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ok, i guesssssssss is magic the gathering anything like yu-gi-oh?
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Sep 19, 2017 22:34
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Snow Dragon 1560 words Dell rubbed her fingers against her eyelids until dark spots blossomed across her vision. In the other room was something that could be described generously as the wailing and gnashing of teeth. She was seriously reconsidering her career in espionage. “He’s trying to make us look like a bunch of idiots!” Screamed the Director. His first slammed with such force that a painting in the hallway rattled. The board room was supposed to be sound-proof, but there were rumors that J. Edgar Hoover had infiltrated the construction crew to sabotage the building’s design. Either that or some secretary had gotten tired of trying to guess what her boss was mad about and had drilled holes in the walls. Dell shifted her weight from one leg to the other, hoping to be called in. The Director’s voice boomed through the walls. “We used to fight communists and terrorists! We used to be something. How’s anyone supposed to take us seriously when we keep getting caught with our pants down with this— this—.” Dell had a good idea why she had been called upstairs. Someone had hacked into the agency’s website. Either the IT folks in the building were having some difficulties scrubbing the assailant’s message of the site or they had heard about the Director's mood and called in sick. “Sir,” Said a voice. Either the Deputy Director or the Special Assistant to the Director had just made a fatal error in trying to calm her boss down in the middle of a rant. She guessed the latter. He spent too much time dealing with normal people, shaking hands with university kids and attending conferences. “Sir, it’s honestly more of a nuisance than a threat to national…” His voice trailed off. A second voice tried to reason with the Director. “Really, hacking a website is more like tearing down a poster than…” In her mind’s eye, she could see the Director’s withering stare. Years ago, the Director had made a name for himself by sending disliked agents off on suicide missions to unpleasant countries. Dell’s first year in the agency had been spent in Moscow, trying to train pigeons to divebomb in the mouths of communists and unsavory kleptocrats. The Director had been so impressed with Dell’s work that she was sent off to infiltrate a Papal Conclave, which had been fine up and until she had been elected Pope. A third voice jumped into the silence. “Personally, sir, I think we need to muster the full might of the United States of America to counteract this dangerous and persistent threat.” There was a grunt of approval, followed by the sound of chairs scratching against carpet. “Alright, send her in.” *** Dell’s first objective was trying to control the muscles in her face. Behind the crowd of old, white men was a projector displaying the agency’s website. Gone was the “About Us” page and the stock photos of smiling desk drones. In their place were the same words, repeated over and over. “ARUGULA, ARUGULA, SHOW ME THE BAMBOOZALA!” “It’s not just the website,” grunted the Director as if reading her thoughts. “Every password, every code phrase in our system has been replaced with…” He gestured a hand toward the projector. Dell tried not to imagine a field agent pinned down in a desert and desperate for back-up screaming the words… She swallowed a giggle and looked at the assembly of men. Everything about the situation was stupid. “And you want me to…?” Dell already knew the source of the attack: Dick Daniels. He had been one of the Director’s best agents, until he was sent off to the Western Sahara to ruin a child’s birthday party. Something had gone wrong and he had gone mad wandering in the desert. When he returned stateside, he had turned his abilities to more nefarious purposes. The schemes had started small. E-mail and eHarmony accounts from high-ranking government officials leaked to the press. The White House was painted eggshell. But, Dick had gotten more audacious and aggressive. During the last presidential debates, he had hacked into the audio feed and removed the candidates’ voices. Anyone tuning in would have heard the two walking around stage while making wet, fish-like noises with their lips. A few weeks before that, he had forced an evacuation of the Boy Scouts Jamboree by releasing lions and tigers and bears into the crowd. The animals had turned out to be harmless, drugged, declawed, and defanged. Still, the episode had made the agency look stupid and unprepared. The Director ranted about getting outmaneuvered. People asked why the agency existed in the first place. The Director motioned toward the Deputy Director, who zoomed in on the webpage. Dell squinted. It was difficult to see beneath the obnoxious, repeating text, but etched along the bottom of the page was a small message in white text. “Stay tuned! Watch the CIA bungle Snow Dragon!” Dell racked her brain for clues. For an adult man, Dick had always had a strange fascination with dragons. His mission to Western Sahara had been codenamed “Operation Fire Dragon.” “We’re hoping you might be able to track down he before he strikes again,” said the Deputy Director, sidling alongside his boss. The two wore the same tie. An almost identical man, the Special Assistant to the Deputy Director nodded. “We’re still not sure what Snow Dragon is, but, knowing Dick Daniels, it can’t be good.” He grabbed a folder from his another of his clones, the Special Assistant to the Deputy Director in Charge of Strategic Service Operations in Europe and North America, “We’ve tracked him down to a warehouse in Cleveland and we need you to bring him in.” Dell sighed. She had been hoping that Dick would shack up somewhere a little more exotic. The Director glowered. “We can’t afford any screw-ups, Dell. Technically, we’re not even supposed to be operating domestically, but I’ll be damned if I wait for the FBI to take this guy in and steal all the glory.” Dell pretended not to see the sudden surge of desperation behind the Director’s eyes. She wondered how cabinet meetings went and whether the president ever called. The two had had a rocky relationship since the Director accidentally toppled the government of Andorra. It was deeply pathetic. Dell swallowed her frustration and shrugged. “I guess I’m going to Cleveland.” *** She parachuted into Cleveland near dusk. The Cuyahoga River coiled in the setting sun, a grime-covered serpent dotted with abandoned factories and warehouses. Dell had hoped that someone would ask her why she needed to parachute into a city with regular commercial air traffic, but the Director had not even batted an eyelash at the request. Too obsessed with getting Dick, she thought as she floated between the city’s only two major buildings. He’s willing to okay an illegal airdrop to the Midwest, but not willing to give anyone a raise, or stop using the agency to send people on suicide missions, or… She landed between a group of awe-stricken locals. She was not sure why she suddenly felt so angry, but she wanted the mission to be over. She stormed toward Dick’s headquarters: A brown brick apartment building near the waterfront. As she opened the door, she became aware of the whir of video cameras focusing on her. Speakers lined the wall. “Dick!” She shouted as she entered the building, gun raised. “The jig is up! Operation Snow Dragon is kaput.” Static arced through the air. There was a pop and Dick’s voice seemed to surround her. “Oh, hellooo, Dell! It’s so lovely to see you again. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?” She pushed herself up a flight of stairs, following the wiring toward its source. “Look, Dick, I’m really not in the mood. Come quietly and don’t be an rear end. If you make me look stupid…” She reached the top landing. Nervousness crept into her body. She had not run into so much as a bodyguard. Aside from a self-inflicted airdrop, the mission had had no danger at all. She still didn’t even know what Snow Dragon was. Could it fit inside an apartment? “Oh, Dell,” Dick said, “I could not dream of making you look any more stupid.” She kicked open the door and rolled behind a sofa. There was no gunfire. No excitement. She stood up. Dick carried a tray of cookies and drinks. Video cameras lined the walls. On a table was a laptop streaming live to YouTube. She saw herself reflected infinitely in the little video. She lowered her gun. “What is this, Dick? What are you playing at?” He set down the tray and went to pour a cup of coffee, drawing out the suspense. “You know, part of me was hoping that you would prove me wrong and that the agency would do a little more research before sending in the cavalry. But I guess it's still dropping agents in the middle of nowhere because of the whims of upper management." Her frustration flared again. She pointed the gun at Dick. “I’m done playing games, Dick. Where is it? Where’s Snow Dragon?” He ran his tongue over his teeth. “Oh, that’s the joke.” He giggled and pointed toward the laptop. “There’s sno’ dragon. There never was one. Now, give a nice wave to our viewers.” 
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Sep 25, 2017 03:06
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ok, man
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Oct 9, 2017 20:14
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 because that's apparently the only way i can finish storiesflash me up, mojo
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Oct 17, 2017 00:44
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Removed.
QuoProQuid fucked around with this message at 03:48 on Jan 1, 2018 |
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Oct 23, 2017 02:21
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Schneider Heim posted:I will crit up to 3 stories, any takers? heeeeeeey
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Oct 24, 2017 09:51
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sure. i guess.
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Oct 24, 2017 10:30
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Open offer: Crit my story from this week and I'll crit any story that you've written for TD.
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Oct 24, 2017 17:05
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in gimme something gnarly
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Oct 31, 2017 23:57
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Jay W. Friks posted:Crit for "All the Vice President's Men" by QuoProQuid better nate than lever. Crit for Bacchus Lite Line edits here. I had serious difficulties reading this story, not just because of the subject matter (which is gross and grody and not my thing) but also because it is rarely clear. When writing about an elaborate fantasy world, there is often some table-setting that needs to be done. There must be some clear and concise explanation of the world that gives the reader a clear picture of what is happening. In your opening paragraph, this does not happen. Though you open with a "temple of booze" filled with "drowned alcoholics," your writing seems to jump back and forth between literal and metaphorical. I was unable to tell whether you were writing about a literal afterlife or some post-apocalyptic Bad Batch-style wasteland. It often seemed as though you were transcribing a movie in your head and, seeing as I cannot read your thoughts, was often lost by your exact meanings. My second largest complaint with this story are the characters. To be blunt, neither Ozzy Bee nor Brenda are interesting characters. Ozzy Bee seems to be a generic bizarro diety obsessed with alcohol and little else. Brenda is an dead woman who is... obsessed with alcohol and little else. Perhaps their one-dimensional characterizations were intentional, given that both are braindead alcoholics in an afterlife that rewards braindead alcoholism, but it makes the story frustrating to read. Neither character really seems to have any drive or encounters any struggle. Worse, their dialogue is how I imagine a prohibitionist would write a drunk person. There are long extended vowels and bro-isms that often seem poorly used and mangled. When you are writing a dialect or particular kind of speech, I would try to make sure that you are familiar with it. As it stands, it is a frustrating barrier to an already frustrating story. My last serious problem with this story has to do with the overall lack of conflict. Nothing really seems to happen here. Ozzy wants Brenda to do something. Brenda agrees. Then, that thing happens. You dawdle so long on the first part of the story ("Ozzy wants Brenda to do something") that most of the actual action seems to take place off screen. Though I can't imagine rewriting this story, a shift of focus to Brenda's mission "in the real world" would have been infinitely more interesting than this drawn-out back and forth between two seemingly immortal characters with nothing to lose but a hangover. As a rule of thumb, it is generally a good idea in flash fiction to introduce your central conflict within the first two to three paragraphs. I have some comments related to grammar and style in my line edits, but those changes are easy to make. For now, I would ask yourself two questions while writing:
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Nov 1, 2017 01:51
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PROMPT: Chubby Hubby! He Came Back 1199 words Missy waited for the police in the kitchen, but couldn’t keep still. She was convinced that she still had blood on her, or that she had overlooked some obvious clue. That’s how they always got them on TV. A bloody knife carelessly mixed in with the other utensils. A threatening argument overheard by a neighbor. The clock above the mantel ticked. A fly buzzed in a far-off room. She would not be one of those nameless women devoured by their own mistakes. Missy pushed the bleach further back under the sink and straightened out the barstools. Then, thinking that too suspicious, made them crooked again. She went into the bathroom and slapped herself several times to get the tears flowing, to keep the officers focused on the panicked housewife and not the acrid smell of drying bleach or the clump of hair that her husband, Paul, had torn from the back of her head. She touched the ragged skin and winced. It had not been her fault. No one could blame someone for going a little crazy. It hadn’t been her idea to live out in the boonies, surrounded by bugs and filth. All she had wanted was a nice apartment in the city. Maybe with a daughter that she could dress up and parade around to oohs and aahs. But Paul had laughed himself to tears at that, his braying laughter suffocating her. “Aw, baby, how the hell would we ever afford a nice place in the city? And who in the city would want to be your friend?” It had been a struggle to move Paul’s fat body. Missy moved into the living room and tugged on her wedding band. A spider crawled near the edge of her vision and then disappeared beneath a door. Through the window, she could see police pulling into the tree-lined driveway, sirens off. Around the cottage, trees rustled. She tried not to think of the blood soaking into wet dirt or the shovel in the garage, scrubbed of anything that might suggest foul play or signs of struggle. “Oh, come in the house, please,” Missy said, tears rolling down her cheek, as she ushered the policemen inside. A fly buzzed in after them. She hated living near the woods. Missy led the officers into the kitchen and sat them down in the crooked barstools. They did not look at the sink. They did not ask to look in the garage. They did not crane their necks toward the glass pane of the back door, where dark clawing shadows had gathered. Instead, they asked Missy the who, what, where, and why, just like in an episode of CSI. She had practiced this story, giving her account all the classic dimensions. A cell phone not answered. Calls to friends and neighbors. A teary call to the police. The officers nodded along. Yes, yes. Paul had gone missing and his wife had looked everywhere. There would be a search party tomorrow. Maybe a news report. Then, when everyone had finally given up looking, she would run off to a clean apartment in the city to "move on" from the “bad memories.” Missy gave a grim smile. One of the officers opened his mouth, prepared to say something, then stopped. There was a knock. The sound of a fist on glass. Missy turned toward the front door, but the porchlight remained dim and unlit. There was another knock. Missy turned toward the screen door and felt the blood drain from her body. Draped in shadow and a set of muddy clothes, Paul smiled through the screen door. He fumbled a hand around the latch like a puppet being pulled by strings. “Sorry, baby. I can’t believe I got so lost.” His teeth gleamed white. A wave of gnats followed him through the door. “Must have been my headache. My head feels like it’s about to split open.” *** The clock above the mantel clanged with hum-drum instrumentality. There were more quiet dinners and half-hearted jokes. Paul went back to work. Missy ironed Paul’s shirts. It was easy to dismiss the entire affair as an overworked mind, a fantasy of an unhappy woman in an unhappy marriage. But there was the cold slackness of Paul’s skin. There was his insistence that he dispose of every spider and insect that crawled into the house. There was his body. Paul had always been “on the heavy side,” but now his body seemed like a large, foreign thing. She found herself staring at the sackcloth of his belly and shuddering at the smell of rotting autumn leaves on his breath. In the silence of their bedroom, she could sometimes hear clittering and tapping. One night, while Paul was with friends, she grabbed the shovel and ran off into the woods. Frost had already begun to set in, but she ignored the burning in her muscles and tore through the frozen dirt. A centipede crawled through the earthy soil. She squashed it with her boot. Then, seeing something reflected in the light, leaned toward the insect. There was a patch of pale blonde hair and skin in its pinchers. Her hair. *** Darkness. The clock above the mantel thudded, its chimes ringing through the house. Missy held the shovel in her numb hands as she crossed through the backscreen door. Seated in a crooked stool in the kitchen was the dark shape of Paul. The smell of earthy soil and rotting leaves choked her. “Paul?” She said, regretting the question as soon as she said it. Her voice seemed to rupture something. Paul swiveled in his chair. His belly churned like an overripe melon. “Hey there, baby.” He said. Against the black of the kitchen, his teeth seemed to gleam in his withered gums. “You got me a present? Got me a real-nice anniversary gift there? Something for that apartment you’ve been lookin’ for? Ha. Ha.” Missy swung the shovel into Paul. The blade lodged itself in the fatty flesh of his abdomen. She tried to pull it out, but something spiny creeped up the handle. Missy dropped the shovel and threw herself backwards, toppling the other barstool and ramming her elbow into the lights switch. Numbness shot through her as she opened her mouth to scream. Paul was not Paul. Great black flies crawled from the opening that Missy had made in her husband’s flesh. A spider larger than her fist jumped from the gash and landed on the newly bleached kitchen tile. “Ha ha. Baby made an uh-oh.” Said the things in Paul’s ragged skin. It took a step forward and the sackcloth of Paul’s belly ripped open further. Maggots and centipedes snaked their way through the rotten opening. Chunks of nest and larva broke open on the floor. The kitchen grew black and teemed. Missy screamed and ran into the living room. The clock shattered against the carpet as the army of insects followed her. The withered remain of Paul swayed, black legs and pincers still pouring out of him. “Do ya still wanna go to da city wid me, baby? Ha. Ha.” She threw open the front door and ran screaming into the forest. Darkness followed.
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Nov 6, 2017 03:15
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Crit for The Night’s Post by Third Emperor What do I Think This Story Is About? A recently deceased man tries to convince his beloved to swallow poison to join him in the afterlife, which turns out to be slightly less cool than it initially seems. What Works? This piece is a very well-written riff on early 19th century pulp fiction. If you had asked me whether these were excerpts from The King in Yellow or a Lovecraft contemporary, I would probably have believed it. Period appropriate writing is extremely hard to pull off, but you do so well here. Epistolary writing even more so. Your use of poetic phrases (“They tell me stories of faraway palaces and oceans of warm pink waters that fill the lungs as agreeably as air”) and evocative imagery, (“Go to the window and at full arm’s reach splay your right hand, set your thumb over the dog star”) is pretty masterful. The prose might be purple, but it’s a hella nice shade. That you can capture a very specific style of writing is integral to the story you are trying to tell. I don’t think this story would work, for example, in my usual barebones, ho-hum style. The excessive description juxtaposes nicely with the narrator’s dark intentions and underscores his growing desperation as the story moves forward. By the second letter, the reader knows that something is terribly, terribly wrong in this place, but the loquaciousness and dreamy descriptions almost make the whole thing seem tempting. It's a dark concept handled well. What Doesn’t Work? I don’t have many complaints with this story that aren’t inherent in the style or venue itself. It is easy to get lost in the story if you skip even a small word or phrase. I initially had some confusion regarding the “priests in paper clothes” before realizing I had missed a sentence. I also tripped up on one or two of your descriptions, but I think that is more of a reading comprehension issue than a writing issue. My second complaint is mainly about length. You are very much constrained by the word count this week, which prevents the reader from really dwelling on the mounting horror of the piece. I would have really enjoyed one or two additional letters to better allow the narrator’s façade to collapse. Perhaps some begging or bargaining before the outright dejection of the final letter. I don’t think it is necessary, but it might have also been good to get some small hints about the implied, in-universe reader of this piece. As written, I can imagine the writer exploiting that relationship to get his way. Takeaway: As I said in IRC, I was very surprised that this didn't place. I would seriously recommend expanding this piece a little further and sending it off for publication. It's a very good piece of Lovecraftian horror. QuoProQuid fucked around with this message at 02:39 on Nov 7, 2017 |
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Nov 7, 2017 02:37
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in, flash me
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Nov 7, 2017 11:35
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FLASH RULE: The Smiths, The Queen Is Dead The Archbishop Comes for Death 1500 words When the phone rang, the Archbishop lay in bed, hoping that it was a dream. There was a moment of silence, followed by another cacophony of clatters and clunks. Then another. Then another. Then—. “I’m coming! I’m coming!” He shouted, hobbling down the hallway with all the speed that his eighty-seven-year-old body could muster. The telephone, perhaps the last landline in England, almost trembled off the hook. He picked up the receiver. “Whatsit—?” “Oh, Archbishop, it’s happened again!” The Archbishop closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. When he was young and ambitious, a mere mouse among men, he had made a point to remember the names of all the Queen’s secretaries. He’d attended glittering balls and fantastical soirees, entertaining titled lords and foreign dignitaries with cunning remarks about history and religion. But now, he had reached the point in his life where rudeness was mistaken for wit. He had taken to calling the Queen’s secretaries cruel nicknames. There’d been the Tall One, the Scot, and now… “Spit it out, Boy.” He squinted at the grandfather clock near the end of the hall, a gift from some so-and-so to commemorate a something-or-other. In the dark, it seemed more like an expensive novelty than a useful timekeeper. He preferred the digital in the bedroom. “Do you know what time it is?” The Boy sucked in air. “Oh, I’m so dreadfully sorry, your eminence. So terribly, terribly sorry, but you see, it’s all so awful. Just truly, terribly awful. I wouldn’t normally call so late, but it’s an emergency, really…” Sensing a yelp at the back of the Archbishop’s throat, the Boy pressed forward. “The Queen is… indisposed and needs—. “The Queen’s been deposed?” The Archbishop said, twisting his head toward his front door in anticipation of some torch-wielding mob. He knew republicanism was on the rise, but had never thought that the revolution would come in the middle of a Tuesday evening. “Oh, dear, no. It’s not that bad. Well, I mean, maybe that bad. Possibly. It really depends on… Oh, listen to me go on and on.” The Boy cleared his throat. “The Queen’s been possessed. By spirits. Again. And I was hoping you might come down to, well, e-x-o-r-c-i-s-e her.” The Archbishop straightened his back. The Queen was always getting herself possessed in one way or another. There’d been that commemoration at Hastings where she’d floated up into the air and announced the defense of England against the vile forces of William the Bastard. Then, there had been that regrettable episode when she had summoned an armada of spectral ships with the intent of stamping out perfidious America and its rag-tag rebellion. The Prime Minister had had to do something silly in Argentina to disguise the whole ordeal. He sometimes wondered if the American presidents ever wound up ensnared by Abraham Lincoln or if the pope was haunted by the crucified form of Saint Peter. The famous dead always seemed to be consumed by some unfinished business, some desperate desire to remain relevant, a need to be loved. “I’ll be over within the hour,” said the Archbishop. “Try to keep the Queen occupied in her quarters and, for God’s sake, make sure you have some symbol of the monarchy ready. I can’t do anything if the spirit has nothing to attach itself to.” “Oh, thank you, your eminence, your grace. I’ll be sure to do that. You have no idea what a dear and important—.” Said the Boy before he was interrupted by the click of the receiver. The Archbishop squeezed himself out of his nightgown and into his vestments. The white collar dug into his flesh, but the call had stirred him too much for him to notice the irritant. He loaded himself into a rusted automobile. Moved less by gasoline than by force of will, the old thing skittered out of Lambeth and into the rainy streets of London. “Oh, Archbishop,” said the Boy as the Archbishop threw open the door to Buckingham Palace. He tossed his jacket at a footman. The wet fabric sloshed over the servant’s head, a definite faux pas but irrelevant given the circumstances. “Thank you again for coming out. I truly don’t know what to do without your assistance. I’ve been in a terrible—.” “She in her apartments?” The cleric grunted. The tail of a corgi disappeared into a far-off room. The Boy nodded. “Oh, yes, yes. I’ve managed to, well, not restrain her, but, I suppose, occupy her with… well, promises of… You’ll see. Really, I am very worried about the rest of the royal family and maybe I am overthinking it. Prince Philip, whom I have always admired as a pillar of fortitude, was just beside himself about the whole thing and Charles, dear me, had to be practically pushed out of the residence.” “I’m sure he was dressing himself up in his mother’s coronation gown.” He looked at the Boy. “You got the symbol?” The Boy nodded and handed the Archbishop a small signet ring. “It’s embossed with Her Royal Majesty’s initials, you see. Very valuable and embedded in a rich tapestry of...” The Archbishop yanked the ring from the Boy’s hands. They passed through a series of rooms, each gilded and gaudy and filled with paintings of ruby-cheeked monarchs and overbright relics. At last, they arrived at a great set of double doors protected by two of the Queen’s Guardsmen. They nodded their fur caps, then stepped aside. “Hᴀs ᴍʏ ᴄᴏʀᴏɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ ᴀᴛ ʟᴀsᴛ?” Boomed the Queen. She floated toward the pair, dressed doll-like in a matching hat, dress, and handbag. Her eyes and mouth stretched wide. A mass of corgis yipped in the corner. “Aʟᴛʜᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀᴏᴡɴ ʜᴀs ʏᴇᴛ ᴛᴏ sɪᴛ ᴜᴘᴏɴ ᴍʏ ʜᴇᴀᴅ, I ғᴇᴇʟ I sʜᴀʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴜɴʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀɴʏ ǫᴜᴇᴇɴ ʙᴇғᴏʀᴇ.” The Archbishop shot the Boy a look. The Boy spoke slowly with his eyes transfixed upon the Queen. “Her Majesty was involved in a ribbon-cutting ceremony at Lady Jane Grey’s Tomb.” He flashed the Archbishop a nervous glance. “She’s been a bit insistent about her coronation, you know...” “Seeing as she got her head chopped off before getting one herself. Got it.” the Archbishop harrumphed. He unsheathed the small ring from his pocket. “Listen, I don’t give a drat if you’re some queen or a lady or if you’re a demon pretending to be one of those things. I’m not going to stand here and let the entire Commonwealth be subjected to a bloody antique.” The Queen’s form seemed to waver and stretch in the darkness. “Tʜɪs ɴᴏɪsᴇ ᴅᴇᴍᴇᴀɴs ʏᴏᴜ ʙᴏᴛʜ. Fᴏʀ ᴛᴏᴏ ʟᴏɴɢ, I ʜᴀᴠᴇ ʙᴇᴇɴ ʀᴇᴍᴏᴠᴇᴅ ғʀᴏᴍ ᴀɴ ᴀɴᴄɪᴇɴᴛ ʟɪɴᴇ ᴏғ ᴋɪɴɢs, ʀɪᴘᴘᴇᴅ ғʀᴏᴍ ᴍʏ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ ʙʏ ᴡʀᴇᴛᴄʜᴇᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ᴜɴsᴇᴇᴍʟʏ Pᴏᴘᴇʀʏ—.” “Woah, now,” said the Boy. “Let’s not give into anachronistic zealotry.” Said the Archbishop. The dogs whined their disapproval. The Queen continued. “Bᴜᴛ, ᴜɴʟɪᴋᴇ Bʟᴏᴏᴅʏ Mᴀʀʏ, I ᴡᴀs ʙᴏʀɴ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴀɪsᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʀᴜʟᴇ. Aɴᴅ ɴᴏᴡ ɪɴ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ, ᴍʏ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ғʟᴇsʜ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴄᴏɴsᴛɪᴛᴜᴛᴇ ᴛʜɪs ʟᴀɴᴅ.” “Well, let’s not get over hasty,” said the Boy. “Don’t start her going again, you idiot.” “Tʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜɪs ᴘʟᴀᴄɪᴅ ᴅᴏʟʟ, I sʜᴀʟʟ ʙʀɪɴɢ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴀ sᴀɪɴᴛʟʏ ʀᴜʟᴇ 'ᴄʀᴏss ʙᴏᴛʜ Eᴅɪɴʙᴜʀɢʜ ᴀɴᴅ Wʜɪᴛᴇʜᴀʟʟ.” But the Archbishop had heard enough. He extended the ring toward the Queen, who reared back serpent-like. Now her form truly did stretch and distort, filling up the chamber like a basement after a flood. Ancient and expensive furniture splintered against the walls. A grandfather clock ticked its last. “Oh dear,” said the Boy, his eyes flitting between the ruined antiques and his monstrous mistress. “Oh dear. Oh dear. Oh dear. Oh—.” The Queen whipped around and struck him with her vorpal purse. The Boy slammed into the Archbishop. He felt the ring fly from his hand and vanish into the ruins of the room. “Dɪᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ I'ᴅ ʙɪɴᴅ ᴍʏsᴇʟғ ᴛᴏ ᴀ sᴍᴀʟʟ ᴀɴᴅ ᴜɢʟʏ ᴛʜɪɴɢ? I ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ!” The Archbishop twisted as his white cassock sprung from the fat of his neck. Some spirits tarried after death, but this one was bitter. He needed some powerful symbol of the monarchy to contain the unholy beast. A dog leaped over the Queen’s serpentine form and into the Archbishop’s arms. He was not a sentimental man, but, to him, this seemed a sign. He raised the dog by the scruff of its neck. It gave a stupid yip. “You wanna be loved, you great so-and-so,” He shouted, lifting the dog higher. “Well, I’ve got love right here.” The Queen yelled out as the Archbishop sang out a prayer to all the saints. Dark waves of energy latticed out from the Queen’s hands and clouds of smog billowed from her open mouth. All the clocks in the palace chimed again and again and again and then—. The Queen collapsed into a chair. The Boy stumbled toward her. “Is it over?” The corgi in the Archbishop’s hands gave a great and terrible ʏɪᴘ.
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Nov 12, 2017 03:24
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Week CCLXXV: Little Man History As you may know, I have a hobbyist’s interest in history. However, I find a lot of historical fiction to be about as dull as dishwater, with what might as well be rote recitations of Wikipedia pages and obsessions with big-name historical figures. Many poor historical pieces tend to sacrifice actual plot and characters in pursuit of historical verisimilitude. This week, we’re going to see if we can avoid those traps. When you sign up, tell me:
Using this information, I will assign you a major world event. I want you to write a story written from the perspective of some schmuck living through the event, who has their own motivations and desires but who is forced to confront events much larger than themselves. These characters should have thoughts and motivations beyond the historical context in which they reside. They should not possess recognizable names and faces, but instead be obscure or fictional figures. Any prominent names should play a supporting role at most. Just to be clear, the challenge here is to write an actual story with three-dimensional characters without giving me a Wikipedia summary of the event. The historical event does not even need to be the inciting event so much as the setting or exacerbating factor of a smaller, more intimate conflict. Word Count: 1,250 Sign-Up Deadline: 23:59:59 EST, Friday 17 November 2017 Submission Deadline: 23:59:59 EST, Sunday, 19 November 2017 Judges: -QuoProQuid -Kaishai -sebmojo Sign-Ups 1. Third Emperor (Caroline Affair) 2. Nethilia (Musa I's Pilgrimage to Mecca) 3. Sham bam bamina! (Operation Highjump) 4. flerp (Taiping Rebellion) 5. Thranguy (Fall of Constantinople) 6. Fumblemouse (Occupation of the Channel Islands) 7. Antivehicular (1951 Argentinian Presidential Election) 8. sparksbloom (Disappearance of Harold Holt) 9. Uranium Phoenix (Pastry War) 10. crabrock (October Revolution) 11. Fuubi (Meiji Restoration)12. Obliterati (Siege of Baghdad) 13. BabyRyoga (1953 Iranian coup d'état 14. J.A.B.C. (Reunification of Germany 15. Deltasquid (First Crusade; FLASH: Romance) 16. apophenium (Fall/Liberation of Saigon 17. Natty Ninefingers (Fall of Pedro II of Brazil) 18. Tyrannosaurus (Cadaver Synod) 19. Simbyotic (Second Defenestration of Prague) 20. Ironic Twist (Battle of Algiers) 21. Greek Owl (23-F) 22. GenJoe (Chilean National Plebiscite, 1988) 23. Flesnolk (Operation Crossroads) 24. Amoeba Bot (Spanish conquest of the Inca Empire) 25. Djeser (Late Bronze Age Collapse)
QuoProQuid fucked around with this message at 02:20 on Nov 18, 2017 |
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Nov 14, 2017 05:31
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ThirdEmperor posted:Murica! Before 1900. Caroline Affair Nethilia posted:In. Musa I's Pilgrimage to Mecca Sham bam bamina! posted:Antarctica, after. Operation Highjump flerp posted:asia before Taiping Rebellion Thranguy posted:in Fall of Constantinople Fumblemouse posted:In Occupation of the Channel Islands Antivehicular posted:In. 1951 Argentinian Presidential Election crabrock posted:in but i can't decide so decide for me plz October Revolution Fuubi posted:
Meiji Restoration Obliterati posted:In. Asia, before Siege of Baghdad BabyRyoga posted:uh, in 1953 Iranian coup d'état
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Nov 14, 2017 13:06
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J.A.B.C. posted:IN. Reunification of Germany
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Nov 14, 2017 13:35
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My bad! The Disappearance of Harold Holt apophenium posted:In, Asia, After 1900 please! Fall/Liberation of Saigon Deltasquid posted:In! Asia, before! First Crusade Genre Requirement: Romance
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Nov 14, 2017 15:51
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Uranium Phoenix posted:Plz I need a prompt so bad Pastry War
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Nov 14, 2017 15:54
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Tyrannosaurus posted:Europe and, honestly, either. Whatever you think will be more fun for me to write and you to read. Cadaver Synod
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Nov 14, 2017 18:50
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Simbyotic posted:In Second Defenestration of Prague
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Nov 14, 2017 23:59
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Natty Ninefingers posted:South America, after. Fall of Pedro II of Brazil
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Nov 15, 2017 00:01
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Ironic Twist posted:in, Africa, after. Battle of Algiers
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Nov 15, 2017 01:18
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TheGreekOwl posted:Urgh, I honestly can't choose here. I guess I'll go with what I know 23-F
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Nov 15, 2017 12:05
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GenJoe posted:hi I am in with North America/before and will also Chilean National Plebiscite, 1988 Flesnolk posted:Oceania, after. Operation Crossroads
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Nov 16, 2017 12:29
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Amoeba Bot posted:In. South America, before. Spanish conquest of the Inca Empire
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Nov 17, 2017 12:13
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11.5 hours until sign ups close.
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Nov 17, 2017 18:28
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Djeser posted:in africa before Late Bronze Age Collapse
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Nov 18, 2017 02:17
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Sign-ups are closed. Write some good words. Final Tally: EU: 7 ASIA: 6 SA: 4 AF: 3 NA: 2 OC: 2 ANT: 1 Before: 13 After: 12 QuoProQuid fucked around with this message at 16:02 on Nov 18, 2017 |
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Nov 18, 2017 13:09
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Thanks to all those who submitted. For those who failed, please know you can still get a crit for this week if you submit. Even if it is DQed, I would love to read what you wrote.
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Nov 20, 2017 14:52
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It is a common error and, though I am predisposed to grumpily point you to the prompt, I am feeling generous about the two late submissions. For everyone else, I can't punish you for failing to submit but I will be really, really disappointed if you don't post something resembling a story.
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Nov 20, 2017 20:45
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Week CCLXXV: Little Man History Results Overall, the judges and I found this to be a very strong week. Admittedly, over half of you failed or DMed and the other half had some weird ending issues, but there were some strong ideas throughout almost all the pieces that you submitted. Let's go with the negative mentions first. DMs go to sparksbloom for writing an okay story that was almost completely unrelated to the prompt and hdidn't actually seem to be historical fiction. It is about two throwaway lines away from being off-prompt. Another DM goes to Greek Owl for a really confusing take on a Spanish coup. The judges and I had some serious difficulties making sense of the piece's grammar and story. This week's loss goes to GenJoe for writing something with decent characters and themes that never really amounts to much. I think that you needed to either edit this piece or give yourself more time to read it through. Not a bad story, but on the lower end of a good week. I am pleased to announce several postive mentions. An HM goes to Nethilia for writing a delightful, albeit easily resolved, story about a girl who really likes math. It was cute. Another HM goes to Fumblemouse for very strong dialect writing. Shame about that jarring, mismatched ending though. The Winner for this week is crabrock's stellar "The Winter Palace." It's a very nuanced tale about a complicated period of upheaval. The judges and I loved your complex characters and strong prose. It also had an ending that didn't fall flat on its face! You have the throne, crabrock. QuoProQuid fucked around with this message at 04:25 on Nov 21, 2017 |
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Nov 21, 2017 04:23
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Marianismo - Antivehicular Prompt: 1951 Argentinian Presidential Election The prose here is not exactly poetic but it reminds me of Latin American fiction, which is apropos. The dialogue, however, is reminiscent of a bad translation: stilted and awkward. Sentences like “Forgive me, Mrs. Fernández. I was at a delicate place” don’t strike me as human dialogue so much as someone trying to sound Argentinian. The weakest part of the story is probably its first third, which focuses too much on Ms. Fernández, who disappears thereafter, and not enough on Elena and Soledad’s relationship, which is fine but could have been better explored and refined. The story itself is interesting. It doesn’t entirely stand by itself, but I can imagine understanding the broad outlines without knowing the intimate details of Eva Peron’s life. Elena and Soledad’s commission to create a dress out of chicken wire and plaster is deeply distressing and signals to the reader how Evita’s story ends. Their interactions are tinged with a sadness that makes me want to read more. The exchange about “choice” is probably the most touching part of this piece and I really do like the line: “She made her choice, dear," replied Soledad, not having the heart to say her choice was made for her.” The discussion of the Virgin Mother is some good commentary about female gender roles, though I don’t think you fully articulated that within the piece. Also, this is a very solid paragraph: “It was perfect, the picture of discretion. The glossy fur betrayed no trace of the wire beneath, and the First Lady's coat would be a thicker and more luxurious piece than this. There was still the plaster to add, and a sturdy layer of it at that, but a properly smooth finish would see to that. It would not be comfortable, but it would serve its purpose.” Not phenomenal but an admirable attempt. I could see this being lengthened and refined into a stronger piece. If you edit this, I might bring Evita and the parade closer to center stage. Make the piece more explicit. 7/10 A Head Full of Numbers - Nethilia Prompt: Musa I's Pilgrimage to Mecca I knew I was in for a treat by the end of the opening paragraph. This is an extremely sweet story about a girl who likes math. The voice is about as delightful as I could have hoped. I really enjoy the asides of her counting in her head. It captures a childlike delight in numbers that I was never smart enough to experience. The conflict here of the daughter worrying she might be replaced is adorable. Initially, I was worried that I had given you something too hard, but the event is well integrated into the story. It provides impetus to the events without taking the place of the plot itself. Karam has her own thoughts and desires. Her parents respond to events from their own limited perspective. Musa I is a far-off background entity who might need some explanation if I were viewing this story out of context, but is fine within the constraints of this week. The Quran quotation is a nice touch. My gripes are ultimately minor. I think that the penultimate section is just a wee bit info-dumpy compared to the rest of the piece. I think the primary conflict is resolved a little too easily and that the story would have been bettered by a heart-to-heart between father and daughter or some other revelation/action. Overall, though, I did really enjoy this story. IDK if you have any ambitions for this story, but I would add some details and look for places to publish. 8/10 Two Birthdays - Fumblemouse Prompt: Channel Islands Occupation Another story with a good sense of voice. I’m beginning to feel cautiously optimistic about this week. I like about 90% of this story. Amy is a delightfully headstrong daughter who has very particular ideas about the people who have wronged her. While Da is an irresponsible, drunken parent, his enabling of his daughter is amusing and makes sense within the context of the story and larger history. Mam isn’t much of a character but there’s some physical humor in her horror. These all feel like real people who have real chemistry with one another. I’ll repeat myself by saying that the voice used to articulate these things is just wonderful. The actual conflict of “let’s get back our radio” is real and vivid for me. I like that the story operates without in-depth knowledge of WW2. I get Amy being pissed about rationing. I get Amy liking to fiddle and listening to music with her parents. The references to Churchill and others are nice details, but they aren’t essential to the piece itself. The drunken ramblings are cool. Did I mention that I enjoy the voice here? Because “Da turns back to her, blows her a kiss, and then we’re out, sprinting away and laughing like drunk schoolchildren” is pretty great. The 10% that I dislike is the ending. Though it is realistic and well written, the incident is just too jarring when attached to a story that is otherwise very upbeat and charming. Perhaps your intention was to have reality ensue after a Hogan’s Heroes-esque infiltration mission. Perhaps you wanted the reader’s shock to parallel Amy’s own shock and disbelief. If that was the intention, though, I wish there had been a more gradual descent. Alternatively, I wish the story had continued forward to give Amy a bit of resolution. Dead dad is one hell of a sour note to go down on. 8/10 Ω by Thranguy Prompt: Fall of Constantinople The Omega. The End of the Greeks. Cute. There’s not much that happens in this story beyond dialogue and, as such, it lives and dies on its ability to conjure up an interesting conversation. While I see nothing overtly bad, there’s not much in the story that is notable either. Flavia’s decision is interesting and avoids being pointlessly nihilistic, but the reader never learns enough details about her life for it to be truly fascinating. Michael engages in a realistic bit of debauchery, but nothing about his dialogue makes him seem like a real person. Caius engages in a cool bit of crisis profiteering but fails to be really substantial. Also, everyone seems super blase about their impending rape/murder. I suppose that is my issue with the story as a whole. It isn’t bad, but it feels insubstantial. Flavia seems too emotionally distant. The action takes place off screen. Instead of being a source of dread, the inevitability makes this story feel dull. If I were to rework the piece, I would explore Flavia’s psyche a bit more and expand on her relationship with Michael. Instead of dumping a ton of info into each exchange, I might insert some banter or back-and-forth to give the piece room to breathe. It handles the prompt very well, but I would have liked to see some more ambition. It is a fine attempt, but I think you can write something stronger. 6/10 Riptide - sparksbloom Prompt: The Disappearance of Harold Holt On this week’s sliding scale of historical relevance, this story is probably the most tangential to the actual event. I suppose that isn’t completely out of bounds given that I said the event could be an “exacerbating factor” and not the inciting event. Still, it seems a bit odd that you could remove exactly two sentences and wind up with a story about a little girl’s disappearance anywhere in almost any time period. The words that you have here are actually very good. You do a good job of capturing Molly’s growing panic and desperation. Her internal thoughts about the beach and Toby and how she can’t call the police are just off-kilter enough to be unnerving, as is everyone else’s apparent numbness to it all. It is a good internal monologue about a woman under a lot of pressure who has finally come unmoored. Imagery is strong, particularly in the last half. There are a few things that stop this story from reaching its full potential. The first of which is the reason why you DMed: It is almost completely unrelated to the event assigned. That isn’t a problem if you decide to submit this story elsewhere, but it is a problem for this week. It doesn’t read as historical fiction and could be submitted in literally any other week. Second, I don’t have a sense of any character except Molly. I suppose that neither Toby nor Rachel are the focus, but integrating them as real people would have both set the stakes and helped illustrate why Rachel’s disappearance left Molly such a ruin of herself. Last, the story seems to be about half a beat short of a satisfying conclusion. I’m struggling to figure out what this might be, but I would go back and reevaluate if you have any ambitions for this piece. Overall, strong writing. Good voice. Wish I could have had a better sense of who and what was at stake here. 6/10 Of Saint Peter and Onesto - Tyrannosaurus Prompt: Cadaver Synod This is a nice breezy piece that feels much shorter than it actually is. Onesto is a cute protagonist, a poor peasant who is caught up by Papal politicking that goes way over his head. The exchanges with the dead pope seems implied to be imaginary, but I enjoy the possibility that it is not and that this po-dunk fisherman has stumbled into a hierophany. Both characters have a strong voice. Onesto’s constant vacillating between well-intentioned supplication and doubt is handled well. Formosus seems like a pretty cool guy for a corpse. There’s a good integration of the historical event here. It sets Onesto’s story into motion but the story is still Onesto’s. The piece could function without knowing what the Cadaver Synod was. My biggest criticisms with the piece are that it feels insubstantial. Onesto’s plight never really ends up being much more than a possible hallucination. As well done as the conversation is, it never seems to have implications beyond the moment. There is a suggestion at the end that Onesto’s actions have larger consequences (which the historical record supports), but you never delve into that within the story. I would consider expanding this a bit further and perhaps show how Onesto loses control of the situation. Let the errant prophet be consumed by his miracle. Give him and the corpse more to do.(The fate of Pope Stephen is probably ripe for that.) 7.5/10 Couldn't Be Further From Djahy - Djeser Prompt: Late Bronze Age Collapse Hm. The prose here is competent. There is nothing particularly poetic with your descriptions, but I have a clear understanding of what is happening and where. If I didn’t know your prompt, I could guess that this was taking place in Ancient Egypt. I might miss the nuances of your nameless enemy being one of the “sea peoples,” but that is a minor quibble. Blocking is well done. You do a fine job of making a fight interesting, which is something that Thunderdome has struggled with in the past. My problems with this piece start to emerge in its last third after Nesbanebdjed bests his nameless foe. Given that they’ve just almost murdered each other and have displayed no comradery before, I am not really sure I understand your protagonist’s decision to spare the foe. Perhaps it is his frustration and exhaustion, which you hint at in the opening, but that doesn’t really explain why they engage to begin with. I don’t really buy the “He didn’t look like an enemy and so I let him go” excuse. Maybe it is meant to be transparently false, but you don’t really provide a persuasive counter-argument. The communication barrier is also a killer, because it prevents Nesbanebdjed and the reader from really connecting to this sea-person in any substantive way. My other big criticism is the ending, which strikes me as tonally mismatched with the serious tone of everything else. I would go back and inject levity into the earlier parts of the story or find something more serious and inspiring. 6/10 The Winter Palace - crabrock Prompt: October Revolution Have I ever told you about a Russian dish called, “pickled herring in a fur coat?” It’s an odd dish of contradictory ingredients dating to the Russian Revolution that, according to legend, symbolized the unity of the Russian people. The pickled herring allegedly represents the proletariat, the potatoes represent the farmers, and the red beets represent the blood of communism. In reality, the odd list of ingredients were probably a way to stay alive amid mass starvation. All of the elements are cheap and could be found in cans across newly Soviet Russia. Your story reminds me of that, but in a good way. Your characters display an odd mismatched set of motivations. There is this romantic narrative playing in the foreground while the reality of the situation is much messier. The Captain is a supporter of an old oppressive system but kind and noble in his odd way. The men, noble comrades fighting for communism, are a bunch of drunken sailors looking for an excuse to inflict violence on others. The protagonist, who inflicts a terrible act of violence, is engaging in a secret act of mercy. It’s all very well done. I’ve liked how you’ve captured the contradictions of the October Revolution without being overly preachy or falling back on old stereotypes. Those contradictions are helped by some very competent prose. There are some nice details, particularly in the last terrible bit of violence, and in the opening paragraphs. Your vocabulary really captures someone who is caught up in something larger than himself, someone who is playing a role to fit in. It makes me wonder about the internal thoughts of the other sailors. My only serious criticism with this piece is that it needed a little more room to breathe. I don’t think that such a thing was possible given your word limits, but some prolonged exchanges between the protagonist and captain would have allowed both characters to sound more human. The gruesome violence of the conclusion is well done, but would have been better had you lingered on it. I wanted to feel more uncomfortable with what happened. Overall, very well done. I think you managed to fulfill the prompt artfully. 8.5/10 Inferno - GenJoe Prompt: Chilean national plebiscite, 1988 First of all, I mucked up by assigning you an event from the wrong continent. I am dreadfully sorry about that! Hopefully it didn’t give you too much trouble. This story is odd. It’s another piece that is heavy on conversation that uses the historical event as a literal backdrop: a television going off in the background. I go back and forth about whether the dialogue here is good or bad. There are some images and ideas, like the reminiscing about the stadium, that I like, but a lot of really clunky words and phrases, “If it gets bad, you might even start growing hooves, and maybe someone’ll start having to feed you grass.” For an 800 word submission, I am struck by how uneven the entry is. That is not to say I hate the piece. While I think you struggled to really focus in on your central conflict, there are some interesting ideas throughout here. I like the theme of hope in a week full of dreariness and loss. The parallels between the national environment and the instabilities of one’s own life are novel, if imperfectly implemented here. I wish that you had better exploited the prompt and made the event more than just a television and a billboard. It would have been nice to see more of Francisca, instead of hearing about her second hand. Ultimately, I don’t think this is a bad piece so much as one that needed another round of edits. In a larger, weaker week, it might have gone unnoticed. In a week with relatively few submissions and strong writing, though, it stands out. Probably the loss, though I don’t find it terrible. 4/10 The Pastry War Prompt: Pastry War The opening of this piece is a bit odd and clunky. I understand that Henri is being mocked, but his reaction seems unusually staid. The phrasing is both mechanical and assumes that the reader has an exceptional understanding of the event. I don’t think this piece would function without the explanation of the flash rule. Also, there are certain lines that read more like a screenplay than a short story. (“He glanced down the street, and could just make out the French frigate the man was referring to off the coast, lazily anchored in the harbor. It was part of a blockade from the Rio Grande to the Yucatan.”) (“He recognized Luis, a fisherman. Luis had tried to bring his fishing boat out, but the French frigate had put cannon fire across her bow, so he’d sulked back to shore.”) Once the scene is set, however, the piece improves substantially. The awkward exchange between Antonio and Henri seems a much more realistic and amusing exchange than outright, insurmountable hostility. I giggled at, “Your insensitivity again bewilders us all.” Henri’s dire attempts to communicate in his poor Spanish are very endearing. I also like the subtle twist that Henri is not being discriminated so much as he is the victim of French policy. People aren’t coming to his shop mainly because they have no money. They might dislike his French heritage, but its the embargo that is killing Mexico. That’s a cute and clever way to handle things without making Henri’s neighbors seem completely abhorrent. I like idea of the resolution, but it does seem a little too easy and a little overly saccharine to me. Henri doesn’t really do much to achieve it and everyone seems a little too accepting of him afterward. It might have been better to introduce the little girl earlier and show Henri being sympathetic to her plight instead of having a last minute accidental redemption. I also might have toned down Henri’s level of “acceptance” at the end or shown how his sacrifice had negative consequences as well as positive. 5.5/10 Of Honor - Fuubi Holy “aggressively over the wordcount,” Batman! I can forgive a little pushing at the edges of the limit if you are desperate for words, but you submitted something 100 words over. If the lateness hadn’t DQed you, your failure to follow the prompt certainly did. That said, Fuubi, this isn’t a bad piece. There are some typos and tense errors. There are awkward phrases (“the alcohol”). It is a little overly self-serious at times and the dialogue can leave some to be desired. Still, none of these elements are really unforgivable. I rather like the two men drowning their sorrows at the beginning. I also like Arashi’s internal musings about Ronin and the dangers of the road. It feels period appropriate and reminds me of an old Japanese movie. The ending action sequence is fine, I guess. Not great, but functional. I think you could have improved this piece substantially by subjecting it to another round of edits. Try reading your story aloud to identify awkward phrasings and grammatical errors. Ask yourself if elements build toward a strong conclusion. You don’t have many words to spare in flash fiction and it can often help to be as clear and precise as possible. 5/10 The Departure - Natty Ninefingers Prompt: Fall of Pedro II of Brazil First and foremost, you need to double-space your stories. Because of the way the forums work, your piece looks like a big ol’ block of text. I had to manually format this piece for it to be readable. That newbie issue out of the way, this is a somewhat strong introduction into Thunderdome. There is some nice imagery with regards to the royal staff. The phrasing is, at times, a little strained, but not unreadably so. There are some nice details and some really sad descriptions of Pedro and his family. Where this story fails is where most newbie stories fail: It fails to conjure up an actual conflict. Your protagonist is more video camera than person. They observe a sad series of events without seeming to have much of an active role in what happens. No great revelations are achieved. No dramatic decisions are made. We just see a weird royal family scamper off into the night. Though interesting within the context, I’m not sure if I would really like this piece if I didn’t knowing exactly who and what it was describing. Think about what your protagonist can do to affect change. Think about who they are and what motivations they have within the confines of the story. Force them to make some choice and give that choice larger consequences. 5/10
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They Said I Could Become Anything, So I Became a Horse 1439 words Prompt: Get Ready for the First Day of School, Stretch a Horse There were three things that Eliza knew about Hillsdale Academy. First, it was the most prestigious college preparatory school in the country. Its graduates went on to become Supreme Court Justices and Pulitzer Prize-winning authors. A high-school diploma from Hillsdale was as good as a blank check into Harvard, Yale, or Stanford. Second, her mother had spent a lot of money to get her in. She had picked up a second job cleaning bathrooms just to afford the tuition. Third, students who failed to impress the faculty got turned into horses. Eliza gripped her backpack as her mother’s beat-up car turned into the school’s drive. The building was everything its name suggested. The red-brick and ivy façade. The chatting, smiling white faces. A gardener raked at a small pile of autumn leaves with a ho-hum smile. The only thing that shattered the illusion were the dozens of wandering, dead-eyed horses. “Mom, I don’t want to do this. This place is gross,” Eliza said, looking down at her Hillsdale Uniform. A hand-me-down from her sister, Janice, before she had been… A student with a red scrunchie reached to pet a passing horse. It paused and looked into the car with unknowable, glassy eyes. Her heart thumped. “Oh, hush.” Said her mother, swatting her hand as though she could wave the thought away. “You’re going to be fine. Everything’s going to be fine.” Eliza felt something hot and wet creep into her eyes. She wiped her face with her arm and turned so that her mother would not see her. “You don’t understand.” She said. She hated how whiny her voice sounded when she was upset. “I’m not supposed to be here. I’m not funny. I’m not smart. I’m not strong. If Janice couldn’t do this, I don’t know how I—.” There was a click of the seatbelt. Eliza felt the weight of her mother press against her, as her sister had done when they were both small and terrified of monsters hiding in the dark. Large arms enveloped Eliza’s slender frame. Wet lips pressed into her hair. Silence blanketed them. Eliza rocked back and forth, feeling both stupid and comforted. From far away, someone laughed with their friends. A group of boys in sharp, white polos walked past. Like a finger pulling off a band-aid, her mother peeled herself away and unlocked the car door. “You can do this Lizzy. So long as you know what’s right and wrong, you can get through anything.” She said, looking at Eliza with forced determination. “Just gotta make it through four years. Four years and you can have any kinda life you want, maybe change the world.” *** The horses seemed to permeate every part of the campus. There were paper horses on the bulletin boards. There were horses in the patterns of the uniforms. Horses galloped in inspirational posters with labels like, “DREAMS” and “CONFIDENCE.” They pushed their heads against the classroom windows, as if desperate to reclaim the lives they had lost. Their forms were like the heads barbarians mounted on spikes, a constant reminder of the danger lurking beneath every interaction. She hated this school and was pretty sure most everyone did too. The school's front doors were kept locked, both to keep the students out and the horses in. The loud slap of a lunch tray snapped Eliza from her focus on a Shetland Pony trying to squeeze through the cafeteria window. She looked up at a girl whose hair was tied back in a red scrunchie. “The name is Hazel,” said the girl, pointing toward the window. “The horse, I mean. Not mine. Mind if I sit down?” Eliza opened her palm as if offering a sugar cube. “Thanks.” She said, before plopping down on a cheap plastic seat. “I’m Laklynn, which, ha-ha, I get is, like, the whitest possible name for someone to have.” Eliza tried to force down a smile. “No, no. I wasn’t thinking that at all. It’s uhhh… a pretty name.” Laklynn rolled her eyes. “Gee thanks, mom. You sure are great at this whole compliment thing.” They sat in silence as a janitor pushed the pony back out the cafeteria with the end of his broom. "Hazel was the same way." Eliza said nothing. Laklynn unwrapped her lunch-room sandwich, revealing something green and lettuce-like. She bit into it and raised a hand to cover her mouth as she chewed. “You arff’t stanfing ouff, ya know.” She held up her finger and swallowed. “I’d kick it into high-gear if you want to survive the first term. The faculty’s always the worst on the first-gen students.” The janitor locked the doors to the cafeteria and looked around the room suspiciously as the color drained from Eliza’s face. She had tried her hardest to make herself a notable presence. She answered questions in class and spent hours studying every night. Sure, she wasn’t the most popular kid in school, but not every kid could be super-popular, especially not with teachers eyeing her with skeptical bemusement, daring her to slip up. Maybe there was nothing she could do to avoid her fate. Maybe she was doomed from the start. Maybe this was how it had been for Janice before she had been remade into something foreign. Despite the open carton of milk, Eliza’s mouth felt dry. “How will I know when they’ve decided I’m not…” “You’ll think your current thoughts, but more horsey. Your personality will take on horse-like qualities. You’ll feel wild and driven toward horseplay.” Laklynn said in a dry, deadpan voice. “Uh.” Said Eliza. Laklynn giggled. “I’m joking. God, I have literally no idea. Hazel was fine one minute and the next minute, poof, she’s a horse.” Laklynn’s smile seemed to calcify. She looked at the horse-strewn lawn outside the window. The day seemed cold and barren despite the sunshine. “Sometimes I think she’s still in there somewhere. That there’s a part of her identify that’s survived. Or maybe I’m just desperate to attach significance to, like, totally random horse behavior.” Laklynn looked down at her half-eaten lunch, her eyes glassy and shimmering. Eliza tried to think of something comforting to say, but her mind had become suddenly blank. She reached her hand across the table and squeezed Laklynn’s delicate fingers. “Thanks. You remind me a lot of her.” Laklynn whispered under her breath. “I hate this school.” Eliza nodded and retracted her hand while Laklynn recomposed herself. “So, what do you think I should do?” “I dunno. The system’s kind of gamed for the people who’ve been here for generations.” Laklynn shrugged. “Start a club? Run for student government? Organize a protest? IDK.” As they talked, a terrible idea began to form in the back of Eliza’s head. A horrible, terrifying idea that would, at the very least, get something noticed. Hopefully, her mom would understand. *** “This is dumb,” whispered Laklynn. “Like, really, really dumb.” Eliza’s heart thumped in her chest as they crept out of the school’s empty halls and toward Lakewood Academy’s front door. The classrooms thrummed with activity, unaware of the anarchy about to be loosed upon the world. Eliza opened her mouth and heard words spill out. “Shut up or you’ll get us—.” Her arm shot out to catch Laklynn. The janitor hobbled down an opposing hall of lockers like a killer in a horror movie. They waited until the echoes of his shoes had vanished. “I don’t even understand how this fixes any of your problems.” Hissed Laklynn. “I know you want to stand out, but I’m, like, ninety-nine percent sure this isn’t the way the school intended.” ““Laklynn, seriously.” Before them stood the huge wooden doors of Hillsdale Academy, embossed with stylized pictures of horses galloping and running. Eliza threw the doors open with more confidence than she felt, banging them against an exterior set of stone columns. There were footsteps now behind them, hard slaps against tile. A few horses glanced up. Eliza imagined that one of them was Janice, that there was enough Janice left to be recognizable. “I’m all for ra-ra displays of rebellion, but how is this supposed to fix anything?” “Laklynn moaned. “What happens next?” She was scared but it was okay to be scared. Eliza raised two fingers to her mouth. She felt light-headed, but it was too late to back down now. “I dunno, but I guess something's better than doing nothing. Gotta at least try to change the world.” She stuck the fingers into her mouth and blew, breaking the calm with a shrill whistle. Eliza grabbed and ran Laklynn as horses stampeded toward the open doors.
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