Control?]
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Dec 30, 2013 05:37
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