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Thunderdome virgin in
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Dec 21, 2022 05:55
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| # ¿ May 16, 2024 17:34 |
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Admiralty Flag posted:Thunderdome virgin in Sorry if these are dumb-rear end questions but, well, see quoted material above:
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Dec 22, 2022 17:56
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In with:quote:there's an extra gift on christmas morning and no one knows who it is from
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Dec 23, 2022 02:04
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The Gift that Will Keep on Giving prompt: there's an extra gift on christmas morning and no one knows who it is from 1471 words Christmas Eve: I was microwaving water for my French press when I saw her. I watched through the frost-rimed window as she got out of the UPS truck. She was a seasonal employee: fumbling through a pile of boxes and wearing a hi-viz vest over a coat and pants instead of a uniform. I wondered whether it was for the neighbors or us. Then the microwave beeped, and I poured hot water over the coffee grounds. The doorbell rang. She was already gone, but in front of the door sat a box six inches square and thirty inches long. “PLEASE RING BELL OR KNOCK ON DOOR,” complete with quotation marks, was printed twice at the top of the label addressed to my daughter. It was obviously a gift and Christmas Day wasn’t until tomorrow, but the package’s branding verified my hunch it was flowers. Rather than risk them dying, I called downstairs. Margarita was in her bedroom, another first-year post-college zoomer forced to live at home – not that we minded, though sometimes I think she did. “Sweetie, come up here!” “What is it?” resounded the sullen tones of someone interrupted while doing something interesting. “It’s for you!” If I’d been smart, I would’ve texted her she had something waiting upstairs and saved my voice. But I don’t always think through all the consequences. She trudged up the stairs. “What is it, Dad?” “Check the banister.” The box stood against the posts of the staircase. She looked at it with raised eyebrows, then tore it open. It revealed twenty-four red and white carnations and a spherical vase to hold them. There was no note. We sat down together to talk about it. Her refrain, “Who sent them, Dad?” echoed again and again. I did my best to ease her anxiety by talking through it with her. First things first; we went down the list of suspects. She called her boyfriend. He said it wasn’t him, though he wished it had been. Then she walked off to finish their conversation. Way to respect your dad’s time, kid. Ah, hell, I couldn’t begrudge her a few minutes of lovey-dovey chat during this micro-crisis. She mentioned Jack, her high school boyfriend, who dumped her when he went off to college, then pined for her unceasingly as he struck out endlessly with women at the University of Illinois, fruitlessly sending her tokens of affection to rekindle their relationship. We decided he was a dark horse, but he had once unexpectedly shown up outside her dorm out east. I thought it might’ve been her mother. Eighteen years divorced, and I still got a shiver up my spine thinking of her. Luisa was a bundle of untreated mental illnesses, including a diagnosed personality disorder. According to Margarita, she had stopped seeing her therapist and psychiatrist a couple of years ago because “they weren’t helping.” Margarita had a huge blowout with Luisa halfway through college, and, since then, she’s spent all her college downtime as well as her post-college life with us. Meanwhile, Luisa has used a variety of passive-aggressive techniques trying to reestablish contact with her. I thought this might be another poorly executed olive branch. Angelo, her college boyfriend, was Margarita’s prime suspect. She dumped him in her senior year when she discovered he had cheated on her. He had recently called my wife, Cathy, asking her to please get Margarita to call him. She had blocked him everywhere, he was lonely, and he had made a terrible mistake. Cathy had promised him she would tell Margarita, but that’s all she could do. Of course, she chose not to call him; after all, his betrayal had sent her into a tailspin, delaying her graduation into the summer. Margarita knew he lived relatively close to Seattle – he worked for a hardware manufacturer in Silicon Valley – and had the means to fly here on a whim. We waited for Cathy to come home to draw any conclusions. The best the three of us came up with was the flowers were a prelude to a phone call. In the off chance someone did show up, Cathy or I would handle it, as Margarita could not deal with any of these people. # # # Christmas Morning: We opened gifts when time permitted us to do it together, which was infrequent. We were busy cleaning, baking, cooking, and getting ready for the in-laws to come by in their ‘window’ for a couple of hours of family time before the party was open to all. Margarita was about to open the best gift I had picked out for her when the doorbell rang. I checked the time. Great, Cathy’s goddamned relatives had shown up early once again; for them, half an hour ahead meant on time. (I mean, if you’re half an hour early to someone’s house, just park and scroll through your phone for thirty minutes.) I asked Margarita to wait. I should have looked through the window on the way to the door, but I don’t always think through all the consequences. I plastered a smile on my face, went to the door, and opened it, saying “Merry Chris—” The face of my ex-wife stared back at me. I couldn’t help myself. “Jesus, Luisa, you look like hell.” “I drove here, slept in the car twice.” “All the way from Chicago?” She didn’t answer, just tried to come into my home. I put my arm across the doorway to bar her. “Look, we need to talk. Give me a minute, and I’ll be right out.” I closed the door before she could say anything, threw on shoes and a coat, and stepped outside. “What the hell are you doing here?” “I came to see Maggie.” “I’m sorry, but she doesn’t want to see you.” She asked, her voice raised, “How the gently caress do you know that?” “We talked about it yesterday, when the flowers came. Did you send those from the road?” She ignored my question. “I have a right to my daughter.” She sounded just like she did that day in Family Court, after which the judge told her, “Your daughter’s not your possession.” I shook my head and sighed. “She’s 22 and an adult. If she doesn’t want to see you, I’m not going to force her. Besides, I don’t have that right, and neither do you.” “But I came all this loving way!” “Margarita should’ve agreed before you did it.” “How could she? She’s blocked me on everything!” “Look, I’ve got people coming over shortly. I’m sorry, but I have to get ready. I can’t talk—” “I need—” “—None of us can talk to you. I’m sorry you came all this way. I hope you can find some solace in this Christmas somehow.” I went inside and locked the door. She stood on the porch, pounding on the door and yelling for Margarita for a few minutes. Then she harassed my in-laws as they arrived, getting into a shouting match with my mother-in-law. When we heard that, Cathy called 911 while I went outside to break it up, filming with my phone. When the cops showed up, I explained the situation and showed them the video. They spoke with Luisa, and she left, still fuming. Afterward, they told me they gave her pointed instructions to move on and not harass anyone again, or they’d arrest her for disturbing the peace and trespassing, impound her car (as it was in my driveway), and make this an even more unpleasant Christmas. # # # Now: It’s the morning of December 26th, and – man – there’s all sorts of mess to clean up. It’s early, and I’m still in my robe, a little hung over. The doorbell rings. I open it to reveal a just-greying man in a loosened tie. “Yes?” He flashes a badge, coughs. “Detective Shaughnessy, Seattle PD. You Daniel Schmidt?” “Daniél.” My heart sinks. This can’t be good. He nods. “Can I come in?” I open the door all the way. He stamps the crusty snow off his shoes and steps inside. “Is your daughter up?” “Sleeping off a high-proof evening.” “I talked to the officers on site yesterday for background. Maybe it’ll be better coming from you…There’s no easy way to say this. Your ex-wife hit an overpass abutment doing about 75 early this morning, no seatbelt. Her blood alcohol was about twice the legal limit. We’re calling it a drunk driving accident, b-u-t…” His strung-out vowel and pause are long and pregnant with meaning. “I…I get it. Is there anything any of us need to do? Identify the body?” He says no, asks me a bit more about yesterday, gives me his card, shakes my hand, then leaves me alone. The bitter fruit of two dozen flowers.
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Dec 24, 2022 22:17
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Speaking as a first timer to TD, I'm competing here to learn the craft and, aside from kidnapping better writers and grafting thin slices of their brain onto mine, I don't know a way to get better without people telling me where I'm going wrong.kaom posted:Only one, anonymous person has suggested they don’t want crits. I don’t agree and think that defeats the entire purpose of TD. Sitting Here posted:I think this is a really good observation, and is the reason I plan on opening a companion thread! The discord is nice, but I don't think people should necessarily have to go off-site to learn about the competition (the TD archive being a notable exception, though it's possible to do TD without interacting with the archive). As to the suggestions of how to handle first-timers, BeefSupreme suggested possibly "no losing" for your first week of TD, but that seems a little problematic to me. Maybe soften the blow by changing any losses or DMs to something like "TD newcomer/virgin/new blood" for first week contestants? Sort of like, "Hey, you've got room to improve, but thanks for joining, hope you'll come back."
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Dec 27, 2022 00:52
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In
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Dec 28, 2022 17:55
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Wanted to squeeze this in under the line before kayfabe resumes in the new year (a Happy New Year for any who are already there) -- I wanted to drop a quick thanks for the more-detailed-than-usual crits for my first-time TD entry last week, with a special shout-out to Flyerant for their line edits.
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Dec 31, 2022 22:09
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| # ¿ May 16, 2024 17:34 |
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Toward a Brighter Dawn words: 1478 Chester played the piano, and the music tinkled off the rich, dark woods cladding the shadowy bar. My datacomm, tridscreen full of text, rested on the table next to the untouched Negroni. My Scotch in hand, I savored its peaty notes as I tried to recall the song’s lyrics, ignoring the low conversations around me. I had the melody, something grandpa used to listen to, but not the words. Another small sip, and some unexpected oak crossed my tongue. Hmm. I knew what she’d say when she found out what I had to drink, how much money it had cost, and how much that would compound to; however, I was about to do without Scotch for a very long time, and The Macallan 70 was appropriate for such an occasion. Annabeth strode in, a red whirlwind in some designer who rarely showed up in hoi polloi trid-shows. She sat across from me, leaning forward and eying the Negroni. I heard her softly sing, “Come, as you are, as you were.” She picked up her drink and sang to it. “As I want you to be.” Nirvana, right. She’s always been better at the Golden Oldies than I have. I looked around; not much privacy in the bar. I turned the datacomm to face her. “Things’re all set for tomorrow.” She looked at me, frowned, and drained her drink in a single go. I said, “Take it easy. You don’t want to be hung over tomorrow.” I savored another small sip; nothing new this time to add to its rich tapestry of flavors. She pushed the datacomm back toward me, not looking at what I had written. “We need to talk. Time for a stroll.” In my hand was the most expensive drink I’d ever had; I nodded and slugged it back like it was rail Scotch. She took my arm, her wedding ring flashing on her left hand as it snaked through my elbow. We left the bar and set out toward the river. The bite of autumn’s chill stabbed through my light jacket. The path was nice in the evening, and it wasn’t late enough the gangs should be out; too many police were still in the district. As we turned the corner, I asked, “Should we go home to talk? Subvocalize? Or just some peace and quiet?” She nodded at the last choice, and I verbally cued my implant. “Athena, public privacy measures.” It spoke in my ear with its female English accent. “Initiating amplitude cancellation.” A low buzzing filled the air around us. I patted her hand. “What’s on your mind?” She looked at me. “I don’t want to go.” “What do you mean, don’t want to go? It’s too long in stasis? Want to skip being in the first round?” “No, it’s that I don’t want to go.” I sighed. “If this is about safety…” She looked down. “No, I’m not worried about more IMLA attacks. Security’ll be increased, and there’ll be a lot of commercial sites rather than a couple of experimental ones. Besides, we’re probably in more danger just walking down this street.” She stopped and faced me. “James, it feels like we’re running away.” I couldn’t help it. “Whatdyamean, ‘running away’?” I took a breath and cursed my haste. “We’ve talked about this. We’re looking at a brighter future: less pollution, more peace, less suffering, new technology – not to mention we’ll be far richer than now.” “Richer – if the investment strategies actually work, if nothing fails with the systems, if the assumptions are all correct. That’s a lot of ifs.” “Albert Einstein himself once said the most powerful force in the universe was compound interest. Look, it’s just nerves. I don’t want to wait here. I want what the future has waiting for me. I’m going.” “Even without me?” I shook my head. “What’s behind this? You passed me the first BrighterDawn trideo, remember? The whole thing—” She was near tears. “Who’s to say the future won’t be worse than the present? There could be a war, hyperinflation, collapse of the government, a revolution, any number of—” I took her arms. “All those things could happen tomorrow. Why not go into the future, where it’ll all even out, plus we’ll have an even higher standard of living?” She shook herself loose and began walking again. I fell in next to her, trying to match her stride. Her voice was getting louder. “What sort of jobs are we going to be able to hold? You’re assuming there’ll still be a call for manual laborers, because that’s all we’ll be qualified for.” “Our investments will be enough to live off of. C’mon, Betts.” “I really don’t know if I want to risk this.” “Think about how much better life is than it was three hundred years ago. The steam engine was the dominant technology. There were no antibiotics, no transplants, no cancer omni-suppressors. They communicated through something they called the telegraph. Imagine how advanced—” “Exactly! How are we going to fit into such a world? Those of us from stasis will be a permanent underclass. No knowledge, no training, nothing! And it won’t just be a couple of us. There’ll be tens of thousands flooding the job market or the dole – probably even more as the technology becomes cheaper and readily available.” I nodded. “Precisely. The future will have to adapt to us. They’ll know we’re coming. And BrighterDawn will be preparing society and the government for our reintegration.” “Who’s going to be left to move society forward, James? Who’s going to remain to make all these preparations and advancements while the rest of us are gone?” She stalked off toward a taxi. I watched her go. ### I had turned off the white noise field and continued walking to clear my head. I wasn’t paying attention to time, or even where I was going – I was thinking about what Annabeth had said. That’s when the shove caught me from behind and sent me face-first into the wall. “Athena, call police!” The voice in my ear said, “Sorry, local bands are jammed.” I turned around. There were three of them. One of them must’ve gotten their hands on a black market jammer. The leader looked me up and down. “We’ve got a rich one here. Let’s see what he’s got. You going to give it up easy or rough, downtown boy?” I subvocalized, “Athena, use all datacomm power to squirt a concentrated emergency pulse on police bands.” I put my hands up. “I’ve got a Rolex WristSync, a couple of pieces of jewelry, nothing else.” “Looks like we’re going to have to cut you up to check.” The other two laughed. “OK, OK, I’ve got my bank account. I’ll go to a machine with you, if you want cash.” “Cold thumbprint works fine.” “Not with platinum accounts. Full biometric security.” The leader stared at me, looking deep in thought, probably thinking about what terminal to take me to. Then he smiled. “Too dangerous. Looks like we’re just going to have some fun right here, boys.” They closed in. The warbling of sirens and the rushing of a hover shifting from patrol to sprint rang out from the river. The thugs scattered, but there were cycle cops on their way too, and, within a few minutes, the police had rounded them up and were asking me questions. I told the sergeant what had happened, admitted my use of restricted bands, and asked him if there’d be any trouble. He stared at me, but an eager beaver patrolman ran up with the discarded jammer; after looking at it, the sergeant said, “No, sir, I think you’re just about done here.” I looked, really looked, at the thugs for the first time since the whole thing started. They were skinny, greasy, and scabrous. All three were missing teeth, and I don’t think that was all due to the cops. I could smell them from meters away. They were only the grimy shadows of humans. ### The eager beaver dropped me off at home. I nimbly made my way through the dark house to our bedroom. She was in bed, but I could see from the glimmer of moonlight slashing through the window she was still awake, looking at me. I sat on the bed and put my hand on her leg. “You’re right, Betts.” She sat up and reached for the light. I waved. “Leave it off.” I didn’t want her to see the bruise. “What changed your mind, James?” “Nothing else will matter if we’re the underclass.” “But I’ve been thinking too. What will the world be like without the others?” I said, “It doesn’t matter. We can’t abandon the world. We have to stay. We have to build the future. Not everyone can run away and hope for a brighter dawn.”
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Jan 1, 2023 04:28
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