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In. Who knows what the future will hold? I sure don't, but I'm guessing it's a lot like [BOX 7] 
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May 2, 2017 04:39
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over/under on stories that are just Black Mirror episodes: 4.5
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May 6, 2017 02:59
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Currency 2010 words – Programmable viruses (biological) “What’s wrong with my son?” “Allan has a disorder known as Huntington’s disease. It’s degenerative, which means his tissue will deteriorate over time. Huntington’s results specifically in the death of brain cells.” “It’s genetic.” Francis sighed deeply, and his shoulders relaxed for the first time all day. “That’s good news, then.” “I’m afraid not, Mr. Whitaker.” The doctor dropped his eyes and pressed his lips together, just for a moment, before he remembered his bedside manner and fixed his eyes on Francis, seated across from him at a polished but well-worn desk. “What do you mean?” The doctor didn’t respond immediately. Francis waited him out. “Huntington’s… We don’t have the treatment for, yet.” That was all the doctor said. His began to tap his fingers arrhythmically on the desktop, and his face scrunched up slightly, as if he were expecting some imminent verbal abuse—and a moment later, Francis delivered it. “Isn’t this what I voted for? Experimental gene therapies, to cure genetic disorders? And every week for the last two years, all I’ve heard is that another disease has been cured, permanently. In fact, I know Huntington’s is on that list. I heard about the cure last week! So what do you mean you don’t have the cure?” “You misunderstand, Mr. Whitaker.” He opened a folder and took a single sheet of paper from within, spun it around on the desk, and slid it to Francis. “I said we don’t have the treatment for it. It’s too expensive.” “What about insurance?” The doctor gave him a pitying smile. “As I said, it’s too expensive. It’s not profitable for insurance companies to provide that treatment.” He did not add that anyone at this hospital did not have the kind of policy that might include gene therapy treatments, much less the kind of money to pay for it out of pocket. He pointed to a line on the paper, a number, a large number. Francis followed his finger and his eyes widened. “That’s the price for one treatment. Your son would need 5, at minimum.” Francis sat back in his chair. His looked around the doctor’s small office, with its cheap art copies on the wall, its linoleum floor, its bright fluorescent lighting. Everything was well-ordered and clean, but it could not separate itself from the appearance of the imitation of luxury. He mulled over every option he could think of: they could mortgage the house, or sell the car, or sell the house. He could as his parents for help. Or he could win the lottery—all were equally likely to get them the money they would need. He realized that this was, in fact, the nicest doctor’s office he had ever been in. “So that’s it, then. How long does my son have?” “15 to 20 years, usually. Though it won’t be a full life. He’ll begin to lose muscle tone in a few years, coordination a few years after that. As I said, it’s degenerative.” The doctor paused, then his eyes narrowed. Francis wasn’t looking at him. “There is one option, Mr. Whitaker.” =\=/=\=/=\=/=\=/=\=/=\=/=\= There are no visible lines of demarcation between different communities. Occasionally, you’ll get a sign. But usually, the landscape just shifts: well-maintained pavement gives way to old, cracked hardtop, fresh paint to faded, groomed medians to weeds in the cracks. You could walk between the two without a minimum of effort, but people rarely do. While there are no visible lines, there are borders. People dress differently. Different cars line the curb. Francis had crossed one such line. He’d started in Palo Alto, home to many tech giant, past and present, the gateway to Silicon Valley. He’d crossed San Francisquito Creek and was now in East Palo Alto, home to high crime, poverty, and a history of racial injustice. Tech money had started to infiltrate the city, but it had yet to eliminate, or alleviate in any significant way, the cultural differences between East Palo Alto and its neighbors. Francis parked his car next to a curb, formerly red, outside of a nondescript one-story office building. He checked the address on the piece of paper in his hands, looked up to the building, found the numbers matched, and turned the car off. The doctor had forced him to memorize it, refusing to write it down in his office for fear of discovery. Francis had scribbled it down as soon as he’d returned to his car. It was now 3 months after he’d visited with the doctor. For a while, he’d basically ignored the information. He hadn’t even told his wife about it for the first month. They had plenty of time, after all, to find a solution. Allan had 15 years to live, at least. But then, Huntington had reared his ugly head. A minor incident the doctor said; when they got home, Allan couldn’t open his bedroom door without help. Now Francis was exiting his car in East Palo Alto. This particular building was in good shape. It seemed to be relatively recent construction, the product of proximity to the world’s hub of innovation. The hallways were plain drywall, with little in the way of decoration, the carpet an unexciting tan. Francis knocked on door 117. The door opened and behind it stood a man, dressed like an orphan of Google: jeans, t-shirt, vest, scruffy beard, long hair. He ushered Francis into a room, square, doors to either side, and pointed to a couch. Francis sat. The man handed him an iPad. Francis hit the home button on the iPad, but it was locked. “What am I supposed to do this?” “Oh, whoops, hold on.” The man came over and punched in the code. The screen filled with a list: Alzheimer’s disease, Atherosclerosis, Chronic traumatic encephalopathy. It went on. Francis scrolled until he found Huntington’s. “Click on yours when you find it.” Francis did so. “It’s not for me, it’s for my son.” “Sure thing. Don’t care who it’s for. Let me see that thing.” Francis handed it back. The man looked at the screen for a few seconds, reading. Then he let out a low whistle. “drat, dude. You’ve got a pricey one.” “I know that. I was told I could get it cheaply, here, though.” Francis sat up straight and looked around the room. It was Spartan. Aside from the couch he sat on, there was a mini-fridge, a fake bush, the chair across from in which the man sat, and a coffee table between them. “You got a name?” “Don’t worry about names. It’s not me you need to know.” The man handed him back the iPad, which now displayed a signature line below a block of text. “And I guess it depends what you mean by cheap. You won’t need any money, but this poo poo is gonna cost you.” Francis narrowed his eyes at that, then looked down at the screen. “What am I reading here?” He started skimming the text. “A non-disclosure agreement. Not quite standard, but then again, not much of what we’re doing is. All of this… experimental. Don’t want our competitors learning our secrets.” The man smiled sardonically at this last bit. “I don’t see anything here about costs.” “That, uhhh… Well, that part we can’t document. You’ll see. If you sign that, we can get started.” Francis knew he should wait, should talk to his wife again, should try to find another solution. Then he thought of his son. This morning, he’d had to carry his backpack to the car, all of 15 pounds. He signed the page. “Great! Follow me.” He stood and moved to the door at the right of the room. The man opened it, and pointed Francis inside. Francis obliged, and stepped into a brightly lit room—a hospital room. Inside stood a woman in the usual white coat—in fact, she looked just like a doctor you’d find in a hospital with a name on the building. She wore business attire beneath her coat and had her hair in a neat bun. A pair of tortoiseshell glasses framed her olive-skinned face. She smiled at Francis. Behind him, the man had shut the door. “Good afternoon, Mr. Whitaker.” She stuck a hand out for him to shake. He shook it. “I’m Dr. Polymichanos. Dr. Poly.” She looked down at an iPad of her own. “Huntington’s. Easy. Expensive, but easy.” Dr. Poly turned to the shelves behind her and began looking through drawers, then pulled a syringe out of one. She turned back to Francis. “Sit on the table over there and pull up your sleeve.” “Me? No, it’s for my son.” “Oh, nobody explained this to you? This one’s for you. It has nothing to do with Huntington’s. We trade you one for one—you be our test subject for the next designer virus, we give you the treatments for your son. Easy.” She smiled, then frowned and waggled her head a couple of times with a chuckle. “Well, maybe not easy, but certainly simple.” As she was saying this, Francis’ eyes went wide. He looked at the floor, and his breathing started to increase in pace. Sweat droplets began to form on his forehead. He thought about how much the treatments cost. This price was higher. He choked back vomit. “Jesus.” “It really is simple, Mr. Whitaker. If you’re here, you can’t afford the treatments. You won’t find another way to get them. 5 treatments, 5 tests.” Her smile returned. “But don’t worry. They’re all benign viruses. Designed to change certain phenotypical expressions, or to improve certain parts of your body’s systems. Nothing harmful.” “What’s this one?” “Eye color. You’re going to have green eyes!” “Jesus.” “There are some risks, of course. It wouldn’t be a test if there weren’t.” “Jesus.” The vomit returned. He couldn’t hold it in this time, so he raced to a trash can and let it go. “Totally normal. Ready?” Francis nodded sharply from his position above the trash can. =\=/=\=/=\=/=\=/=\=/=\=/=\= “Doc,” Francis said, then paused. “My eyes are green.” Dr. Poly’s voice came across the line, excited but understated. “Excellent. A successful test, then.” Francis did not share her excitement. “My eyes aren’t the only thing that changed color. My hair… It’s the color of snot.” Francis raised his free arm in front of his face. “All of my hair. Everywhere.” “How interesting!” She chuckled. “I don’t find this particular funny, doc.” Francis scowled. “That’s not all, anyway.” “Oh?” “I can’t touch dairy. Anything. Milk, eggs, cheese, whatever. If I have even an taste, I spend the next day curled around a toilet.” “Huh. Well. That’s less successful.” “I’d say fuckin’ so, doc! You gotta help me out!” “Oh. Actually, I can’t do anything for you. Not my department.” Her voice had gone defensive, unhelpful. “What do you mean, not your department? This is your goddamn fault!” “Not mine, no. I said there were risks. These drugs aren’t perfect. But I didn’t make them. I just distribute them. Though, I guess if you got a diagnosis from your doctor, I could find you a drug to correct whatever it is you’ve given yourself. At a price, of course.” “More tests, I’m guessing.” Francis looked at his phone as if it were the object of disgust. “What the hell is wrong with you?” “Calm down, buddy. You signed up for this. Anyway, it’s time for your next test.” Francis growled and ignored Dr. Poly for a minute. He looked out the window of his bedroom. On the grass below, his son was playing with a soccer ball. He still wobbled a little bit. This morning, though, he’d carried his own backpack, opened his own door, got in and out of the car on his own. The treatment was working. “What’s this one do?” “Muscle tone. It’s supposed to be like a steroid, on steroids. Exciting stuff!” Francis closed his eyes. Then he opened them again, and saw his son. He was throwing the soccer ball in the air. “When can I pick it up?”
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May 8, 2017 06:19
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May 8, 2017 18:36
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sebmojo posted:SH vs Ska brawl Assuming this is Sitting Here's story. Late, of course. You lose a letter grade automatically. SkaAndScreenplays, I'm extending your deadline. You have an extra day, since I won't judge them until noon tomorrow anyway. Also you don't get to back out of this. Write me a drat story.
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May 9, 2017 07:31
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SH vs SKA Brawl: JUDGMENT Wow who could have seen this coming Ska failing to submit just kidding I could see it from space. Sitting Here wins, by forfeit. SkaAndScreenplays gets banned. Again? I declare that I personally will not accept a submission from Ska unless he permatoxxes. I'd brawl you over this, but we all know you won't submit I will deliver a good-natured crit that's not too serious to Sitting Here by submission deadline this week.
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May 10, 2017 19:17
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Crit of Food Fight by Sitting Here Sitting Here asked me to make this "a good-natured crit that's not too serious", so that is what I will do. Summary: Marta moves to Bainbridge Island, a small town (island, I assume) in Washington, from the big city of Portland. Inverting the usual small-town girl in a big city, trope, nice. She runs herself into a whole bunch of drama, all because of local queen bee Patricia (BOOOOO!). Patricia wins the cookoff every year because she's snooty and cares about it way too much. Anyway, her husband is mackin on some city council ho, so he doesn't want her to win this big cookoff and then get the honor of cooking for the city council meeting, where she would obviously see him making moves (except the State of the Island thing is open to the public? Why wouldn't she be there anyways?). Patricia wins anyway. Also Marta overhears that marital drama and hatches a plan. She challenges Patricia at the thing, they have a rib-off, everyone gets sick, and everyone blames Marta even though clearly it's Patricia getting some revenge. Also her dick husband Steve macks on that ho. Marta decides to leave Bainbridge Island. Analysis/Comments: Hmmm. Ummm, it's an underdog story, but nobody wins or loses in the contest. Or I guess Marta loses, because she failed to accurately size up Patricia's intentions and vengeful nature. Something about some Sun Tzu proverb, probably. Rage Against the Machine has some words of wisdom for Marta: Know Your Enemy. It's about the pettiness of small town life? Also was Patricia affected by the ribs? or was she exempted from suspicion because of her track record of delicious cooking? Overall, I like the set-up of this story, I like the characters, I like the plot outline, but it feels unfinished. I'm pretty sure that's because it is, so it would be greatly improved with a second pass. As is, there is some good stuff. The characters feel relatively well developed early--there are good details about their lives, I'm always in for a fish-out-of-water story, the dialogue is decent. The set-up of the relationship between Patricia and Steve is good. Except Steve seems a little too obvious, which, I guess, isn't really that unrealistic, but he's totally a dick. So is Patricia, I guess. Also, I'm not sure what Marta's plan is supposed to accomplish. Like, what good will defeating her actually do? Or losing to her? Idk. What would we learn about the characters in that situation. I do like the ending, though, because it's illustrative of Marta's poor fit in Bainbridge Island. The prose is fine, not exceptional, though. Ultimately, it's a plot-heavy story that has some weaknesses in the plot department, so that's that. Also it's spelled gait. Also I was a little bummed nobody got hit in the face with a pie or anything I mean come it's called Food Fight
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May 13, 2017 03:43
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those are some tasty crits. a real nice appetizer for a P R O M P T
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May 16, 2017 06:45
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I'm in. How can I pass up a creepy derelict Russian naval testing facility?
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Jul 26, 2017 07:51
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The Forgotten Places -- 800 words “Why are you here?” Joel chambered a round and aimed his rifle at the dock below him. The man below ignored the question and looked up at Joel, his eyes tumultuous like the water behind him. “I asked you why you’re here, you son of a bitch!” Joel whipped the rifle to the left, squeezed the trigger—CRACK—and sent the bullet racing out over the water. On the dock, the man jumped involuntarily, but soon returned his eyes—now calm, as if the wind had died suddenly—to Joel. The man spoke. “I’m coming up. Shoot me if you want.” He began walking up the ramp. Joel did not shoot him. ~~~~~~~~~ There aren’t many places to hide left in the world. Industrial expansion and population sprawl have swallowed up real estate voraciously. If there isn’t a human eye on the ground, there is a mechanical one in the sky. And even the most remote locations on Earth are now destinations for explorers. There aren’t many places, but there are still some. You just have to find the places the world doesn’t want to go. Joel thought he’d found one such place: an old Soviet testing station 2 miles off the coast of Makhachkala, Russia. Beaten to hell by the violence of the Caspian Sea and the creeping return of Mother Nature, the locals believed the place was haunted—and with good reason, thought Joel. The place looked it. And it seemed as if nobody had come to check on the ghosts for at least 50 years. A perfect place for a man to disappear forever. And so he did. For a year, he survived in solitude on his artificial island. He fed on the bountiful sea life that flocked to the station and distilled the salty Caspian waters with a piece of plastic sheeting. It was not easy. He arrived in summer, and the sun was ruthless. Joel found himself in a constant battle with the sun’s cruel light. It pursued him through broken windows and caved in roofs, and anytime he found a moment of refuge, it moved. Several times, he surrendered, and lay naked on the concrete, letting the sun do its merciless work. Only when he could not take it was he forced to explore the untouched and unlit depths of the station. But he could not stay down there, not even for a night. The locals were right: there were ghosts here. In the utter darkness and stillborn air, you could hear them whisper in the pipes. Joel was not interested in what they had to say. When the sun relented, the storms took their turn. Sheets of rain fell like artillery, and there were no foxholes left. Joel tried to hide in the lower levels again, but the water was thorough—it found every crack, every hole, worming its way downward inch by inch to meet the sea. Joel did not have the courage to travel deeper, to see if it ever got there, because on these days, the ghosts howled. ~~~~~~~~~ “Why are you here?” Joel raised the rifle again, this time at the door across from him, where the other man now stood. “Put the gun down, Joel. You’re not going to shoot me.” “Tell me why you’re here, Derek. Nobody comes to this place. Nobody has in decades. Why did you come to this place?” The gun remained pressed against Joel’s shoulder. “You’re living in hell, Joel. You’re right, nobody comes to hell on purpose.” Derek raised his hands and took a step forward. Joel didn’t move. Derek took another step. “Unless they need to pull someone out of hell.” Joel’s eyes narrowed. The tip of the rifle dipped. “I don’t need your help, Derek. You’ve been trying to tell me how to live for years. I don’t want it.” Derek took two more steps forward. He was halfway across the space between them. “Come home, Joel.” Another two steps. “Home? Home?” Joel’s hands raised the rifle almost involuntarily, but then let it drop even lower. “I have no home. I haven’t for years.” “You can’t live like this. You can’t live in hell.” Derek took two more steps. Only a few feet separated the two men. “Come home. Mother has been a wreck.” “I know where I’m not wanted, Derek.” The rifle hung only from the fingertips of one hand. “Then what the hell am I doing here?” Derek took two final steps and threw his arms around Joel. The rifle clattered to the floor, forgotten. For three interminable seconds, Joel did not move, did not react, could not even think. And then: a flow of tears more powerful than any storm poured down his cheeks, and his eyes shone with the intensity of two suns. And the ghosts fled.
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Jul 30, 2017 18:06
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F J G J
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Jul 31, 2017 01:30
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flerp posted:hey babydome, how’s it been? having a nice time with your friends, writing bad words, being dumb, etc etc? well, its time to change all of that because it is time for blood. it is time to announce: You're fuckin out, I'm fuckin in. 
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Aug 12, 2017 20:02
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Sitting Here posted:
definitely don't fail--I don't care if you lose, just turn in a drat story or I will never forgive you
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Aug 17, 2017 05:49
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yo flerp gonna need some extra time on this thing like a day
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Aug 26, 2017 21:57
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Megabrawl entry The Free Market 542 words “Places like this are wasted on people like them.” You spit the words into a warm morning breeze tumbling down one side of the valley and up the ridge you just descended. It carries your words right back to you, and you half-smile as you hear them. “Not that I’d do any better by it.” Between the two ridges and a stone’s throw from the creek that bisects the valley floor sits a single homestead. Nothing moves but the weathervane atop the ridgeline of the roof. Small plots of crops, fertile but apparently untended, sit next to a horse corral, empty. A pair of grave markers poke out of freshly turned earth at the side of the house. The horse you sit on prances in place as you look on. “Remember the place, huh? Alright, come on.” You spur the horse onward. Still as the home is, it’s not empty. A young man, perhaps still a boy, sits by the window, head hung between his hands. He does not move as you approach, does not appear to notice you. You dismount and tie up to the fence of the corral. “Come on out, boy!” His head jolts up, and a pair of glassy eyes stare out the window at you. They register neither recognition nor welcome—they register nothing at all. He rises with the painful slowness of old age, the sort of slowness brought on by tragedy and loss. No, not a boy anymore. He slumps outside and stands in front of the door. “I was wondering when you’d call for me.” You nod to the grave markers. “Guess that’d do it. Your father picked a nasty fight, that’s for sure. Who’s the other one? Your sister?” The boy looks for a moment as if he’s going to puke, but doesn’t, then looks as if he’d desperately like to puke, but can’t. Then he looks up at you, his eyes full of murder. “You started all of this, you sonuva bitch,” he growls. “Hardly. Y’all had some fine horses. The Irving’s wanted them.” You reach over and pat the horse, a smooth chestnut beauty, on the neck, and it swishes its tail in response. “They paid me well to get them. It was nothing against you.” The boy grimaces, looks at the dirt, but says nothing. You look around, surveying the valley. Over the eastern ridge the sun hangs, the sky clear, bright, and blue. Copses of trees dot the landscape, and the grass, green and long, dances in the soft breeze to the tune of the trickling stream. You can see the appeal of the frontier from here, for certain types. Of course, the frontier appeals to you, for different reasons. “People like you, people like the Irving’s, will always need people like me. And people like me will always take your money.” “I want you to burn their farm to the ground.” You turn and look at the boy. He stands tall, shoulders up, eyes alive with flame. Revenge has a way of filling folk with life, of a sort. It’s a cold, bitter, angry life, but it is hard to lose that kind of life. You smile. “That’s what I’m here for. Let’s talk payment.”
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Aug 28, 2017 07:59
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Quod Erat Demonstrandumflerp posted:interprompt: seb sucks SurreptitiousMuffin posted:mojo disappeared without doing it properly
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Sep 26, 2017 05:52
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hey ho I don't have time to write good and such but I do have time to beat up some stories real good three crits up for grabs, first come first serve just link me your story any story you like
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Oct 3, 2017 07:38
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All three crits taken! (plus a bonus crit request that Jitzu dm'd me) I'll have them done sometime Monday probably Deltasquid posted:If nobody else is taking you up on that offer... Exmond posted:I'll take you up on your offer as well: Chili posted:My sentiment as well, Beef Supreme, hit me with your thoughts bubbaleh
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Oct 6, 2017 07:12
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Simbyotic posted:I want to get better and finally become a true writer™ right right but why are you here
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Oct 10, 2017 06:40
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In.
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Nov 23, 2017 06:43
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Take Prompt: Home Office by Metrofreak, Builds Character by kurona_bright (895 words) The first notes of the alarm pierced the silence violently before a hand slammed the clock like a viper striking a wayward lizard. Ben had been awake for an hour already, laying in wait for the interloper. He had watched through the guest bedroom’s open curtains the sky turn from black to gray: it was raining outside. For a month, Ben hadn’t touched one thing that belonged to her. It all sat exactly where she’d last left it. Her toothbrush, her shoes, her coffee from that morning, the cute black rain jacket she’d left in the entryway on their way out the door, because it didn’t look like rain after all, and they’d be inside most of the time anyway, or in the— The ding of the coffee maker, programmed to start the coffee at 6:15 AM each morning, pushed Ben into his morning routine. He slid out of bed, walked down the hall to the master bedroom and paused for an interminable heartbeat—the bed, unmade, empty, in disarray, he knew Ellie hated that—before his feet, on autopilot, carried him into the bathroom. His chest tightened each time his hand brushed a toothpaste tube or his eyes passed over her hairbrush, but soon his feet carried him back out. He couldn’t avoid touching some of her things, after a month. He hadn’t done laundry in all that time—she’d left a load in the dryer. He’d resorted to buying fresh underwear more than once, and had hang-dried a load, but he knew it needed to be done. It had taken him fully an hour to empty the dryer, each new item quickening his breath, tightening his throat, and when he was done he’d slid the basket into the corner and hadn’t touched it since. The dishes were easier. Less hers. The bed—he couldn’t touch the bed. He’d tried, several times, to remake the bed after he’d unmade it trying to sleep in it one night, but each time he got no closer than arm’s length before he sank to his knees. And so, it remained, a monument to his pain, just like everything else in this half-filled house. Today’s task was to get back on the rock wall. He didn’t have a choice on this one. He’d been climbing for over a decade, since his teen years. His and Ellie’s honeymoon had been 2 weeks of climbing in Yosemite, including a 4-day ascent of El Capitan. Climbing was what he did. He was a climber. He couldn't lose that. He grabbed his climbing bag and got in the car, her car—that had been nearly impossible, but he didn’t have a whole lot of options, with his car totaled—and headed for the gym, alone. His brother John had hung around, for a while. He’d tried to help out, clean up, cheer him up a little bit. Tell him he should try to move on with his life. Nobody blames you, Ben, he’d say. Bullshit. They all said that. They all said they still loved him. And they all stayed away. There was a litany of excuses people tried to give him. The roads were slick from the rain. The brakes locked up. The truck was speeding. You were under the legal limit, Ben. Nobody blames you, Ben. He waved at Suzy, the receptionist, and slid his ID through the scanner. The computer beeped its cold approval. Suzy gave him a soft, sad smile, and turned back to her paperwork. Ben walked into gym and set his bag down. He recognized a few people: Jordy, and Tom, Brannon, Wendy. They were all climbing or belaying, so he left them alone. He started pulling out his gear. His shoes, bright blue Italian leather and firm, sticky rubber. A gift from Ellie for his last birthday. His chalk bag, a cacophony of color, another gift. He and Ellie had worn matching chalk bags. His harness. His harness. He hadn’t climbed alone in years. Since he and Ellie had met, they’d been climbing partners. Belaying each other, coaching each other, training, challenging, pushing, sharing the joy of climbing the wall. They’d meet at the rock gym after work and push their limits, push the grade one step higher. They’d spend their weekends seeking out new crags to conquer, new walls to top out. The harness hung in his hand, its weight pulling on Ben, sucking him into the void. Its webbing and loops and locking rings, designed to hold him up if he fell, now failed. He was freefalling, without a partner. He dropped the harness. Move on, they all said. Maybe they’re right. Right by the front desk was a chalkboard for climbers looking for partners to write their names. Ben walked to it, found no names on the board yet, and grabbed the chalk to write his own up there. He moved his hand—and it froze, inches from the chalk board. His hand would not budge. He began to shake. He set the chalk down. Ben turned and looked for something, anything, he wasn’t quite sure. He found faces, staring back at him, Jordan, Tom, Wendy, Brannon. For a second, they held his gaze, then each looked to their shoes. Nobody said anything. Nobody needed to. Ben grabbed his chalk bag and walked to the boulder pit, where he could climb alone.
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Nov 27, 2017 10:20
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idk how it works here but imo good judging is usually fast judging just my two cents
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Nov 28, 2017 04:48
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Alright you sons of guns, I said I'd post these on Monday, and by god, here they are, on a Mond... drat. Just missed it. Well, anyway, like literally months after I promised them, here are some crits. All critiques will contain three elements: summary, analysis, and comments. If you have any questions, want to discuss anything more deeply, explain yourself, what have you, then DM me or pray I come back to IRC at some point. It's been a while, so I have no clue what the prompt is or whether you had any flash rules and frankly I don't care about any of that. Crit -- "The Dragon's Disqualification" by Deltasquid Summary: Mi-Yun, a new student at a prestigious academy, is the progeny of a respectable family, but not of the highest sociopolitical class in this steampunk magical China. He, born under the sign of the dog, has a run-in with Fa-Xiao, born under the sign of the Dragon (the most prestigious sign, as well as the sign to which the academy is attuned to, architecturally, because that increases the flow of magical energy). Fa-Xiao is an entitled dickhead, who also dismisses Ti-Hou, he of the sign of the snake. As it turns out, the academy itself favors those of a certain sign (dragons and tigers) and poops on the lesser signs. Mi-Yun and Ti-Hou team up to take on the social order by besting Fa-Xiao in exams, and begin to do quite well. In fact, they are on the verge of winning what would be the decisive blow to Fa-Xiao's score by beating him in wargames when they are both disqualified for going against the spirit of the exams. Mi-Yun argues that even so, they are winners because they showed Fa-Xiao's mediocrity and the hypocrisy of the faculty. Analysis: There are a few obvious themes at play here. First, the entire story is a criticism of social orders built on pre-determined characteristics (in this case, astrological signs). The society inside the story is built around preference for certain signs over others, even down to the architecture and seating within lecture halls. Those with high-rank in the social order get more privileges and advantages both naturally and within the structure of the society. Ti-Hou points out that this seems backwards, that those with fewer natural advantages should receive more benefits from the society to balance things out. Moving from the general to the (slightly) more specific, this seems to be referencing perhaps some specific societies in our world. As an American, I go there first, though perhaps Deltasquid, as a European, has a different place in mind. This also takes the side of the underdog, and tells them they must fight the power. Mi-Yun says in the beginning that he doesn't like to be an agitator, that he doesn't choose to pick fights, but that the circumstances forced him to fight. Once confronted with the inequality around him, the only option left for him was to try to upset it. But then the story declares that this fight is perhaps futile, that the power structure will conspire to defeat attempts to upset it, that the downtrodden cannot gain victory over those in power unless those in power allow them to, as seen in the disqualification of the pair during the final exam. I'm not entirely sure what the ending says, though--that Mi-Yun celebrates this as a victory of sorts seems to say that failure to gain victory is okay, that the most important thing is to put on display the inequity of the system, rather than to effect change in any meaningful way (unless the presumption is that the people will rally when presented with the truth, which is what Mi-Yun hopes. Of course, he is also the one who says that even if a thousand dogs and cats disagree with a dragon, the dragon still has authority because of ancient philosophy that says so, which seems to paint an even more futile picture). Comments: This story is okay. It uses a whole lot of words to skim the surface of some deep themes, but doesn't really provide any nuanced discussion of those themes. There are some interesting ideas here, but perhaps too many. I think this gammut of tests dilutes the ideas too much. You have one big topic to explore, which is social inequality, but you try to say too many things, and don't build a strong exploration of any particular idea. I think an examination of one of these tests (say, the debates) would allow you to look closely and more powerfully at the ideas there, like this hegemony of ideas in the debates. I think you spend a lot of time on exposition, especially early. I know all these details are important, but I think you could do a lot more to build the information into the story organically. There is a lot of architecture and social class talk. Too much. Of course, even in all the exposition, I wouldn't say the world is fully realized. We only have bits and pieces of this society. I dislike the construction of the first sentence: "It’s not that I enjoyed being an agitator." First of all, it refers to nothing at all in that sentence. It has no antecedent. I know it's a colloquial expression, but it gives your story a strange tone--I expect a story like that to be... a comedy? Sarcastic, at the very least. Your story, however, seems to want to be serious. At least, the ideas are serious. It doesn't get the tone to match that, really. The ending threw me for a loop. This story feels like you were late writing it, and pushing against the word limit, and found a sort-of ending spot and called it good. I could go for a nice abrupt ending to highlight the inequity of the system, especially if by the end I'm expecting the good guys to win. Unfortunately, I don't think the stakes are high enough (or clear enough) overall to make me really care about this. What would them winning the battle do other than show that Fa-Xiao is a lazy rear end in a top hat? It's not going to upset the apple cart. Losing certainly isn't going to, either. These are exams; does every dragon score higher than every tiger, every tiger higher than every dog, etc. etc.? Would a pair of lower class students doing well really be that shocking? In general the stakes aren't high enough--does it really matter to these two personally? They lost, so they got bad grades. Everything is as they already knew it was. That's a lot of not super-positive criticism, but I don't think this story is bad. I just think it's incomplete and in need of some heavy revising. I'm always in for a some pot-stirring, and I'm here for uppity Mi-Yun. You do some fine imagery in here (though maybe too much, since you want to wrestle with big ideas and beyond the baked-in inequality, the visual details of this story don't necessarily add a ton). You have interesting ideas. Pop Culture Tangent: Fight the Power! Crit -- "Dragon Problems" by Exmond Summary: Miss Cauldron, a house-magic teacher (aka Home Economics, I gather) screws up a demonstration and accidentally looses a dragon on the school. She attempts to re-cage the dragon, but ends up being eaten whole. The schools guards then arrive and attempt to subdue the dragon. They bother the dragon, but he shrugs off their attempts before blasting a crystal-ward that knocks many of the guards unconscious. Miss Cauldron then reappears, regurgitated by the dragon, and she rebinds the dragon by fixing a bunch of crystal wards at once (an ability previously unknown to or unpossessed by her). The dragon is hidden behind wards, the school resumes function, and people now give reverence to Miss Cauldron. Analysis: I'm not exactly sure what this story is about, beyond a clumsy home-ec teacher making a huge mistake and then fixing it, sort of--since it's her students who will go on to do the cleanup. I guess the lesson here is it's okay to screw up as long as you fix it (sort of), and people will praise you for it? The lesson might also be "don't do classroom demonstrations involving materials that are actively containing hostile dragons". Miss Cauldron's internal monologue, perhaps supposed to be the voice of the moral of this story, tells us that she needs to show the students that teachers of the academy do not run away. That might be the intended moral: face your problems, screw your courage to the sticking place, do something about it. That's about all I've got. Comments: This story has a lot of problems. It has tone problems, continuity problems, world building problems, action problems, big picture problems... It doesn't seem long enough to have as many problems as it does, but alas... First, tone. I don't know what you want this story to feel like. How am I supposed to read this? The opening paragraph gives it a light-hearted tone, despite the looming danger. It's almost set up like a comedy, or a YA adventure story, perhaps. Our heroine is a house-magic teacher, so that lends some natural levity to the story (though it could certainly be a heroic turn, if written differently). What happens in the rest of the story, though, is not particularly funny, or adventurous, or really anything other than straight action with a side of "Miss Cauldron learns a lesson". Pick something and do it. You've only got 1500 words. Second, world building. For a story that relies on magic, I know remarkably little about how it works in this world. Look, we don't need an encyclopedia on the magic system, but I need to know a little more. Is this wands and spells magic? Incantations? Something more arcane? Based on willpower? I need to know more because the climax of the story is her fixing these crystal wards and re-caging the beast, and I need to know why she couldn't do it before and how she screwed it up, and why she was able to do it at the end. Let's talk about that dragon. Why is it in a cage? Why is it so angry? (Probably the cage.) Are all dragons so angry? It seems like an object, really. This dragon isn't here for anything other than to drive the story and teach Miss Cauldron a lesson. And why is Miss Cauldron using a critical dragon containment ward in a classroom demonstration about strengthening wards? And if this is something that is regularly part of her job (seems unlikely), why is she so unsure of how to fix a ward? There are a lot of things I don't really buy in this story, and that's a big problem. The above problem with her understanding and use of wards is one. The way people react to her after she "saves" the day (which she screwed up royally in the first place) is another. The lack of a plan to deal with an escaped dragon is yet another. Where are the other teachers? Isn't there someone whose job this is, given their importance? Are they hawkmen or hawks? You use both terms. Beyond all that, your story isn't about anything. It doesn't prompt any particular thoughts beyond the story itself, it doesn't have any message or idea driving it, it doesn't have any big themes. That doesn't mean it doesn't say anything, but it does mean it probably doesn't say what you want it to say. Pop Culture Tangent: Yerrrr a WIZZZZAARD HARRRRYY Crit -- "Nocturnal Affliction" by Chili Summary: Recent college graduate Bill has a problem--the first of every month, while he's sleeping, a cyclops comes into his room and pisses on him. He talks to his therapist about this problem, but the therapist doesn't seem to have the answers that he wants. He blames the trellis his parents put up while he was gone, so the therapist recommends he ask to take down the trellis. He does not. The cyclops comes again. Next session, we discover that he has been really stressed out. His therapist tries to tell him what she's seeing, but isn't having it. The cyclops comes back, and he is upset. He is no longer enjoying their arrangement, but isn't going to stop doing it. In the morning, his parents let him know that they've taken down the trellis. Analysis: Bill has some anxiety problems and is pissing himself. He also has an active imagination, and attributes his own insecurity and anxiety to this strange 'agreement' between him and this imaginary cyclops, who he imagines is climbing in through the trellis outside his window--or jumping up to his window, after it turns out the trellis is gone. His therapist can see right through this, but Bill cannot and will not (especially if it means he's just pissing himself, instead of the victim of some cyclops' perversion). Here is a story about not confronting one's issues. Bill creates this cyclopean tragedy instead of dealing with his anxiety stemming from comparing himself to his peers, living at home, job search stress, and whatever else he's got going on. He knows he is stressed, but would rather blame his problem on the cyclops rather than trying to deal with the actual anxiety issues he's got. Maybe this is about extended adolescence, as well, and the anxiety created by it. Bill and his parents don't really communicate, and, frankly, Bill doesn't communicate with his therapist, even. He's got a childish problem, and acts like a child, and blames other things for his issues. His stressors aren't even that big a deal! Social anxiety, laziness, entitlement... Get it figured out, dude. Stop pissing yourself. Comments: I like this story. It's pretty tidy, knows what it is and executes that vision. I think the ceiling of this story is limited--it's goals are small, it's message isn't particularly weighty, the stakes are low. None of that is bad, it just means this is a nice little story. It's a creative vision of what it's like to lack self-awareness. The characters are fairly flat, not a lot of development that goes on here (but also that's kind of the point). I've got a few quibbles with the storytelling, particularly some inconsistency that took me out of it. The sections at Bill's therapy sessions are told almost entirely through dialogue, and it works. So when you suddenly break that pattern, and jump to Bill's thoughts (I am speaking specifically about the section that begins, "Truth is, it has been stressful at home."), it feels wildly inconsistent. I wasn't sure what was happening--was that supposed to be dialogue, but you misplaced the quotation marks? No, it appears. I understand why you included that portion; we need to know that Bill is actually stressed about these other things and not the cyclops. It's just such an abrupt change of style that it doesn't fit, for me. I think you could lean harder into the tone here. It seems mildly satirical, and since it's about a cyclops pissing on a 20something 'kid', it should be funny. It is comical right now, and I think the further you go into satire, the stronger your themes will be. If it's about the absurdity of the mid-20's, then it should be absurd, in some way. Then again, I guess a pissing cyclops is just that. Pop Culture Tangent: I tried my best to quickly put it on viibraaaateee Crit -- "Cast" by Jitzu_the_Monk (Now Armack?) Summary: Farinelli, a eunuch with a magic voice, is summoned to pacify King Philip, the depressive king of Spain, who is wailing about the size of his feet. Farinelli is apprised of the situation by a Cardinal, Alberoni, and a Count, Enriquez (who sees the French king as an unfit usurper). Farinelli notes the unease of the court, yet proceeds to calm the king by song. Later, while dancing with a broomstick, he receives a piece of hatemail. A few nights after that, the king goes catatonic again, and Farinelli is once again summoned--the king is bleeding out on his bedroom floor and won't admit his doctor. Farinelli rushes off, but is blocked by Enriquez, drunk (and/or covered in blood?), who puts in earplugs and attempts to knife the soprano. Farinelli dodges his drunken attack, pulls his earplugs, and sings him to sleep. He rushes to the king, still bleeding and attended by his queen, Elizabeth. He pleads with the king, then eventually sings a song, and the king is once again placated. Farinelli heads back to his room, and on his way finds Enriquez, throat slit in apparent suicide. Farinelli returns to his room, and continues in his duty for a long-rear end time. Analysis: I'm actually not entirely sure what this is about. Let's see if we can figure it out as we go here. There are some clear elements here, about the idea of belonging, and place, and being an outsider, about duty, about fulfilling one's role in life. Perhaps this is about what it really means to belong to a place: Enriquez ends up dead, failing to kill the king or to prevent Farinelli from entering his presence, and Farinelli sticks around for a couple decades. Maybe belonging has nothing to do with birthright or nationality. Maybe Farinelli, dedicated to his task and to the monarchs he serves, belonged to Spain far more than Enriquez, with all his blustery talk about usurpers and rightful kingship, ever did. Of course, what Philip? Farinelli is an outsider in more than one way--he's from England, but he's also a eunuch (both traits over which he had no control), and is seemingly unwanted, even despised, every moment he is in Spain aside from those in which he is singing. He knows this. The people around him don't know what to do with this, and are disconcerted by their feelings about him. I'm not sure what this means, really. Farinelli doesn't seem particularly bothered by this arrangement; he pretty much takes it in stride. I also can't tell if he actually likes singing. Anyway, perhaps this is about a person's ability to find contentment within hostile environments, places where you aren't wanted aside from your narrow utility. I had a long time to think about this story, except I didn't really spend my time thinking about this story. I probably would have to read it a few more times and discuss it with someone to see if there is something going on here that I'm missing. Or maybe I'm just reading poorly. Idk. Idc. Alright, now I'm thinking that the fight between Farinelli and Enriquez is supposed to be significant. Farinelli, a soft-bodied eunuch, fights drunk Count Enriquez, presumably trained in the art of fighting to some degree. The story certainly gives that impression, or at least I read him that way. Enriquez tries to block out the "weapon" of the outsider, his voice, by plugging his ears. Farinelli defeats drunk Enriquez by removing his defenses and forcing him to listen to his song. Perhaps this means something about the futility of resisting the forward movement of society, that no matter how hard you try to ignore the power of modern wisdom, you're still a drunk rear end in a top hat and it will get to you anyway. I don't know what the hell any of that means. Comments: This is an above average story. The prose is good to quite good. The story is engaging, and moves with enough pace. The characters are well-drawn. I'm just not entirely sure what this story is trying to deliver. I wouldn't call it overly entertaining, particularly affecting, or profoundly meaningful. I think a revision focusing on clarity of tone would improve this story. I don't really dig the "fight" scene between Farinelli and Enriquez. It feels out of place. It comes out of nowhere, and I don't really buy it. The story is pretty grounded, the sole exception being Farinelli's magic voice, and accordingly it's difficult for me to buy Farinelli as capable of the dexterity that would be required to pluck cotton from a man's ears during a fight. It doesn't sink your story, but it took me out of it. I understand the need for the scene in regards to the plot and even the theme (huh, that gives me some ideas, brb) okay I'm back. Still don't really like that scene, at least tonally. Farinelli is an interesting character, and relatively well drawn, but I think I could have used a little more insight into his feelings on some of this stuff. All we really have to go on are his actions, which are revealing, but limited in scope. Why does he keep helping out dopey monarchs? Simply duty? Fear of consequences? How does he actually feel about his job, considering he has no choice in the matter and he ends up singing songs he doesn't actually like, and is used mostly as a tool instead of being allowed to display the beauty of his gift? Like I said, your prose is quality. The use of the verse is well executed, the pacing is good, there is sufficient sensory detail, and the story is clear. I'm big on clarity. I was very rarely confused about any of the details of the story. Seriously, that makes me happy. I do get a good sense of your characters through your prose, and it's not a lot of exposition--it's mostly through action. Love it. I still don't really know what this story is for, what it's supposed to make me feel. I bet you do, and a couple more revisions would really help this story. As is, pretty good. Pop Culture Tangent: Nobody sleeps. Except Enriquez 
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Dec 12, 2017 09:07
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also prompt what the hell
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Dec 12, 2017 09:10
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Chad? Chad DerrINger?
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Dec 19, 2017 08:56
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Out of the Raines 1440 words Los Angeles is a city of rules. They’d all deny it, of course. It’s California. This is the land of rule-breakers, they’d say. The city of counter-culture, punk rockers, surfers, new money, new, new, new. You can be who you want to be, do what you want to do, say what you want to say. Maybe compared to the WASP-infested coastline of New England. But that’s a low bar to clear. Out here, the rules are hidden, but they’re still there. And they aren’t much different than the old rules. One, in particular, never seems to change: men with money get their way. ~~~~~~~~~~ The door bursts open, shattering the peace of the midcentury-modern home into which it opened. “Ugh. I can’t stand him!” I look over from the living room, where I’m currently standing, balanced in a sideways lunge with arms extended in either direction. My twin sister Iselle is standing in the doorway, arms akimbo and eyes aflame. She is the vision of teenage fury. I can see through the doorway a trail of leaves settling back to the earth in her wake. “Can’t stand who?” I ask as I resume my martial arts training. “He is the WORST.” Iselle storms through the room, a trail of possessions on the carpet behind her: backpack, shoes, keys. “With his stupid haircut, and his stupid smirk, and his stupid car!” “Who’s that?” I ask calmly as I move to a new pose. I know Iselle well enough to know the winds will die down soon enough, even if only for a moment. “He thinks he can run the whole school! Just because he’s handsome, and his daddy has money.” Iselle stops in the middle of the dining room, her hands now clenched at her side. She’s silent for a second—just one—then a low growl rises in her throat. The winds are about to pick up. “And he’s right! All those stupid girls swoon over him because he's got a BMW and he refuses to wear a shirt. And the boys. THE BOYS. They all worship that stupid jerk. He brings a skateboard to school, guess what everyone’s got the next day? And seriously, everyone’s just gonna wear puka shells now? I mean, he’s not even COOL. And the admin. Don’t even get me started on those flunky lapdogs!” “Who, Iselle?” She notices me for the first time. She marches over to me, limbs and jaw imbued with the type of ire that only a strong-willed seventeen year old girl could muster. She stops a foot from where I stand, balanced on one leg. “Who, Lucas Raines?” She yells. “Who?!” She leans in. “Chad. Derringer.” ~~~~~~~~~~ I don’t know Chad Derringer, but if you know one Chad, you know them all. In every school in every city in America, there is Chad, terrorizing his fellow students. We used to have one at my school—Chad Carson—but he didn’t last long. Military school doesn’t suit the Chad’s of the world—and certainly not my school. My sister goes to Santa Monica High, and they’ve got Chad Derringer. They’re all the same, though—hell, maybe they’re literally the same. Whatever the case, one thing is true everywhere: Chad’s reign of terror needs to end. Iselle wouldn't tell me what Chad did to get her riled up, just that he messed with one of her girlfriends. My sister told me not to do anything, that she could “handle her own problems”. That’s true, no question. But I’ve got a special distaste for Chad’s, and I’ve got a little free time on my hands. So here I am, sitting in my car with a pair of binoculars outside Triton’s Cave, the restaurant where Derringer and his sycophants hang out. I find him quickly: shirtless, puka shells, big sunglasses, and some rainbow-patterned boardshorts. Douchebags sure do make themselves easy to spot. He and his ‘friends’ are sitting on one edge of the patio eating French fries and laughing about something. On the other end of the patio, around the corner, I spot a kid sitting at the base of the wall, head in his hands. I don’t need to guess to figure out whose handiwork that is. I exit my car and jog over to the kid, dressed in jeans and a polo shirt. His cheeks are wet. “Let me guess. That jerkoff Chad?” The kid, no more than 14 or 15, sits up, crosses his arms, and levels a withering glare at me. “Buzz off, boot camp,” he spits. Geez. Chad even turns his victims into assholes. I walk around the corner. Maybe I’ll end this today. Give Chad a good thumping, knock those sunglasses off his spray-tanned mug, send him home asking daddy for help. “You Chad?” The group stops laughing, and everyone looks at Chad. Chad looks at me. “Do you even have to ask, bro?” No, I don’t. He sits back against the bench and puts both arms up. “And you are…?” Now everyone looks at me. “Oh poo poo, wait, I know who you are. You’re that bitch Iselle’s brother!” Every inch of muscle in my body goes taut. My hands form fists and my legs tense, ready to lunge. I force my face into a smile. “I’ve heard about you. Look at your jarhead-lookin rear end. She send you to come beat me up or somethin? She tell you I broke her heart or some poo poo? That’s hilarious!” Chad doubles over in cruel laughter in only the way bullies can. “I don’t think you want to—“ Chad stops his laughing and interrupts me. “You’re right, I don’t, Raines. But Blaine does!” Chad looks at one of the boys at the table with him, whose eyes go wide and stare back at Chad. Chad shrugs his shoulders and waves Blaine on. Blaine stands up. “I’m not here to fight Blaine.” “You don’t even want to fight?” Chad says, trying to goad me. I’m not that easily baited. “What are you even good for, jarhead?” His cronies laugh after a second. “I’m here for—“ This time, a car horn interrupts me. Across the street, a silver BMW has stopped, top down, EDM blasting out the stereo. A gaudily-dressed business man with slicked-back hair and expensive sunglasses sits in the driver seat. “That’s my dad. Gotta jet, turd!” Chad shouts, hops over the railing and jumps into the passenger seat of the car. He fist bumps his dad, and they speed off. “Nice going, dude.” I turn around. It’s the crying kid from earlier. Goddamnit, Chad Derringer. ~~~~~~~~~~ “Listen, Iselle. We’ve got to do something about this Chad guy.” Iselle turns in her seat to face me. I keep my eyes on the road, but I don’t have to see her to know the path of the hurricane has adjusted ever so slightly. “Lucas Raines, I thought I told you not to do anything. I thought I told you I could handle my own problems.” “You didn’t really expect me to stay out of this, did you?” “What are you going to do? Drop some stupid one-liners and use some dumb action hero moves? Beat him up and get our asses sued into Long Beach by his daddy?” She rolls her eyes so hard I can feel the air move. “Not everything can be solved with your fists, Lucas.” I pull up to the parking lot in front of Iselle’s school. In front, parked illegally and causing a traffic jam, is the BMW from yesterday. On the curb I see Chad and his dad, both shouting and waving their arms wildly at two school administrators. “Besides, I told you.” I turn to look at Iselle. She’s got a Tyler-Durden grin on her face. “I can solve my own problems.” She flashes her eyes across the street. I follow with mine. A billboard sits directly across from the school. It’s got a fresh advertisement on it. “Do you know Chad Derringer?” It says. Beneath this, everything you could ever want to know. “Chad cheats in PE.” “Chad can’t hold his liquor.” Then the good stuff. “Chad poops himself during sex.” “Chad is afraid of the dark.” And the finisher. “Chad gave me herpes.” I turn back to my sister. She’s scrolling through Instagram, already moved on with her life. I can’t do anything but marvel. My sister is a tropical storm, and Chad Derringer a lonely, exposed island in her path. And I’m not sure this Chad can repair the damage from this storm. Iselle gets out of the car, then turns back to me through the passenger window. “It’s like dad always says. If you don’t want to get wet…” I finish it for her. “Keep out of the Raines.”
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Dec 26, 2017 09:26
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maybe you could, uhhh, flerp this one?
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Dec 30, 2017 05:30
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