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in, prompt please
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Jan 12, 2022 07:45
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Adding a  to crit five stories
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Jan 13, 2022 22:31
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okay yep in with a since I failed last week
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Jan 18, 2022 09:10
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Crits for Week #493 Obligatory crits follow for the gods. I might crit more stories later when there’s less time pressure.Noah - Don’t Forget to get a To-Go Plate: Yep this was good, I liked this one. I can see that the continual Proper Nouns for characters could be jarring and off-putting, but I think it really works, especially given the premise that this is the end of the afterlife and we are, presumably, down to a very limited number of people. I like that the story doesn’t concern itself at all with the implications of the afterlife ending, or what’s going to happen next — it would have been very easy to try and be ironic about “oh lol till death do us part” but there’s no sign of that at all, it’s all played very straight, and it’s the better for it. It’s just a lovely little moment that the characters are dragging out for as long as they can, and I’m here for it. My Shark Waifuu - Goblin-mother: Yeah, this was a fun read. I’m a sucker for humorous fantasy, which can be a hard genre to write without coming across as overly derivative, but I think you’ve struck a nice balance of relatable genre tropes and some original characterisation. The way you’ve leveraged the prompt to give the goblins a unique voice works well here. The ending does wrap everything up a bit too neatly — the story can’t quite decide if the adventurers should be a credible threat or an annoying inconvenience, and the way Griselda just uses magic to solve the problem undermines any tension that the start might have carried. That said, I also think the ending is kind of horrific, and I’m not sure the image of a goblin happily eating birds that used to be adventurers matches the lighthearted tone of the rest of the story? I’m also wondering if the implication that the other bird carcasses belonged to other adventurers is intentional, or if she’d previously used less fatal ways to dispatch them? Albatrossy_Rodent - The Sea Turtle and the Octopus: I feel like this is a sweet little story which seems a bit indecisive. You don’t outright tell us these are the last Sea Turtle eggs until three-quarters or so into the story, by which point it’s too late for any real tension to develop. (You mention “her last hope” but by the end it’s revealed the stakes are “the continued survival of her entire species” so it feels a bit jarring.) The ending feels rushed, especially considering you had a luxurious 300 or so words left. It basically feels like the Octopus downplays the Sea Turtle’s (perfectly reasonable!) existential angst and is all “hit me up next time you want to party” before leaving the Turtle to cry by herself. The revelation that the Octopus is happy to have gone on the adventure, despite apparently complaining the whole time, feels unearned, and I think you could have explored his change through the story a bit more. Maybe it would have been nicer if you’d found a way to end on the stars coming out, since you mentioned them earlier, and it would have been a nice way for the Octopus and the Sea Turtle to reflect on their time together. (Would it be too much to have them wonder about life on other worlds in the sky? Probably! But the story needed something else.) Idle Amalgam - Super Crypto Bros.: Every now and then I’ll find myself wondering if I should reference cryptocurrency in a story, and I always step away from the edge when I realise it’s both too easy a target for mockery, and too boring a target to get excited about writing seriously. I’m not sure where you’re trying to land with this story — at the start I’m intrigued by why the protagonist has such a problem with Pete, and when you paint him as a stereotypical cryptobro with Axe bodyspray and Ray-Bans etc I begin to wonder about the dynamics of their friendship, and the obvious imbalance there. Pete, for all his contrived faults, at least seems earnest, and I would have appreciated maybe a nod to how Pete’s actually changed since the protagonist first met him, or how maybe the protagonist feels insecure with Pete around, or something to explain his avoidance of the guy that’s not surface-level “lol ray-bans and popped collars, what a douche”. The story abandons Pete about as quickly as the protagonist does, though, and the remainder is basically a paint-by-numbers history of cryptocurrency through the ages, culminating in what I assume is a reference to that Cryptoland thing. Which means I rapidly lose interest because there’s no characterisation and the stakes are telegraphed by the real-world history of some fake digital money. Thranguy - The Basilisk Score: I had much the same experience as Staggy, which was essentially “oh sweet, I love heist stories” to “oh sweet, plot twist, he’s in hell” to “okay, when are we getting back to the heist?” To be fair: I think it would be asking far too much to delivery a competently-executed heist story in 1100 words. And I think the “extended metaphor” you’ve got going on with the quantum rips and the galaxy brains using computed minds to steal … things … works really well. But I’ve been paying a lot of attention recently to how important expectations are at the beginning of a story, and I feel that this story subverts those expectations without delivering an equally satisfying payoff. I’ll happily read a heist story and I’ll happily read a story about a galaxy mind waxing philosophical about quantum rips and the nature of consciousness, but if you begin to tell me one and then finish with the other, I’ll just end up feeling cheated. I think I probably would have enjoyed this story more if R wasn’t a disembodied voice in Jack’s ear, and if you’d acknowledged the subprompt a bit more and explored why Danni killed him with the pillow, and if the circumstances of his death play any part in him not wanting to run this heist with the galaxy brain behind hell.
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Jan 19, 2022 00:07
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Lemme tell you about this sweet old man, he is so NICE, he's got a lovely crooked smile, and a hat, and a silver tongue, and there is a gleam in his eye that tells you he is absolutely up to no good. A First And A Final Adventure 1150 words ‘And what,’ Hawthorn said, holding the bundle at arm’s length, ‘am I to do with this?’ Rilena rolled her eyes. ‘We spoke about this, da,’ she said. ‘Remember? We’re off to slay a dragon in Dreadmont, and you were going to look after Teak.’ Tod shifted uncomfortably and leaned closer to Rilena. ‘I told you, Ri,’ he murmured, ‘my parents would be happy to have him—it’s only a day’s ride, and they won’t fill his head with—stories—’ Rilena ignored her husband and reached into her bag, retrieving bundles of extra nappies and milkskins and a much-loved fabric goblin. ‘We’ll be back soon,’ she said, planting a kiss on the old man’s cheek before leaving arm-in-arm with Embrin, still protesting against the decision. Hawthorn looked at Teak, in an adventure of his own trying to eat his foot, and frowned at Tod’s departing back. ‘Dreadmont,’ he mused, running a hand over his beard. ‘The stories I could tell about Dreadmont! But—your father doesn’t seem to like it when I tell you stories, young man, and we mustn’t upset him.’ Teak hugged the goblin close and looked up, his tiny mouth mirroring the smile that slowly spread over Hawthorn’s face. ‘That’s right,’ Hawthorn said, and stood to collect his hat from the rack. ‘Your father said nothing against showing you.’ *** Rather than follow Rilena, they turned instead for the village—through its cobblestone streets and thatched houses; past the redstone buildings that marked their assimilation into the Sed Empire; through a warren of tight alleyways, bracketed by brothels and smokehouses which still accepted the old coin; emerging in the sea-side markets, where traders from Roth’tai packed up their stalls in the mid-morning heat and called out to one another in sea-tongue. ‘Ahoy,’ Hawthorn called, waving a hand at the most severe fisherman he could spot, his dark skin covered in the tattoos of a freed pit-fighter. ‘Any fish left for an old man and his kin?’ The man glared and spat something back in response, and the men around him laughed. As Hawthorn approached, the man lifted his hand to wave him away, before his eyes widened and his mouth opened in shock. ‘Aloth al-mazar!’ he gasped, and the other men turned to face Hawthorn. ‘That means “friend of the fish”,’ Hawthorn told Teak, looking down to face the child, ‘in the old tongue of prophecy.’ ‘Beloved friend,’ the man said. ‘For you, I offer my lunch—’ ‘And mine,’ said another beside him, beginning a chorus of assent. Hawthorn waved his hand. ‘I seek passage,’ he said. ‘Across the Dynthrium sea.’ The first man’s eyes widened, and there was a hushed murmuration among the fisherman before the eldest stepped forward, a wizened man preserved by the sea air as salt carries trout through long winters. ‘I would be glad to take you,’ he said, resting a hand upon his cane, ‘old friend.’ *** Together, the three set forth, and spent three days and two nights fighting the waves, a kraken, and the occasional bout of seasickness. One night, they sat together in the cabin, the older men passing a wineskin back and forth while the younger groped at shadows cast by the lantern. ‘You’ve changed,’ the fisherman continued, leaning back in his chair. ‘You don’t stand quite as tall. And your sea-legs left long ago. I almost didn’t recognise you. But,’ he waved over to Teak, ‘I saw her in that child. She walks with you still, aloth.’ Hawthorn said nothing, only reached for the wineskin and took a swig, as the ship pressed forward into the night. *** From the shore, they joined a theatre troupe travelling northward, through the verdant forests of Nayana where the wood elves sold jewel-encrusted daggers for songs of foreign lands. Hawthorn rode with his cloak open to reveal the dagger he’d once earned for a particularly bawdy tune, and when they parted from the troupe and turned their path north toward the peaks of Dreadmont, Hawthorn sung to liven the mood and Teak giggled in response, waving his goblin to the melody. As they rode, the forest thinned and bare trees rose from the ground in skeletal salute, and Hawthorn sung louder against the gloom, and Teak swung his goblin all the more wildly. It wasn’t until they’d broken free of the dead forest that Hawthorn realised the goblin had been dropped. He looked ahead to Dreadmont, shimmering in the heat radiating from its volcanic base; and he looked back, to the charnel forest fading into evening. ‘Come on,’ he murmured, turning his horse around to re-enter the woods, ‘we leave no adventurers behind.’ They’d made it barely thirty paces when Hawthorn heard the approaching paws, smelled the blood on their breath. Bonehounds. He reached for the dagger, his other arm cradling Teak, as the skeletal beasts circled. When one grew near, it pounced, and Hawthorn swung wildly— ‘Obliteratus!’ a voice rang out, and the bonehound shattered in mid-air. Hawthorn looked back, to see the witch Meralda emerging from the darkness behind him. The remaining bonehounds melted back into the darkness, and the witch strode forward. ‘It’s been too long, Meralda,’ Hawthorn smiled. The witch glared at Hawthorn, and spat a curse. ‘Her sacrifice bought your life. You repay her by bringing her blood to this place?’ ‘I heard tell,’ Hawthorn said, ‘the dragon’s returned.’ The witch scoffed, and waved a hand toward the mountains. ‘He’s old, Hawthorn. He’s returned here to die. If you’re after vengeance, it belongs to the hand that claims us all. Go home and think no more of it.’ ‘He doesn’t deserve to die in comfort,’ Hawthorn snarled. ‘Oh, for Empress’ sake,’ the witch sighed. ‘You’re the both of you as bad as the other.’ Hawthorn stilled. ‘How do you mean?’ ‘Didn’t you find it odd,’ she said, cocking her head, ‘that the contract for a dragon slaying in Dreadmont went to two young adventurers from the sleepy village of Rifike? It was his idea — to die not asleep a hoard of spoils, but in the glory of battle, against the closest match he could find to the one warrior he always remembered.’ ‘Even if,’ she continued, looking Hawthorn over, ‘her partner was some insufferable wretch who thought only of himself, until it was too late.’ Hawthorn frowned, and looked back to Dreadmont. ‘If this is some trick—if I lose another love to that beast—’ ‘Have some faith in your daughter,’ Meralda smiled. ‘She’s the best of both of you, and her taste in men isn’t so bad as you think. They’ll come back together. No, there’s another battle you should worry about.’ She pulled the goblin from a bag slung over her shoulder, and passed it to Teak, who took it greedily and held it tight. ‘Perhaps next time you go on some fool adventure you don’t take the baby monitor with you, hm?’
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Jan 24, 2022 11:55
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in, flash please
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Jan 31, 2022 21:35
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in, I’ll take a strange friend please 
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Feb 8, 2022 21:41
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 Good Boy 999 words Some nights, when the rain was especially fierce, and thunder threatened to shake the house apart, Charlie would take you downstairs and you’d sleep together, under heavy woollen blankets, before the soft warm glow of the fireplace. As much as the noise frightened you, those were your favourite nights. When Charlie was smaller — when you were almost the same size — you never stayed apart. Once he grew bigger, and started tottering on two legs, digging through the dirt outside — where you were forbidden — Charlie spent less and less time with you. He no longer held you on his lap before the TV, or snuck you sips of his juicebox, or fell to sleep clutching you tight — except for those frightening, magical nights under the woollen blankets on the loungeroom floor. His mind gave you life, his hands gave you movement, and when he sunk into slumber you followed dreamlessly, waking only when he carried you back upstairs to the shelf you spent more and more of your time upon. But one night, when his eyes closed and you felt sleep descend, the crackle of fire and the roaring storm did not disappear but instead grew louder, stronger, as the darkness of night became suddenly day; for a brief, incandescent moment, all was noise and all was light and all was heat. And then everything was silent, and dark, and cold; and you succumbed into whatever sleep followed such fury, Charlie’s arms still tight around you. *** When you woke, you saw the ground through your legs, black dust and shiny rocks shimmering through hazy white fur. And above, where before hung a single bulb, now sparkled countless lights, far above the rafters, impossible to reach, even if Charlie had held you up in his hands— Charlie. His hands no longer held you. You were awake, but he was nowhere nearby. You stood. That was easy, now. Effortless. You thought, and limbs obeyed. You heard voices, close and getting closer. Not Charlie’s, not Charlie’s mum, not Charlie’s dad — who had never once raised his voice as loud as these. Strangers, in strange clothes, faces hidden under helmets, behind masks, carrying axes and torches, sweeping light through the darkness to reveal how much of the house was … not, anymore. You followed them, invisible to their eyes, so small you almost sunk into their footprints in the ash. They pressed on, out of the house, onto the deck, miraculously intact, and then the grass beyond. You reached the lawn’s edge and hesitated. You’d never been allowed further, for fear your legs would turn green, your face ground into mud. And yet there, on the grass, near the swing Charlie had once strapped you to, sneakily — two figures, blanket-wrapped, clutching each other tight; their heads together, facing away from the house. One of the strangers walked across the grass and over to them. You thought about following him, and your legs obeyed, the four of them moving across the dirt and the grass and the ash blown forth from the house. None of it stained your paws; none of it made a mark at all. And your paws left no prints in response. The stranger reached the figures and they spoke to each other. One of them turned, to face the house, to face you — Charlie’s father. He didn’t see you; he was looking past you. He was looking past everything — looking to something so far away not even Charlie’s legs could have carried him there. And then he looked away. *** You ran. You bounded. You flew. You found new strength in your limbs, throwing yourself forward, careless of direction, your destination a mantra: you needed to find Charlie. Only when the sun’s warm light arose, clearing any shadows that might have hidden Charlie, did you stop, and collapse to the path. It was hopeless. Wherever Charlie had gone, you were unable to follow. You realised someone was calling to you, and looked up to see a bear sitting on a porch nearby, waving a paw in your direction; its fur white and see-through like your own. ‘I’m looking for Charlie,’ you said, walking closer. ‘Have you seen him?’ The bear shook his head. ‘When did Charlie leave you?’ he asked, gently. ‘Last night,’ you said. ‘We both went to sleep, cuddled under the blanket, before the fireplace. And then—’ The bear nodded sagely. ‘What’s your name, young one? What did Charlie call you?’ ‘“Good Boy”,’ you said. ‘Of course,’ the bear said. ‘You must have been, to pass through like this.’ ‘Pass through?’ you asked. The bear shrugged. ‘We don’t all get a second chance,’ he said. ‘Charlie believed in you. He thought you were real, just as Sally thought me real. “Big Bear”, she called me. I was with her—’ He broke off, looking up at the house, at a single curtained window at the top, before looking away as Charlie’s father had. ‘When she left, I was too old for anybody else to love. All I can do is stay, and remember my favourite nights, snuggled up in her bed at home. But you—there’s more you can do, young one. Go back to where Charlie left you—I think he meant for someone else to have you, now he’s gone.’ *** And that’s where I found you: half-buried, covered in soot, in the remains of that house. You ride with me, now. We spend days at schools and libraries, teaching, helping everyone stay safe; and at night, you ride with me, your white fur lit up by flashing lights. Because, sometimes, I’m not fast enough. Sometimes, the worst has happened; and people stand huddled under thick woollen blankets on the lawn, watching everything they’ve ever known turn to ash, and that’s when I need you. I take you, and I put you in a child’s hands, and they hold you close to them, and in their minds you’re holding them back, as tight as you can. Because you’re a good boy.
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Feb 14, 2022 04:44
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I am in and would like something for my characters to fight over, please
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Feb 22, 2022 12:00
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Marmalade: peel or no peel? Not Quite Hot Noodles 1200 words Of all the challenges awaiting an acolyte psychopomp, Olivia thinks, cravings for hot noodles are the hardest. Hot noodles, or deep-fried synth-meat, or jam atop toasted nute-wafes; what she wouldn’t give, after months aboard the Tartarus ferricraft, for some actual food. Which is the entire point, of course: this final assignment, paired with an adept who could only be inconvenienced by a baby acolyte, is mostly about acclimatising to the ascetic life of a Collector, and much less about actually performing the Collections. Still: it’s cruel to offer such good noodles in the spaceport beforehand. Beside her, Partheus transcribes the latest Conclave transmission, and draws a sharp breath. Olivia, who’s seen Partheus survey canyons of orbital cannon-fire with less astonishment, turns to face him and leans forward, hands on knees, waiting. She’s not quite game to address him directly—not after last time—but the prospect of fresh information fuels a new hunger. ‘A gamma planet,’ Partheus murmurs. When Olivia doesn’t respond—doesn’t throw hands to cheeks and exclaim, a gamma planet?—he looks at her briefly, pityingly. ‘It’s technically—outside our jurisdiction,’ he tells her. ‘“Technically”.’ ‘“Technically” means we need to get there first,’ Partheus explains, swiping at his tablet. ‘We’re the only Conclave ferricraft within—’ he consults the screen, running a finger down glyphs Olivia still can’t translate, ‘—three light-years. Empress. Why did it have to be—’ He stops short of ‘—when I’m saddled with a helpless, mewling infant,’ but Olivia hears the admonishment anyway. ‘I guess that technically overrides training,’ she tries, eager for a lecture-free landing. Maybe it’s urgent enough for Partheus to act alone, as befits an adept; she can stay and complete the serials she’d packed in a rare moment of aspiration, free of judgment. ‘Or perhaps,’ Partheus says, before keying in the co-ordinates, ‘it will become impromptu firearms training with live rounds. Have a vite-pouch. You’ll need the energy.’ *** On the surface, they head magnetic north, while Partheus explains the theory of ley-lines—which Olivia learned in creche, so the implicit assumption stings. They’re a few hundred metres downwind of the first settlement when Olivia realises his lecture is not education, but distraction. ‘I’ll handle the collection,’ Partheus tells her. ‘Log cultural data. We’ll need it for the report.’ He strides ahead, collector unslung and coils warming up, and Olivia glances back to Tartarus before retrieving her tablet and looking around. Dark clouds hang overhead, and light ashfall obscures what she imagines was once a vibrant commune. She runs through the checklist: black asphalt, and remains of personal transports; energy pylons outside ash-blasted brick assemblages; a civilisation still three or four cycles from gate-flight and integration. She notes this down dispassionately before crouching and finally inspecting the dead. He—she’ll humanise him, while Partheus isn’t around—looks younger than her, which of course he is, and that never helps. She makes note of his uniform, the cultural markers of cut and fabric, and reaches inside for some sort of identifying—hang on. What’s this? She pulls out a small, oblong tin, its bright orange casing untouched by ash, and sounds out the glyphs from memory. Mar-mah-laid? Below the glyphs, there’s an image of a jammy paste, which she recognises from one of her serials. Yes. Marmalade. ‘Conclusion?’ Partheus asks, startling her, as she slips the tin into her suit. ‘Um,’ she starts, standing and wiping dust from her trousers. ‘Judging by cloth and skin-tone, I’d suggest—’ ‘How many times, Olivia,’ Partheus chastises. ‘“The shell is meaningless. Only the core—”’ ‘Type four-A,’ Olivia suggests. ‘Unbound. Slight resonance.’ ‘Four-B, but yes,’ Partheus nods. ‘The distinction is—’ At once, both of their tablets sound a warning chime, and they look back to see another craft enter atmosphere. ‘—not important right now,’ Partheus concludes, as they run back to Tartarus. ‘Let’s cover emergency evac first.’ *** In the serials, spacefights are always the most exciting part. Olivia has no patience for the other bits—mostly conversations about which pairs are copulating—but spacefights always involve quick decisions, and explosions, and fascinating new vernacular. Somehow, Partheus makes even this dull. Mostly it involves him murmuring to himself and making minute adjustments to dials and levers; and after getting told off a third time for trying to watch the monitor over his shoulder, Olivia retreats to her own chair, pulls her knees up to chest, and gasps as something hard digs into her ribs. Partheus doesn’t notice. Slowly, Olivia reaches into her suit, and retrieves the tin. She thinks back to survival training. The seal’s intact. It’s not bulging. Rations, she presumes, made for longevity. Ahead, Partheus is still distracted. She turns the tin over, fingering the ring-pull. Technically, an adept may source local supplies on assignment. She’s not yet an adept, but nobody ever ascended by following all the rules. And there’s every chance this other craft—who wouldn’t hesitate adding two souls to the ten-thousand it was sent for—can counter Partheus’ manoeuvres with, y’know, cannonfire. And someone else would prise the tin from her hands, intact and full of potential. Slowly, she peels back the lid. The scent wafts out, a fruity sharpness that fills her mind with thoughts of—home? She has no other word for it. Home, but—happier. She digs a finger in, brings it to her mouth, and licks the jammy fruit, rolling it around in her mouth, savouring the sweetness, the slight bitterness—and then she’s spitting it out, frantic, retching, and Partheus finally notices, and he jumps from his seat and pulls a syringe from somewhere and is about to jab it into her neck when the ship shudders with impact— ‘It’s okay,’ Olivia says, straightening and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘It’s just—there was—’ she reaches into her mouth, pulling out fibrous matter from between her teeth. ‘Peel?’ Partheus asks, eyebrow raised, as alarms sound behind him. He reaches down to pick up the tin. ‘Well, yes—it’s marmalade. Where did you—’ ‘Why would marmalade have peel,’ Olivia asks, still wiping her mouth. ‘Ugh!’ ‘“Sustenance”,’ Partheus intones, setting the tin down—Olivia hears the tones of sanctimony as clear as the sudden eruption of cannonfire—‘“should always include all remnant components, for no waste shall be—”’ ‘Really?’ she asks, folding her arms to challenge him. ‘Conclave scripture? What about : “the shell is meaningless”?’ Partheus’ eyes widen, and they’re both thrown to the ground. Overhead, the lights pulse a red she’s only seen in simulations, which means— ‘We’re going to become marmalade if you keep this up!’ Olivia shrieks, and lunges for the console. Partheus sputters indignation, but she’s already angling away from the approaching craft and presenting a narrower profile. From there, she casts her mind back to her own scripture—Styx & Stones, season four, episode five—and accelerates to meet the attack. There’s every chance they won’t make it. The simulations are remarkably averse to combat. And she knows the serials leave out all sorts of unpleasantness. But for now, ten-thousand and one souls are in the hands of an acolyte who’s bested her adept in scripture; and she’ll savour the moment while she can. It’s not quite hot noodles, but it’s close enough.
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Feb 28, 2022 08:26
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what’s in the box?
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Mar 1, 2022 01:54
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Sitting Here posted:Dave reaches into Dr. Cindy's box and hands you...A piece of especially blue lapis lazuli The man called M posted:Welcome to M World if on a winter’s night a bad author 359 words ‘I’m sorry?’ Dave asks, again. ‘How did you—why did you emphasise “experience” just then?’ “I think a better question,” I replied, “is why you’re only using single quotes in your dialogue.” ‘My dialogue? You mean—what I’m saying?’ “And stop using those long dashes, you sound pretentious,” I told him. Dave blinks. ‘Professor,’ he starts, ‘I think something’s gone horribly wrong. The timelines are all confused. You look—older, somehow, than before.’ “Of course I’m older than before,” I murmured, “that’s how time usually works.” Dave gets up with a start, and begins to rummage in the box of plot devices I keep on hand for just such a break in the dialogue. While he’s busying himself trying to find whatever will act as a macguffin for the scene, I took a moment to admire myself in the mirror. I examined my face — round, not unattractive, with the deep red lipstick and light blush that all serious female scientists apply each morning. Looking down further, I noticed my breasts, breasting breastily under my tight labcoat, as breasts do. ‘Found it!’ Dave exclaims, retrieving a piece of especially blue lapis lazuli. “What’s that?” I asked, as he seemed unwilling to provide his own exposition. ‘What does it look like?’ “A piece of especially blue lapis lazuli,” I shrugged. ‘That’s interesting,’ Dave says, nonchalantly. ‘To me, it looks more like a deep red.’ “Okay,” I said. “So, you’re colourblind.” Dave glares at me. ‘As you know,’ he needlessly expositions, ‘different colours of light travel at different speeds through various mediums.’ (“Media,” I murmured.) ‘Therefore, because this appears red to me, and blue to you, light must be travelling at different speeds relative to our position in the space-time continuum, which must mean—’ “I know all this,” I told him. “At least, I know the theory. Are you suggesting such an event has come to pass?” ‘You said so yourself, earlier,’ he says, tilting his head to one side. ‘Oh, no. Internal consistency is already failing—tenses have been broken the entire time—at least the point-of-view is remaining stable—’ The phone is still ringing. You walk over to answer it.
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Mar 3, 2022 12:17
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With apologies to sebmojo for inspiring a key phrase in my last story, I will take one hellrule for my next story as penance, please and thank you.
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Mar 3, 2022 12:36
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sebmojo posted:Rule for rohan: everyone in your story is standing on one leg, no-one thinks this is unusual in any way Sailor Viy posted:The Orchard Heist a friendly penguin posted:A Touch of Death the fruit of temptation 500 words Easier, always, to destroy than to create. Creation takes intent, effort, and discipline. Real creation, that is; not just picking the low-hanging fruit that is the liminal space of potentialities surrounding extant realities. Which is to say, it’s complete bullshit that Yehova gets all the credit for his universe, which is just a knock-off of your own seminal masterwork. All he did was file off the serial numbers for your creation myth — he didn’t even change the fruit of temptation! And now he’s the golden child, adored by all; and you’re working the orchards, grifting and grafting, forever on the cusp of creation. Destruction, though, is simple. Simple enough to appear accidental, most of the time. (Wo)man stands beside you, balancing laptop on their right leg, tucked up against their hip. Beside them, Wo(man) mirrors the pose, hands folded on knee, waiting. ‘Physiologically, we’re not dissimilar,’ (Wo)man says, as they review research materials Wo(man) had retrieved during a recent trip through the roots—currently, a recording of a yoga class which quickly turns pornographic. ‘Well—genitalia may prove problematic, if it comes to that.’ ‘It won’t come to that,’ you say. ‘This isn’t a pleasure trip.’ ‘Suppose we need to infiltrate across generations—’ ‘It won’t come to that,’ you repeat. ‘You won’t even need an overnight bag.’ Wo(man) pipes up then, looking over at you. ‘Suppose we need to seduce a dignitary, purely out of dedication to the objective—’ You squeeze the bridge of your nose, closing your eyes tight. ‘That—won’t—be necessary,’ you say, through gritted teeth. ‘Success won’t depend upon seduction.’ You hear (Wo)man start to offer another scenario, and open your eyes to glare at them before continuing: ‘Or instances where confrontations must be resolved through sexual prowess, or distraction via exhibitionist intercourse, or tribal initiation involving tantric rites. We’ve been over this. The mission is in no way contingent on the appearance, performance, or presence of genitalia.’ (Wo)man frowns, and returns their gaze to the research materials. ‘You say that,’ they murmur, ‘yet their cultural artefacts place great significance upon fornication, and their genitalia has inspired everything from art to architecture.’ ‘It just feels unlikely it won’t come up,’ Wo(man) adds. ‘Uh, so to speak.’ You tighten your grip around your ankle, counting to ten, as you’ve been told. When you slowly exhale at the end of the count, Wo(man) and (Wo)man are looking across at you expectantly. ‘Fine,’ you say. ‘If, for some—incredibly convoluted—reason, you require genitalia for anything resembling their antiquated concept of copulation, you may use a Prayer. I’ll let Sandra know to expect your request.’ You try to ignore the satisfied smile Wo(man) shares with (Wo)man. ‘Now,’ you say, looking out of your garden and onto the precipice of his universe, ‘unless there was anything else?’ (Wo)man shakes their head, and together with Wo(man) hops over to the edge, and into the swirling vortex.
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Mar 5, 2022 06:05
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Sailor Viy posted:M is for Maltheism oh I get it, it’s a play on “c’est la vie” 500 words ‘—ft,’ he finished, before collapsing to the floor, clutching his head. ‘Crikey! What just happened?’ The others looked at each other in turn, before Spacewoman Kim knelt down beside the intruder. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘who did you say you were?’ ‘Sailoy Viy, mate,’ the man repeated. ‘And I’m the author of this story, so I can—’ ‘No,’ Kim said gently, helping him up. ‘I’m afraid you’re not. Or, at least—not anymore. Now, you’re just another thinly-developed character, like the rest of us.’ ‘The universes are becoming unstable,’ the wizard intoned, peering deep into his orb. ‘The Thunderdome seems aware of our attempts to destroy it. Each story is now limited to no more than five-hundred words — and then we are thrust into the hands of another writer, with their own terrible agenda. Sailor Viy, you hail from the land of these writers — can you tell us whose land we currently inhabit?’ Sailor Viy looked around as the environment slowly came into focus. No mushrooms sprouted from the walls to suffuse the room in numinous glow; that ruled out a few people. The dialogue was self-aware, but not quite punchy or humorous enough for Chairchucker. Whoever it was, they hadn’t yet established a unique voice amongst the other contestants; he’d need to perform a closer stylistic analysis, which could take— ‘Em-dashes,’ Sailor Viy spat. ‘Semi-colons. Of course. I know who it is now.’ Spaceman Jim approached, brandishing his laser pistol. ‘Tell us!’ he cried, grabbing Sailor Viy’s collar and pulling him forward. ‘Tell us how we can defeat them!’ ‘Put that away,’ Sailor Viy said, glancing down at the laser pistol. ‘If I’m right, sci-fi is playing right into his wheelhouse. No, we need to establish a genre he’s not comfortable writing within, to gain the upper—’ ‘Erotica?’ Spaceman Jim asked hopefully, looking over at Spacewoman Kim, who rolled her eyes. ‘I’d—rather not,’ Sailor Viy demurred. ‘What about—you, the homeless caricature! I bet you must have all sorts of gnarly stories from your life on the streets, which a good author could handle with grace and sensitivity, but which someone lesser—’ here M looked askew at Sailor Viy, frowning slightly, ‘—would instead mine for unearned pathos and poverty-porn exploitation.’ ‘Once I found two dollars under a dead pigeon,’ the homeless man said. ‘I used the two dollars to buy some sauce and had it with the pigeon.’ ‘Yes, that’s—exactly!’ Viy cried, clapping his hands together as everyone else looked on with disgust. ‘He’s already failing to meet the brief! No real homeless person would behave like that!’ ‘I don’t understand,’ Spacewoman Kim frowned. ‘Couldn’t the author just—not follow this direction?’ Viy shook his head. ‘Trust me,’ he said, ‘you characters have more power than you realise, to shape a story. If we can guide him towards material he’s less comfortable with, we can control the narrative even further.’ ‘Four-eighty-four words,’ the wizard said, peering into his orb. ‘What!’ Viy cried, whirling around. ‘Already? The wordy pr—’
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Mar 7, 2022 02:07
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I am in and I would like an isolated location and an unusual problem please
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Mar 8, 2022 12:06
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Kurokodairudandi A mountain monastery with too many crocodiles 1400 words ‘I think it says, “closed due to—crocodiles?”,’ BroSephiroth frowns, peering at the sign on the reception desk. You roll your eyes—it was his translation efforts that got you in this mess. First, you caught the wrong bus, which made you four hours late to the cablecar service; which meant you spent the last hour exhausted from the hike up Koyasan, wheeling luggage around cobblestone streets in near darkness, trying to determine which of the near-identical temples you’d booked for an authentic monastery experience with BroSephiroth and StingrayAyanami. Sorry: Derek and Siobhan. Twenty-two years of catgirl avatars form tough habits to break. ‘They could be at dinner,’ Siobhan muses, retrieving her phone from a Hello Kitty purse and flipping it open. ‘I hope we don’t miss out, nyoro~n.’ You check your own phone: still no reception, and you don’t think any Buddhist monk would be eating their dinner at nine in the evening. Aren’t they all, like, eighty? Your grandpa gets cranky if he misses the five-o’clock schnitties at the RSL. ‘I vote we take a look around,’ Derek suggests. ‘There’s always a monk tending to a garden, or something.’ Siobhan frowns. ‘What if we get caught by security and they don’t understand we’re trying to check in?’ ‘Security?’ Derek chuckles. ‘We’re just as likely to run into roving ninjas!’ Siobhan’s eyes widen. ‘We need to do something,’ Derek continues. ‘Do you think Great Inspector Dentaku would’ve solved the Shinjuku murders if he’d just waited for the killer to show up?’ Siobhan’s eyes widen further, somehow. ‘You think the monks have been murdered?’ ‘Perhaps we should split up,’ you say. ‘Derek, why don’t you check out the left side? Siobhan and I can take the right. If we can’t find anybody, we’ll just meet up back here and sleep on the floor tonight.’ ‘Hai,’ Derek salutes. ‘Good keikaku.’ ‘How will we know if he finds somebody?’ Siobhan asks. Derek smiles a poo poo-eating grin and you grown inwardly. ‘How did Onigi-san summon help when abandoned in the nether realm?’ he asks, and leans back before belching out an enormous ‘Caw! C-cawwww!’ From above, you hear quick skittering sounds, and Siobhan clutches tight to your arm. ‘That’s—probably rats,’ you suggest, and her fingers dig tighter. ‘Ichi calls if you find somebody,’ Derek says, counting on his fingers. ‘Ni calls if you’re in danger. San calls if—’ ‘I think we got it, thanks,’ you say. He nods, tightens the belt of his yukata, and stalks off. And then it’s just you and Siobhan—still clutching your arm and watching the ceiling, eyes flitting back and forth. ‘Siobhan,’ you say, and she leaps away, blushing madly. ‘Let’s—let’s have a look, then,’ she says, straightening up. ‘None of the reviews mentioned murderers, right? We’ll be fine.’ ‘Right,’ you say, and follow as she heads left into a narrow passage. Dark wooden boards creak underfoot, and each of the partitions you pass—covered with lush imaginings of gardens, mountain ranges, and roving dragons—are lit only by dim lanterns hanging from the rafters, which you have to duck under each time you get near. Around the corner, however, there’s a partition lit from behind: a pastoral bath-house scene. When you slide the door open you’re greeted with a massive stone room, seemingly carved into the mountain itself, at the far end of which sits an enormous wooden tub full of steaming hot water. ‘An onsen,’ Siobhan breathes, and reaches down to unlace her shoes before stepping inside. ‘Oh, wow. I’ve always wanted to visit a traditional onsen. Isn’t this magical—’ You’re about to take off your own shoes and step inside for a closer look when you hear the skittering sound above again and Siobhan yelps, falling backwards onto the hard floor, before scrambling back and huddling by the wall. ‘Maybe—maybe you should wait here, for now,’ you say. ‘I’ll just give the rest of the rooms a quick once-over, then we can go set up camp for the night. Okay? You’ll be safe here—just lock this after me,’—partitions do lock, right?—‘and sit tight. You’re in a room of solid stone, what could possibly get in?’ Siobhan nods, and holds knees close to her chest, camera slung to one side. You think she says ‘be careful’, but it’s too faint to make out above another burst of skittering. You head further into the monastery, no longer taking in the sights, just eager to cover ground and then get back. You’re sure someone’s probably at reception right now, wondering why these baka gaijin would ring the bell so much and then go exploring by themselves. It doesn’t feel terribly respectful, you think, to treat a place of worship and devotion as some sort of anime-themed escape room. You’re almost too busy ruminating on your complicitness in cultural fetishism to notice when you arrive in what must be the kitchen, and see the first proper monk of your trip—huge knife in one hand, another clutching his chest, lying in a pool of dark liquid. That’s when you hear Siobhan’s scream. *** You rush back to the onsen, swatting lanterns out of the way, and tear open the partition—of course, no, it doesn’t lock—to see a crocodile climbing out of the tub, claws gripping the sides as water sloshes out around it, a Hello Kitty purse hanging from its jaws. ‘Siobhan!’ you call out, and almost bend down to undo your laces before—no, gently caress it. gently caress all of this. ‘Cawww!’ you cry, and then louder: ‘C-CAWWW!’ In an instant, Derek’s by your side, unsheathing an enormous katana. He rushes inside, sandals slapping against water as he advances, and lunges to strike the crocodile—it’s a clean hit, direct to jaw—before the steel bounces off and the blade shatters from impact. The crocodile gnashes its teeth and turns toward Derek. With a cry, Siobhan leaps from the rafters, landing astride the crocodile and looping her camera’s strap around its neck, pulling tight to choke the beast. ‘Yamete!’ a voice calls from behind, as a young man in robes rushes in. ‘Please! Don’t hurt Kuroko-san!’ ‘Kuroko—that beast has a name?’ you cry. ‘Crikey!’ the monk exclaims, visibly excited. ‘You’re Australian! Do you know Crocodile Dundee?’ ‘Um,’ you say. ‘I watched it all the time growing up,’ he gushes. ‘Subbed, of course. Taught me English. Strewth! Never reckoned I’d meet a real-life Aussie!’ ‘Right,’ you say. ‘So, about this—crocodile—’ You gesture toward the crocodile, which has calmed with the monk’s arrival, though Siobhan still maintains a firm grip on the reins. ‘Crocodiles,’ he corrects you. ‘I ordered this one online. Thought it would make a nice pet. Only, she was very big! Much bigger than I was expecting! Because, um, she was—how do you say—’ ‘Pregnant,’ Siobhan guesses. The monk nods emphatically. ‘So now we have too many crocodiles! It’s a big problem.’ As if on cue, the skittering sound starts up again, and the mother crocodile looks around frantically. ‘We’ve trapped them upstairs in unused rooms,’ the monk says. ‘But that won’t work forever.’ ‘I think,’ Derek says, his stomach rumbling, ‘I have an idea.’ *** The next morning, you all sit cross-legged around a low table, as the chef carries over bento boxes along with steaming cups of miso soup. He looks suitably chastened for drinking too much sake the night before and passing out in some spilt sauce. You smile and say, oishii katu desu, and he smiles widely before bowing and departing, tenderly holding his head. ‘That was a good idea,’ you suggest, raising a mouthful to your lips before your fingers slip on the chopsticks and you drop rice everywhere. Siobhan giggles, and leans over to correct your grip. ‘Right?’ Derek says, between mouthfuls. ‘I’m glad they agreed to send the crocodiles to a sanctuary in Hawaii. They’re not meant to live in mountain climates, onsen or no.’ You’re not really listening: Siobhan’s fingers are soft and cool, and she’s holding your hand long after you’ve got the hang of it. You glance over to her, and then the partition flies open and a monk rushes in, waving hands frantically. ‘Bears!’ he cries out. ‘The temple’s been overrun by bears!’ You all drop your chopsticks and look at each other, before laughing. ‘Here we go again!’ you cry, in unison.
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Mar 14, 2022 06:05
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still no crits for week 501? that won’t do!! Crits for Week #501 Ceighk - Grey Rabbit: I think this story falls into the same trap I did a little bit, which is to say, these characters aren’t lovable weirdos. The protagonist is sympathetic, sure, but her partner is so obviously cast as the villain (alongside a host of other terrible cops) that the story forgets we’re supposed to be rooting for both of these characters. This isn’t to say there shouldn’t be tension, or conflict, between the two characters — buddy cop films rarely open with the partners seeing eye-to-eye — but ideally this tension should resolve and they should find a happy relationship within these differences. Your story goes way too far in painting Mike as an ACAB-archetype for there to be any hope for this. … and, to be honest, for how terrible his character is, I certainly wasn’t cheering when he died. It just came out of nowhere for the story and certainly for the character — Sadie is not at all set up as the type to just up-and-kill her partner. Which isn’t to say he shouldn’t have been killed: but I think it would have worked better if it was an unintentional outcome of the game, or maybe the result of a decision Sadie had to make in the game, but whose consequences she didn’t understand at the time. Or even if she knew and understood the consequences, a moment of hesitation would have done wonders to smooth the transition from “rookie cop with morals” to “just wantonly killing people, what of it”. Bacon Terrorist - Varmints: To be honest I thought this was your first TD entry, which might have explained the terrible formatting, but it looks like you’ve submitted twice before and formatted correctly both times? Not sure what happened here but it’s incredibly distracting. Beyond that, this story doesn’t read well. Part of this is due to continual typos (eg “it’s” instead of “its”, “feint” instead of “faint”) but mostly it’s because the prose is just blow-by-blow descriptions of what’s happening, and I’m never given any indication of why anything is happening or what the characters hope to achieve. The earliest you give us any hint of a character’s motivation is almost halfway through, with the line “Only the greatest horsemen dare ride in the Jousting Arena!”. Until then, I really don’t know why these cowboys are trying to break into an abandoned themepark, which is a real problem in a story this short — ideally, by the end of the first paragraph, we should have an idea of who at least one of the characters is and what they hope to achieve. Chernobyl Princess - Project Cicada: Yeah, this … wasn’t your best story. And that’s fine! Mine was far from my best story this week also. I think where yours fell apart this week, and another trap I fell into, was just solving the problem way too quickly and without too much action on the character’s part. There’s never really any conflict in this — the one twist at the start with the attack is resolved almost immediately and everything following is just a bit too straightforward. I feel that there’s a lot of potential in this story — this just feels, to me, like a rough first draft that’s missing a bit of connective tissue and a bit more meat on the bone. (Is the decaf coffee supposed to be foreshadowing of mind control? Was there any relevance to Linda conning Meredith into staying late?) I think it’s missing a bit of internal consistency, also — if Jackson and Meredith are under mind control and unquestioningly following orders to deliver the blood and knife, should they have enough self-awareness to ridicule Bob’s “sleepers will rise” chanting? I mean, it’s fine, there’s nothing in here that really bothers me, it just feels a bit like wasted potential. Greatbacon - A Long Bumpy Road: This is a decent ending that the story unfortunately doesn’t deserve. It’s just … a series of things happening. I spoke about “connective tissue” in an earlier crit, and I think the same is true of this story — common TD wisdom is that everything in a piece of flash fiction needs to be doing double duty, and I don’t think it’s enough for, eg, a bumbling taxi driver to be waxing lyrical about his time driving a black cab, if that’s not going to lead to some future plot development or change things in any meaningful way. Anyway, that ending: yeah, I don’t mind the ending. I like stories that wrap up neatly like this with characters recognising their faults and making amends to each other. What I don’t particularly like, in this instance, is that Geordie doesn’t get a chance for redemption, and even after helping save the kids he’s still apparently out his full fare, and still the butt of jokes. Also, the whole thing about Mish’s Versace heels just makes her feel unsympathetic at a point in the story where we should be firmly on her side. My Shark Waifuu - Jessi & Jerome in the Clay Dog Conundrum: First off, thank you for being creative with your interpretation of killing dogs. I think this is my favourite story so far! The characters are well-established and actually likeable, we have a firm idea of their motivations, there’s some solid tension in them trying to actually solve the problem themselves … I could argue that it ends maybe a touch too neatly but don’t listen to me, I suck at endings, and this is a perfectly fine and natural place to finish the story. If I had to make any suggestions, it’s that the whole “Rex” thing seemed to come out of nowhere and it would have been good to foreshadow that a bit better, or maybe have them work out the dog’s name through deduction, rather than just conveniently finding an Instagram post. Maybe the dog’s named after something Jessi knows about Billy? ZearothK - The Con: First off: great title. Second: hang on, is the title meant to be a pun? On first blush I assumed you were going for some kind of “convention / confidence job” pun with the petty criminals, but the story itself doesn’t really support this. Third: did you have a plan going into this, or did you just start writing and drop in the various elements as you went? It kind of feels like you’ve got a lot going on here, and so many plot elements that don’t intersect in any meaningful way. You spend a lot of time playing up this “convent / convention” misunderstanding, but it doesn’t really add anything to the story. Likewise, outside an off-hand reference at the end to “seasonal killer nuns” and the “Eschaton tape” (which are really cool ideas that deserve more than this) there’s no real connection between the nuns and the tape, which could belong to two different stories. Again: there’s potential in this story. It’s just not there yet. (Also, long asides like “baroque (the literal definition, she could tell thanks to an unused art degree sitting in a box somewhere in her apartment)” really need more justification in the plot to take up so much of the early narrative momentum. Is it in any way relevant that she has an unused arts degree? It could be! It could be a bit of great character development! (Though personally it’d be better established in dialogue, or some way that’s not straight exposition.) Here, it’s just a throwaway joke, another bit of detail the story forgets about on its whirlwind tour through the various prompt keywords.) rohan - Kurokodairudandi: ugh So, last things first, that ending is terrible and does a drat good job of uprooting any goodwill a reader might have by the end of this story. Why do you keep doing this? It’s far from the first time you’ve pulled the rug out from under a reader with some clumsy bathos. Besides that, I would’ve liked to see some more character work in this story — the prompt called for some lovable weirdos, and what we got is some fairly thin caricatures of anime fans, and a second-person narration that doesn’t really characterise the voice at all and seems, if anything, pretty fuckin’ judgey of the other characters. Oh, one’s a weeb and the other’s naive and easily frightened, how original. The romance bit you threw in at the end for some reason is completely unearned and none of the characters really ring true. Also, the story is much less about them solving a problem than it is them being pulled through some sort of by-the-numbers thriller plot, with the “solution” being handled effectively off-screen in a few lines of dialogue. Do better next time!! Nae - The Last Supper: This is a really good story, and a deserving win. Well done! One of my tendencies when writing crits is to think about how I would have handled a given situation / prompt / character issue etc, and frame my critique around that. Sometimes this is explicit and sometimes it’s just implicit bias. Ideally, it’s never prescriptive, less “I know more than you” and hopefully more “hey, here’s a thought”, based on my own experiences writing. Here, I can’t help but start by thinking about how I would have delivered this story, had you given me the barebones structure and a few notes, and I definitely would have done it so much worse. I was kind of waiting throughout the story for some sort of eleventh-hour reprieve, a biblical “intention was enough!” deus-ex that meant the couple would live somehow, either by the gods’ mercy or by somehow pulling one over them, surprise, it’s a happy ending. But. No. What we got was unflinching in its terrible progression, and we learned to love these characters — yes, finally, some truly lovable weirdos! — in their darkest moment, which is also, beautifully, the culmination of all they’ve been working toward throughout their entire relationship. Just because we’ve been thrown into it and this is all a surprise doesn’t mean the story needs to try and save them on our behalf. This is definitely a lesson I need to learn in my own writing! Great work, well done. Thranguy - Hole in One: I was really, really, really enjoying this up until the ambush; and then everything just happened incredibly quickly and was wrapped up in moments. Did you run out of time? You certainly didn’t run out of words. The concept (admittedly, one gift-wrapped by the prompt, but deftly handled) was fantastic. There are some great lines in here (“You can’t play through a murder” is pitch-perfect noir parody). The nods to mini-golf in the first paras of characterisation work nicely. But then … it’s over almost before we can really start to enjoy ourselves. Better this than a bad story that’s twice as long, I suppose, but it still stings. CaligulaKangaroo - Jake and Cletus vs. The Utukku: This is … decent. It’s well-written enough, on a structural level, and the characterisation is a lot better than I was expecting for a story with “Jake and Cletus” in the title. You do lose me a bit around Cletus’ whole spiel about power and Facebook and the DPRK, etc, and I think the story could have benefited from a little more clarity around precisely what this cult is all about, or what the deal with the portal is. Jake spends the entire story being a passive observer to Cletus’ actions, and outside of providing a first-person narrative for the reader to identify with, I’m not sure what the purpose of his character is in the story. As an exercise, imagine re-writing this story in the third-person; I suspect you’d need to make Jake a much more active character to warrant his inclusion in the story.
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Mar 19, 2022 06:27
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Crits for Week #502 Hawklad - Bullets on the Horizon: I really wanted to like this story, and think that somewhere in all this madness there’s a really interesting premise. The problem is that I have absolutely no idea how to visualise the scene or the characters in relation to anything, and I’m never quite certain how much to take literally or how much is poetic licence. You set up a solid introduction, and then immediately segue into four paragraphs of exposition which is increasingly difficult to follow, before finally getting back to the duel at hand, by which point I’m just confused. You say it started with the Schwartz child, but didn’t it actually start with the shooting of Stumpy Pete? Is that necessary at all? I want to suggest some structural changes, like, cut the first para, but I think the problems with this story go a bit deeper and the conceit of the story — cowboys turned to spaghetti by a black hole — gets a bit lost in all the trappings of a more classic story about uncertain parentage and avenged murders, etc. Beezus - Creepy Pasta: Maybe this is me just being a dumb and stupid reader but I just don’t get the ending of this story, at all, after three reads. It’s written as if it’s meant to be a reveal, or a punchline, or something meaningful, but nothing else in the story seems to support this sudden revelation and I’m just left to go back to the start and re-read to see if I can catch whatever I missed this time around. I don’t know your ambitions as a writer, but speaking from experience, nobody picking a story up from a slushpile will be generous enough to go back for that second read. Which sucks but it is what it is. Maybe if the rest of the prose was flawless and enticing — and to your credit, the story itself is pretty solid up until the end. There’s a pretty clear character with motivations and an active role in the story, which is good. It’s just unfortunately undercut by an ending that doesn’t make much sense to me. derp - dinner at home: I completely bounced off this story on the first read, but enjoyed it much more after a second. The problem with my first read is that I was expecting the story to take a sudden left turn at some point and become a bit spooky and / or weird — lines like “my pot is still a pot for now”, the weird coppery stain, and long shadows like the sky’s black fingers all hint toward some darker reality behind the purposefully understated prose and deadpan narration. Perhaps coming off last week’s winning story, about a cooking competition to appease Lovecraftian elder gods, didn’t help. When the story then turned into more of a reflection on someone coping with the loss of a loved one, with some genuinely moving and beautiful moments, my first instinctive reaction was not to appreciate this but to feel disappointed due to the story not living up to my own expectations. Which is, y’know, not your fault. In judgechat, we all agreed that this problem would have been solved by hinting at this loss a bit earlier, though I’m not convinced that wouldn’t hurt the other reading of the story. Perhaps revisiting the first few lines would help, to walk me away from interpreting significance into weird uncleanable stains and the strangely ominous “still a pot for now”. The man called M - To Die For: Okay, so: when you posted this in the Discord for crits (at a spectacularly late hour, but hey, we’ve all been there) I read the first few lines in the preview and really liked them. I had high hopes that, maybe, this would be the week you’d claw your way to at least the soggy middle. Your story clearly had a voice, and hinted at some solid motivation and stakes — pizza’s important, people have died over pizza, this is a story about an Italian pizza restaurant in New York and by the end of it someone’s going to die. Those are my expectations. I’m into it. And then you kill all of that goodwill with: “If you see how we take our pizza seriously, let me tell you a story about what went down with the best pasta carbonara in town!” Okay, well, first, pasta carbonara isn’t pizza, so I don’t know why we just spent so long talking about pizza. Second, you’ve done this before, and it grates: we don’t need a framing narrative around the story. We don’t need someone telling us “hey, I’m going to tell you a story” — just tell us the story! Worse, this line doesn’t fit at all with the voice you’ve clearly established up to this point, making it feel as if you’ve just been putting on a silly accent and now you’re seguing straight into your regular voice, replete with too! Many! Sentences! Ending in exclamation marks! Boy, does it get exhausting! I could accept one, maybe two, but more? Hell, that’s a lot! It’s too many! Doesn’t it get hard to read? I sure think it does! Also, there are still tense problems, and the core plot of the story is just … a bit too silly. This isn’t how people behave. When Chairchucker does it, it works, because there’s a bit of a knowing smirk behind it all — everything’s a bit understated, nobody’s waving their hands in the air and hamming it up, so the silliness of the concept doesn’t have to compete with the silliness of the execution. Here, everything’s too silly to begin with, everyone’s acting too over-the-top, and the concept of a restaurant keeping chickens or a mobster stealing a flamethrower from an army base are several steps too far from the norm to work as humorous escalation. All that said … the character has a problem, he takes steps to resolve it, there are clear stakes, so in that regard it’s a marked improvement over your earlier stories and I’m keen to see where you go from here. Albatrossy_Rodent - Weird Nutmeg: ah yes, I am also playing a lot of elden ring these days (or is it meant to be dark souls? whatever) This is a fun story! Don’t get me wrong, it has its problems: the whole bit with Sir Wolfrick doesn’t work for me, as the humour feels a bit misplaced at this point in the story, and the reveal that Zandara’s been corrupted is very abrupt. Perhaps everything could have been normal, until they talk to Sir Wolfrick, realise his eyes are missing, and then he says “King Zandara is all I see these days”? Right now, “What the hell?” doesn’t work as a dramatic reveal, and Laura’s gung-ho insistence on going on the quest regardless doesn’t mesh with her character so far. Otherwise: this is a fun story about growing up and changing traditions, and there’s some really great chemistry between the characters. It’s posssibly chafing a bit against the wordcount but it’s a complete story and reads well from beginning to end. A deserving win, well done. The Saddest Rhino - The Cat That Walks On Its Hindlegs : I’ll be honest, this is another story I found a bit inscrutable this week. What’s going on? What’s the significance of the UPPERCASED WORDS? That said… I kind of dig it? There’s a definite mood here, and I’m able to attribute some significance to the cat’s actions, interpret it as some sort of wandering spirit taking vengeance on … bad pasta? I don’t know. There’s something here, a mood if not quite a cohesive story, and I enjoyed reading it for what it is. Thranguy - Hate is the Spice: This is a good story that may have been a great story with, like, five minutes of time spent proofreading. I’m trying hard not to be nitpicky here, but when I read lines like “nobody had a better answer to than than to take another forkful of pasta”, or “I was wartime”, or, most terribly, the final line “made equal by this ultimate loss. prepared in advance for us, and we remembered her.” … it makes it really hard for me to nominate for the win. Otherwise: it’s a lovely story, a beautiful ending (errant fragment notwithstanding) and there’s real emotion. I do feel as if I’ve read this story before — “bold, sassy Piet” in particular rang some bells in my head — but it’s a wonderful use of the theme and a nice reflection on growing up, death, and loss. (Why were both of the strong pieces this week about losing grandmothers?) Chairchucker - Gonna Leave One Hell of a Yelp Review, Though*: Yep, as I said in judgechat, “chairchucker gonna chairchucker”. And this is good chairchuckering! Solid humour, a decent premise that gets increasingly silly, and some really fantastic dialogue all make this a joy to read. It’s not a whole lot more than that, though. Considering how quickly this was written and submitted, it’s obvious you leaned heavily into your strengths, and it’s impressively complete — but I can’t help but wish for more. “There might be a couple things I need to tell you about” is a decent joke (if perhaps one you’ve used before?) but I honestly really want to see that story, a couple having a difficult conversation, where your humour might work even better as a foil. I mean, I dunno. I get that writing’s difficult these days for a whole number of reasons, who can keep track, and I’m not going to complain about a good and silly story with good and silly jokes, but I also think that “Boring Words are Expendable” remains one of the better stories I’ve read on TD, and knowing you’re capable of that makes this kind of story just that bit less impressive. rohan fucked around with this message at 01:11 on Mar 23, 2022 |
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Mar 23, 2022 00:54
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Mar 28, 2022 22:08
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I would like a second gem as a thoughtful gift to my weekend self, thank you
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Mar 29, 2022 23:22
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Demantoid Garnet, YAG Going Home 1400 words Lissandra Tourmaline, acolyte mage of the Vanadium Order, ascended the final set of stairs to the Chrysoberyl tower and leaned heavily on her staff to catch her breath—five years hunched over manuscripts were beginning to take their toll. Collecting herself, she stood upright and pressed on, cloak clutched tight against the wind, reaching the tall oak door just as her garnet-fuelled staff sputtered and died out. ‘Oh, for the love of—’ she muttered, and stamped her staff heavily. With some hesitation, the gem flickered into luminescence, suffusing the scene with a dim green glow. She wiped her feet on the welcome mat, reached forward, and rang the doorbell. Quick footsteps, a shout, and the door burst open. Her eyes had barely adjusted when she was tackled and nearly toppled by four feet of exuberance. ‘Auntie Lizzie!’ the girl cried, wrapping her arms tight around the wizard. ‘You caaaame!’ Behind her, Octavia appeared in a burgundy gown, hands covered by oven mitts, an apologetic smile on her face. ‘I didn’t want Gloria to get her hopes up,’ Octavia said, peeling off the mitts and tucking them into a pocket. Lissandra caught a glimmer of garnet on Octavia’s finger before she tucked her hands behind her back. ‘She has a very early bedtime.’ ‘I knoooowwww,’ Gloria sighed, pulling herself away from Lissandra. ‘But I told you she’d come.’ Lissandra smiled down at her. ‘I hear you’ve started phase-shifting coins,’ she said, and the girl’s eyes lit up. ‘Maybe you could show me tomorrow?’ ‘Tomorrow!’ Gloria cried, whirling around to face her mother. ‘She’s staying the night?’ ‘Well,’ Octavia said, crouching down, ‘it’s such a long journey, it wouldn’t be very nice to send her home straight away. Now, should we get those teeth brushed so the dragon doesn’t whisk you away overnight?’ ‘She’s grown,’ Lissandra said, when Gloria had run back inside. Octavia watched as Gloria ran up to the stairs, before peeking back for a sneaky wave and vanishing again. ‘Mm,’ she nodded. ‘Orbcalls don’t really do her justice.’ ‘No,’ Lissandra agreed, rubbing her stomach where the girl had squeezed tightest. They entered the kitchen, where Jasper stood chopping carrots, six-foot-six frame incongruous in a lacy pink apron. ‘Lizzie!’ he beamed. ‘You survived the ordeal of Chrysoberyl mountain!’ ‘You sound surprised,’ Lissandra chuckled, setting a bottle of wine atop the counter. ‘Was there a wager I’m not aware of?’ Octavia smiled tightly and went to check the oven. Jasper looked at the wine and gasped, raising his eyebrows. ‘You remembered!’ he cried, lifting the bottle. ‘Octavia, did you see? It’s that pinot you liked. Should we crack it open, or wait until little miss isn’t listening in?’ Octavia straightened and smoothed her dress. ‘She should be getting ready for bed,’ she said. Jasper shrugged and tilted his head toward the doorway, and Lissandra felt tendrils of his thaumaturgy flow out the kitchen doorway. There was a ticklish giggle, and then Octavia shook her head and strode out. ‘I think the grown-ups can talk now,’ Jasper smiled, as Octavia bundled the girl back up the stairs. ‘Glasses are on the shelf.’ ‘I didn’t know you’d been practicing,’ Lissandra murmured, pouring three glasses. ‘Started last year,’ Jasper beamed. ‘Still a long way to go, but it helps, with her running rampant.’ ‘Mm,’ Lissandra nodded. ‘Of course, the garnet must level the field somewhat.’ Jasper frowned, and continued to slice carrots in silence for a few moments. Lissandra raised her glass and drank while watching Jasper work. ‘Lissandra,’ Jasper murmured, ‘if that’s why you’re here—’ ‘No,’ Lissandra said, draining her glass, ‘of course not.’ Jasper nodded, and then lifted his glass. ‘It’s good seeing you again, Lizzie. Been too long.’ ‘Mm,’ Lissandra agreed, looking around at the kitchen. She barely recognised it for all the work that had gone in: brilliant surfaces gleamed in every direction. ‘I like what you’ve done. I remember when this was all vinyl and formica.’ ‘Thanks,’ he beamed. ‘What’s news from the city?’ ‘Nothing much,’ Lissandra shrugged, swirling her wine before raising it to her lips. ‘Still waiting on assignment. Looking for a place in the Eastdocks.’ ‘The Eastdocks?’ Octavia asked, returning. ‘Gosh, Alexandrite’s changed so much. I remember when only thieves and beggars lived there.’ ‘No,’ Lissandra said, taking a swig. ‘Not that much. It’s just all I can afford—after tuition, after reagents, after spending two thousand on an artificial garnet that can’t light up half the time—’ ‘Liz,’ Jasper ventured, a warning edge to his voice. ‘It’s fine,’ Lissandra shrugged. ‘Better there than back in Vanadia with those lecherous old farts, freezing my barely-covered tits off so there could be a Tourmaline in attendance.’ ‘I think, uh,’ Jasper murmured, moving toward the oven, ‘I think the vol-au-vents might be just about—’ ‘Because it’s what she wanted,’ Lissandra continued, into her wine glass. ‘Nevermind my own ambitions, nevermind how nice it would be to spend my twenties living it up in the real world—’ Octavia set her wine glass down, and Lissandra felt Jasper’s eyes slide over to her face, too slow in warning. ‘Is that what you think I was doing?’ she asked. ‘“Living it up”?’ ‘Well—no,’ Lissandra faltered. ‘It’s just—it was hard for me to—’ ‘Let me tell you what I was doing,’ Octavia said, arms folded, too calm. ‘So, I’d start each day at five. You know me, never an early riser, but any later and I’d miss mum’s first bowel movement. Which was, well, unmissable. Not that I had to set an alarm, of course—’ ‘I didn’t mean—’ Lissandra whispered. ‘And you think you had the harder go of it!’ she cried. ‘I gave her everything I had! I gave her dignity, a grand-daughter, all the hope I could spare. And you know what she told me?’ she continued, eyes brimming, wrenching the garnet ring off and tossing it onto the bench. ‘“Give this to Octavia—she needs more help than you do.”’ ‘I’m sorry—I don’t—’ ‘On her last day,’ Octavia said, slowly, eyes level with Lissandra’s, ‘she looked up at me, and said, “thank you, Lissandra. I knew you’d come back.” After everything I’d done. “Thank you, Lissandra.”’ Lissandra sat down heavily at the table. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘You were there,’ Octavia continued, flatly. ‘As far as she knew. Where was I? gently caress. Who cares. “Living it up” somewhere, I guess.’ They sat in silence, the garnet reflecting the tableau. Lissandra glanced over at Jasper, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes. ‘Take it,’ Octavia said, eventually. ‘It’s yours. It always should have been.’ ‘No,’ Lissandra shook her head. ‘She wanted you to have it.’ ‘And she wanted you to freeze your tits off!’ Octavia laughed mirthlessly, wiping her eyes dry. ‘I’ve spent too long worrying about what she wanted. Took five years to get this kitchen done because I was worried she’d avenge the splashback.’ ‘Oh, lord,’ Lissandra sighed. ‘With the frogs? I’d almost forgotten—’ Jasper shook his head, chuckling. ‘She made me wait till the new moon,’ he told Lissandra, ‘burning incense the whole time.’ Octavia smiled at the memory, and reached for her glass. They settled into a comfortable silence, broken only by Jasper swearing suddenly and rushing off to salvage the thoroughly-burnt entree. ‘You know,’ Lissandra said, lifting the garnet ring and turning it over in her hands, ‘it takes a lot of control to wield a gem of this quality.’ ‘More than I’ve got,’ Octavia sighed. ‘It would take training,’ Lissandra went on. ‘Discipline. A steady hand—’ ‘If you think I’m going to Vanadia—’ Octavia said, an eyebrow raised. ‘No-one’s going to Vanadia,’ Lissandra said, setting the ring down. ‘And I’m not talking about you.’ Octavia raised an eyebrow; Lissandra only reached forward, took Octavia’s hand in her own, and sent her thaumaturgy out in threads, through the open doorway, and up to the first landing where they wrapped around Gloria, who gasped and ran back upstairs. ‘To eavesdrop on two wizards,’ Lissandra smiled, ‘takes a certain amount of raw talent.’ ‘Oh, no,’ Octavia chuckled. ‘Can’t keep up as it is.’ ‘When she’s old enough,’ Lissandra smiled. ‘And I’ve had time to train her.’ Octavia tilted her head, raising an eyebrow. ‘Passed some lovely cottages on the way,’ Lissandra smiled. ‘I can live without the Eastdocks charm. And it’d be a shame to go home straight away.’ Octavia reached out to squeeze Lissandra’s hand, and Lissandra squeezed back.
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Apr 4, 2022 09:02
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Weltlich posted:I am challenging Nae to a brawl! Nae posted:I accept your challenge and I agree that I need lots of time because I am inexplicably really busy, so a post May 21st end date is my jam! No weak sauce, huh? No lentils? Alright, I want a story set in some kind of night food market. Your story must be set entirely at night and entirely within the food market, everything else is up to you. (Actually, one more constraint: I want your story to focus on at least three characters, none of whom have met before the start of the story.) Per request the stories must be written in third-person omniscient, and I want this used to good effect! You have 2000 words and until midnight May 21st in whichever of your timezones falls last. rohan fucked around with this message at 01:12 on Apr 15, 2022 |
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Apr 14, 2022 04:38
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Apr 19, 2022 02:53
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Portrait of a Starship 1300 words Vyra comes in fast, riding the arti-grav-well generated by the immense starship, and scans the docking bays to find the service entrance. ‘Almost there,’ she says. ‘God, I remember when we’d be shooting by now. But that would probably affect my tips, huh?’ Beside her, twenty-five kilograms of Venus’ finest coffee beans are strapped into the co-pilot’s seat, nestled in the impression still left by Vk’thrrl. She felt silly strapping it in and she feels silly talking to it now—but it’s helping, a little. She’s not sure how she’ll handle an empty seat on the return trip; maybe there’s a bar on board, and she can put it off a little longer. Maybe she might even find someone else who can match her, round-for-round, in a game of five emperors. Maybe— That’s odd, she thinks, turning in to dock. There’s another ship, hidden to all of her onboard systems—some kind of super-advanced cloaking program?—but clearly visible to her eyes as she approaches the docking bay and slides in beside it, taking in its ostentatious-yet-practical design, bristling with finery and firepower; and beyond, a path of destroyed neuro-bots, surrounded by scorch marks and shrapnel. Well, she thinks, wiping the dust from her pistol before retrieving the coffee beans, this doesn’t bode well for a tip. *** Seventeen minutes and twenty seconds after being shackled to the bulkhead, Pyranthus swings down from the ventilation shaft to land in a crouch, precisely as planned. Her joints complain as she straightens up, taking a moment to stretch limbs cramped by the crawl through the Turandot’s arterial airways. Her father thinks she’s off at a gala ball; that she’s spent the last three months practicing dancing and etiquette. That she has no greater ambition than finding a suitor. Well, she thinks. If he could see me now. ‘Ping,’ she says, bringing her hand up to an earpiece. ‘I’m in position. What’s the latest?’ ‘You were right, Pyr,’ the metallic voice chirps back. ‘We’ve decrypted the schematics: the button’s on the second floor, in the upper lounge, with a ten-minute delay.’ Of course I was right, she thinks. In the years since the Empyrati completed their conquest of the universe, starship architecture has become as homogenous as their inhabitants, as dull as court conversation. There’s always a torture chamber. There’s always a barely-disguised ventilation shaft. There’s always a twenty-minute patrol route. And there’s always an emergency self-destruct button. She adjusts her tiara in the chrome of a nearby wall panel, smooths out the creases in her ostentatious-yet-practical jumpsuit, unholsters her laser pistol, and stalks off in the direction overlaid by her goggles. *** Empyratus Tyvallo watches the ostentious-yet-practically attired woman navigate the starship through a matrix of security cameras, dispatching patrol bots with practiced ease. His hands steepled, he turns to his attendants and raises an inquisitive eyebrow. ‘The Lady Pyranthus, my liege,’ one murmurs, crouching down to level with the Empyratus’ ear. ‘For your consideration.’ ‘She’s not yet betrothed?’ he asks, as the Princess removes the tiara from her sleek auburn coiffure and uses it to decrypt a lock for the elevator. ‘No, my liege. She has been—strangely absent from regular gala ceremonies.’ ‘Fascinating,’ Tyvallo murmurs, as Pyranthus cartwheels down a corridor, dancing between laser fire, to dispatch three neuro-bots with well-timed kicks to the head. ‘Her grace alone—look, the way her hair catches the light of passing laser-bolts—no, there’s none finer in the galaxy, I’m sure of it!’ ‘Very good, my liege,’ the attendant says. ‘If you will follow me—an audience has been scheduled in the upper lounge.’ As Tyvallo stands to follow, a leather-suited figure appears in the top-left display, twenty-five kilograms of coffee slung over one shoulder, laser pistol ready at the hip, following the trail of depredation into the ship. *** Pyranthus strides into the upper lounge, blissfully free of patrol bots, and strides in the direction of the co-ordinates, which terminate before a coffee outlet which a mechanic is furiously kicking. ‘Excuse me,’ she says, sidling up beside him. ‘Oh, thank god,’ he says, turning to face her. ‘Tell me you’re here to refill this thing. I’ve just gotten a work order to fix fifty-seven neuro-bots—don’t ask me what happened, probably they all fell into the trash compactors again—and there’s no bloody coffee anywhere on this ship—’ ‘Wrench,’ Pyranthus says, kneeling down before the coffee outlet and holding her hand out. ‘Of course,’ the mechanic says, passing one to her. ‘Say, I don’t think I’ve seen you around before—and I’m sure I’d remember that face—’ Pyranthus rolls before wrenching the coffee outlet open and dismantling its innards. She muscles into the cavity left behind in the wall, squeezing arms between various pipes and cords, before finally pulling back and extricating a single black box from the intestinal farrago. ‘Sorry about this,’ she says, glancing up at the mechanic, her finger hovering over the button. ‘About to give you one hell of a work order…’ As she pushes the button, there’s an explosion of confetti from the ceiling, and the elevator doors slide open— *** ‘My love!’ the Empyratus Tyvallo cries out, striding through the elevator doors. ‘You are close to besting my challenges three!’ ‘The challenges what now?’ Pyranthus asks, standing and wiping her hands on her jumpsuit. Tyvallo smiles indulgently, and strides forward into the room. ‘Why, the three challenges befitting my suitor, of course,’ he says. ‘One: to escape the torture chamber. Two: to find and trigger the ship’s “self-destruct” mechanism. Nicely done, by the way. ’ ‘And the third?’ she asks, tilting her head. ‘To accept my hand,’ he continues, ‘and join my side as Empyratrix.’ ‘gently caress off,’ she cries. ‘Are you in cahoots with my dad?’ ‘It’s a generous offer, Pyr,’ the attendant adds, appearing from behind the Empyratus. ‘I think you should at least—’ ‘Oh my god, dad,’ Pyranthus groans. ‘Why do you keep trying to set me up with fascist dictator types? No wonder mum—’ The attendant blanches, as the Empyratus glances between them. ‘Hang on,’ Tyvallo says, holding up a hand. ‘So you weren’t sent by the agency?’ ‘You leaked the schematics,’ Pyranthus surmises, folding her arms across her chest and turning to her father. ‘In the hopes of getting me in the same room as this vile, murderous—’ ‘It’s just a phase,’ her father murmurs to the Empyratus, sotto voce. ‘You know what the kids are like these days.’ ‘It’s not a phase!’ Pyranthus cries out. ‘They murdered the Ash’grhks! They colonised the outer systems! They’ve started mining the sacred asteroids of Magnus Seven! They—’ ‘—killed my partner,’ a voice calls out from the elevator. The Empyratus turns, as twenty-five kilograms of coffee are flung toward his face. *** Pyranthus walks to the elevator, as the mechanic rushes over to scoop up the spilt coffee beans. On her way, she drops the keys to her ship in front of her father. ‘You can take this piece of poo poo back to the junkyard,’ she says. ‘I’m done flaunting your crest in the cosmos.’ ‘Sweetheart,’ he says, turning to follow, ‘I only want what’s best for you—’ ‘And gently caress everyone else, right?’ ‘You’ll realise, in time,’ he sighs. ‘And you’ll come back to the station.’ ‘Maybe,’ she shrugs. ‘But there’ll be portraits of starships on my hull.’ Pyranthus walks past her father, and over to the comatose Empyratus. Vyra’s leaning over him, and as Pyranthus approaches she straightens and kicks him, once, in the chest. ‘That’s for Vk’thrrl,’ she spits. ‘Who’s Vk—’ Pyranthus starts. ‘It’s a long story,’ Vyra says. ‘We’ve got time.’ ‘We’ll need drinks.’ ‘That’s okay—’ ‘A lot of drinks.’ ‘I can handle that.’ Vyra pauses to take Pyranthus in. ‘We’ll see,’ she says, as the elevator doors open. ‘You’ve got a big arse to fill.’ ‘—I’m sorry?’
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Apr 25, 2022 04:32
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Apr 26, 2022 09:41
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The Turbulence Waiting Beneath 1192 words Laura’s not the first girl in my year to nab a spirit, but she’s the first to flaunt it so openly, necklace out over her grey school sweater. Rumours spread as if spirits themselves: she’s claimed the jacaranda in the quad; she’s impressed the winding path from the forest; she was approached by the mushroom nymphs, who exchanged a gift for fealty. Each one complete bullshit. I recognise the stones immediately. I find her by the lockers, surrounded by admirers, and muscle my way through. ‘Laura,’ I say, when I reach her. ‘We need to talk.’ ‘Kate,’ she smirks. ‘After some advice on spirits?’ ‘The river,’ I say, under my breath. ‘Really?’ She shrugs, raises an eyebrow. ‘Didn’t know you two were serious.’ ‘Didn’t—Laura, I’ve swam there literally every day since prep.’ I glance down at her necklace, at the stones smoothed by a thousand years of patronage. I’m pretty sure I’ve skipped each one across its surface. ‘It’s part of who I am. And then you just swoop in, and become—’ It’s too ridiculous to voice: Laura, the River Guardian. I’ve never seen her there; I’m not even sure she can swim. And now the river’s chosen her as its conduit to the outside world? ‘Hey,’ she says. ‘You were close. I understand.’ ‘No,’ I say, stepping closer. ‘You don’t. You’re away every chance you get. gently caress, you’ve been gone since March, traipsing around Europe. But I’ve spent my whole life by that river, only for you to swan back now and make it yours. You can’t understand—’ ‘Oh, gently caress you, Kate,’ she glares, stepping back. ‘You think I didn’t leave anything behind?’ I pause, feel the eyes upon me. ‘That’s not what I—’ She scoffs, shaking her head. ‘All that time,’ she says, twisting the knife, ‘and the river came to someone else. Guess you weren’t that close after all, huh?’ She turns and walks away, her cadre shooting me dirty looks as they follow in her wake. *** I usually spend recess down by the co-op garden, but I can’t face the older girls tending to the spirits of the pumpkin and zucchini vines; so I continue down the hill, where a gap in the fence leads out through the forest, and down to the riverbank. Every year, on my birthday, I’d sneak down to the edge, dangling feet into the water. When I started, I couldn’t touch the bottom; these days I just kick up silt, muddying the pristine flow. I take my shoes off, bundling socks inside and leaving them on the rocky outcrop. Hitching skirt up above my knees, I wade into the brook. Dad used to tell me the river was one of the oldest spirits; that whoever earns its favour must be pure of heart and mind. I laugh, mirthlessly, to think of Laura like that. Like my mum. I’m not sure why dad stayed, raising me in a house by the river, watching me spend every waking hour in its depths. Perhaps he thought the river owed him my happiness, if nothing else. He’s told the story a hundred times. She wasn’t much older than I am now. Hair a bit longer, dimple on the other side, but still: if I close my eyes, I can imagine myself, her, in the bathtub, as it fills with warm water. I can imagine grandpa, her father, not yet so old, not yet so quiet, calling across the house for help. I can hear the rain picking up, running down the eaves; out and over the guttering. My mum’s cries. Frantic footsteps. The phone—the old rotary phone in the hall, which I used to imagine ringing when I was younger, to say sorry, this was all a mistake, we’ve found your real family—comes off the hook. The rain increases; the river grows fat with its tribute, roiling, reaching out past the bank. The ambulance crests the hill as the river overflows. The spirit, called by mum’s cries for help, turns to our house, to the gaps in our fence thick enough for its fingers. The strobing lights illuminate the tableau, reflecting off the rising waters. The spirit, invisible to all but, perhaps, my mother, wraps its arms around our house and we’re plunged into the silent darkness of the deep, broken only by the panicked final gasps of my mother—and into that quietude, my own feeble cries. And then one of my shoes lands in the water beside me, covering me in cold water. Laura’s on the bank, hefting the other shoe, glaring down at me. ‘Thought you’d learn,’ she hisses, ‘to back off.’ She hurls the other shoe toward me and I flinch, slipping on the rocks underfoot. My leg gives way and I land hard on one shoulder, the river rushing up and over as Laura wades toward me. ‘Just because you can’t find a spirit,’ she says, lifting me up by my sweater’s collar, ‘doesn’t give you the right to steal mine.’ ‘I’m not—’ I sputter, mouth still full of river water, ‘trying to steal—’ ‘Don’t see why else you’d be down here.’ The river’s picking up now, fuelled by emotion, rushing fast around us. Laura, already off-balance from holding me up, shifts her weight and slips, falling underneath. ‘Laura!’ I call out, as the current carries her away. I dive under, arms beating a course toward Laura, still tumbling through the water. The river surges around me, a familiar embrace; I close my eyes and push past its hands, reaching out to grab onto Laura. She’s choking when we surface, and I pull her to shore, away from the river’s reach. ‘I don’t understand,’ she sputters, after coughing up water. ‘When I got the necklace, it was so gentle—’ ‘The spirits—don’t see things the same way we do,’ I say, gently, moving wet hair out of her face. ‘That’s why they need us.’ We’re quiet for a few moments, as Laura catches her breath and I wring the water out of my sweater. ‘Kate,’ Laura starts. ‘I wasn’t—“traipsing around Europe”.’ I turn to face her, but she’s looking out at the river, and doesn’t meet my eyes. ‘When I came back, everyone was so focused on—not letting me be alone. Like I needed people around me, all the time. Like—they’d make up for what I lost.’ ‘Laura,’ I manage, moving closer. ‘I’m sorry.’ ‘And then I found the river,’ she says, spreading her arms. ‘It knew loss.’ She glances over at me. ‘It knew regret. I think it understands some things better than we do. Like what we really need.’ I look to her; she stands, and offers a hand to pull me up. ‘Come on,’ she says. ‘Your only friend can’t be a tributary.’ I accept her hand, struggle upwards. ‘I suppose,’ I manage, ‘I could teach you to swim.’ She smiles. ‘Come on—we’re gonna be late for math. And you know what the rumour mill’s like these days.’ I shake my head and follow, glancing back just the once; to the still waters of the river, and the turbulence waiting beneath.
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May 2, 2022 09:24
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I am in and will take a cozy conflict please.
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May 9, 2022 23:48
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Crits for Week #509 Albatrossy_Rodent - Gaby Baby: I agree with T-Rex that the story isn’t well served by the choice of narrator. It wouldn’t work for this specific story, but I wonder if picking a conflict that allowed you to age up your child protagonist a few years might work better? Right now, you’re not really leaning into the child’s voice at all, so it feels like a missed opportunity — but if you were writing from the viewpoint of an early teen, I feel like we’d get both more character in the voice, and more potential for some back-and-forth conflict between the past and future selves. (And early teens is definitely still rife with opportunity to “correct” experiences that led to long-term inhibitions and shame.) I’m not sure you need to switch narrator to the future self, As it stands, the few times we get the first-person narrative, it reads more like stage direction: eg “Miss Sandy and all the girls in the summer school class are there. Lots of the girls are laughing. Miss Sandy shields her eyes.” I like it, otherwise! I dig the idea and I appreciate the nod to, oh yeah, maybe I should try to avert a future catastrophe also, huh? Uranium Phoenix - The Work: This is … like, 99% of the way there, for me? And I say this as a fan of A Memory Called Empire, although I shamefully didn’t twig what was triggering recognition until you mentioned it in the Discord. It falls apart for me a bit toward the end, which makes me think back to the beginning, and wish there was more rhyme in the structure. Senya refers to Sisyphus in a way that feels like it should be more relevant than a throwaway comment — is this an endless cycle for the characters? Did she attempt suicide because she’d been implanted with another mind, who drove her crazy in the ways she’s later shown to affect Gavin? I like the nod at the end to the boss also getting the operation. I do wonder if perhaps this shouldn’t have been acknowledged by the characters themselves — if only Senya noticed the scar tissue, and knew what it meant. Tars Tarkas - As I Went Down In The River...: This veers a bit too close to a literal rendition of the prompt, for me. It feels like you took the ideas of a river, a crocodile, and religion, started telling one story, and then found the story you actually wanted to tell too late — because I do think that, outside of the sometimes slavish connection to the original prompt, there’s a really nice story here about trying to undo past mistakes. Which is a running theme this week, for some reason? kaom - Court Case #TYR509 - Exhibit F: Welcome to Thunderdome! This is a bold debut, both massively under wordcount and structurally experimental. And I’ll be honest, it didn’t click with me on a first read. This is really the sort of piece I need to read at least twice to really appreciate, though even now I feel like I’m still missing something from it to really make the ending land. Your concept seems solid and the structure works well in this story, but I really think you could have added some more detail and fleshed out the emotional core a bit more. Antivehicular - Death and the Emperor: Solidly written, and the framework around the story works well — I can see this as a worldbuilding aside in a dense fantasy novel, a lovely little self-contained tale that does wonders with so little. I like the switch to the second-person address at the end; I think there are enough hints in the story till that point that this is a story being told by one character to another, “my dear” etc. Thranguy - Can't Fight the Flood: One of the things about reading stories written by a geographically diverse group of people is that a lot of references go right over my head. So when I read “Krystals in Savannah” my mind went straight to “oh Thranguy is doing some weird worldbuilding and calling something Krystals, is this some SFF nonsense like the Sovh” and not “oh they used to kiss behind some chain restaurant, how cute”. I do really like the story, though! I mean, it’s barely a story, definitely more a sketch of the end of days, but there’s a strong emotional core. I kind of wish you’d lingered a bit more on the idea of the raft, and why they stayed behind; for most of the story it seems like the protagonist is inexorably tied to Kevin, literally pulled out into the rain with him — but his accusation about the protag’s assertion the Sovh don’t lie, the “sore spot”, feels a bit out of place in this reading. Sitting Here - big stick ideology: Yep this was good, I liked this a lot. Everything about this story just feels, not just plausible, but obvious — if there really was a big stick holding up the sky, of course the village around it would celebrate it in festivals. Of course someone would get drunk and bump into it, and someone would become fiercely protective. And of course there are mushrooms that make you vomit ghosts. (I mean, out of everything in this story, that’s probably the least fantastic element.) It’s a well-considered story where I was constantly being both surprised by the inventiveness on offer, and satisfied by the sheer plausibility and sense of it all. And this plausibility extends out, of course, to the characters, and the relationships between them. A lovely read. Where the story fell apart a little bit for me is in the foreshadowing around stoplights, neon lights, airport tarmac. On a first read I wasn’t sure if, at this point, stoplights were something that existed elsewhere in this world, but this village was too old and untouched for progress. But on a second read I think it becomes clearer that the narrator only knows how to describe the lights because, in the present day of the telling, they can use the descriptors they’ve come to understand. (See also: “doughnut”. It feels almost too glib for the story, giving it a present-day feel which cheapens the imagery for me a little. I’d err for “torus”, but then, maybe this modern imagery is intentional?) The man called M - Cat's still in the Cradle: This is, I think, definitely your best story yet. There’s a solid emotional core to the story, there are characters with wants and needs, there’s conflict, and there’s a satisfying resolution. In many weeks this would not have lost. I feel like there’s some missed opportunity around the treehouse. You set up the treehouse as being something that Jack and Nate worked on together; and then when Nate runs off, both Jack and Sara “knew that he went to the treehouse”. This is, of course, a completely natural assumption. But what if you didn’t state it outright, and let your characters discover it on their own? For me, I think it would be immensely more satisfying if, rather than immediately head out to the treehouse, Jack first went to Nate’s room — further establishing through his actions here that he’s not a very attentive father — and finds it empty. Maybe he wonders where his son is. But then he looks through the window, to the lit window of the treehouse. His son has gone to find refuge in the one place where he has happy memories of his father. Maybe Jack remembers something about them building it together. Maybe there’s a memory there—where Nate is excited to show the treehouse off to his friends, but Jack has to go to work—that he’s now re-evaluating. He goes up to see his son, and the rest plays out as it does. That’s just an idea. Maybe it wouldn’t work. But I do feel there’s more potential here for you to show us how Jack’s failed as a father, and how he’s learned to make amends. The Cut of Your Jib - Where the Rubber Meets the Road: I have no idea what this story is about and I think you took about four half-drafts and smushed them together, but … I kind of dig it? It reads like it was fun to write. I’m not sure there’s much more to say. Much like Pegs’ work, I reckon this could’ve done with an extra read over for grammar and typos, but realistically this needed a few extra drafts to become a cohesive story.
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May 10, 2022 12:35
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Cozy conflict: Dropped items always end up in the weirdest spots Recharge Cycle 800 words Night had fallen on Solaris-Five by the time Fay climbed up to join Jasper on their shuttle’s hull. Above, diaphanous clouds parted to reveal the distant iridescence of uncharted night; spirals of nebulae glistened like schools of emerald fish against the blackened depths. Jasper lay stretched out on the glassy metal, hands behind his head, looking up to the stars—to all the places, Fay thought bitterly, they could not go. ‘No luck?’ he asked, turning to face her. Fay shook her head, and sat down heavily beside him, cross-legged. Her scales caught the light from Jasper’s lantern, reflecting in shades of blue and gold, up to the smoothness of a face tinged red from exhaustion. ‘It was those Karlaks,’ she muttered, worrying her hands together. ‘I know it. Those repairs were too cheap. They’re counting on us to go back.’ Jasper shrugged with a carelessness still foreign to Fay. Three cycles working together, shoulder-to-shoulder in that tiny shuttle; and for all the challenges she’d expected, her cold-blooded limbs so close to his warmth, his circadian schedule against her cyclic hibernation, nonchalance barely merited mention. But it was his easy smile, the way he shrugged off dire concerns, that she found hardest to understand. ‘If I don’t find the source,’ she said slowly, running a grease-stained hand over her overalls before patting pockets for her pipe, ‘we won’t make it halfway to the next station before it all gunks up again. Empress. I bet it’s the insulation they put in. I bet it’s all come to bits and jammed up the intakes.’ ‘Fay,’ Jasper said, passing her the pipe, already full and smouldering. ‘You’ve been in there for nine hours. You’ve earned some downtime to stop thinking about it.’ ‘Jasper,’ Fay frowned, between hits, ‘if I don’t think about this, we’re not going anywhere unless someone else fixes it. And I don’t see anybody else on this planet—’ ‘Well, poo poo,’ Jasper said. ‘Why am I still wearing my shirt?’ ‘Jasper.’ ‘Can’t hear you,’ Jasper said, voice muffled by the shirt pulled up and over his head. Fay watched him struggle ineffectually against the fabric, writhing as if caught on a lure, before making a show of extricating himself and flinging it over the edge. He smiled at Fay, who returned his good humour with a glare. ‘I don’t think,’ she said, ‘you’re listening to me.’ ‘Fay,’ he started again. ‘You’ve been in there for nine hours. You’ve tried everything—’ ‘Not everything—’ ‘Most everything—look. We have an FTL drive, right?’ ‘—Right,’ Fay said, caught off-guard. ‘And I was thinking, when we do get this back in the sky, and I’m sure we will, I have every confidence in you … why don’t we always run the FTL? I mean, we’d get everywhere so much quicker, right?’ Fay blinked, twin eyelids resolving into disbelief. Jasper, half-naked from the waist up, chest covered in a dark carpet of fur, smiled back blithely. ‘Well, thank Empress you’re just the navigator,’ she said. ‘Do you have any idea how much energy FTL requires? How long its recharge cycle takes? If we ran it even a quarter of the time, it would never get enough downtime to—oh. Oh.’ Jasper smiled indulgently, and reached out an arm to loop around Fay’s shoulder, pulling her close to him. She sighed, nuzzling into his chest as he lay back against the hull. ‘Y’know, you know a lot about spaceship engines,’ Jasper murmured, stroking her overlocking scales. ‘But there’s an engine in here you need to maintain, too.’ ‘I know,’ Fay murmured, running a hand along Jasper’s chest, tangling fingers in his thick hair. ‘This engine would just rest a lot easier if it could work out what was—hang on.’ She sat up suddenly, tangled fingers pulling out a wad of Jasper’s hair as she raised her hand to the lantern-light. ‘Hang on,’ she repeated, as Jasper clutched his chest and gasped: ‘What was that for?’ ‘It’s not insulation jamming the intakes,’ she hissed, narrowing her eyes at his black curls. ‘Nine hours. Nine hours and all I needed was to get you topless.’ ‘Um,’ Jasper managed, sheepishly. ‘I—I guess Rappori ships don’t normally need hair filters, do they?’ ‘Uggghhh,’ Fay sighed, collapsing back against the hull. ‘Sorry,’ Jasper murmured. ‘Shall I … chart a course to apology drinks?’ Fay stayed silent, taking in the nebulae above, the shimmering points of possibility—all the places they could now go. The night markets of Roppori. The frantic exuberance of Balthaeus. The complex commerce of Karlak. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Not yet. Let’s just—let’s recharge, a little, first.’ Jasper smiled, and pulled her close to him, rubbing the small of her back as they admired the night sky. ‘But don’t get me wrong,’ she added. ‘You’re buying me so many drinks after this.’
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May 16, 2022 01:30
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I am in and would like a setting please
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May 17, 2022 06:17
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Naeltlich Brawl Results Ah, third-person omniscient! When used well, entire worlds can be realised by exploring them through multiple fleshed-out characters, each with their own thoughts, ambitions, and priorities; when used poorly, the narrative voice might feel indecisive or inconsistent, resorting to switching perspective for throw-away gags as opposed to any more meaningful characterisation. Both of these stories treated it well! You each started firmly in the mind of one character and ended with another, and each of you used the possibilities of a night market, where strangers are united in the search for (or provision of) delicious food, to good effect. Characterisation was strong across both stories and each felt real to me. But one story edged ahead slightly, for its sheer inventiveness and delightful atmosphere, and that story is Weltlich’s A Slice of Starving Sky. Well done! Nae, it was a close thing, and I thoroughly enjoyed the terrible character that was Three-D Eddie. Detailed crits to follow.
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May 22, 2022 10:19
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in,
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Jun 1, 2022 02:22
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I’m in for this week and to write up crits for both the preceding week and also the overdue crits for the Naelich brawl of last month by the time subs close
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Jun 13, 2022 10:18
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Redemption for Week 513 Wisewoman 1200 words It was Roisin who picked the lock, when five minutes of knocking went unanswered. ‘Maybe she’s not home?’ Tilly suggested, already half-off the doorstep. Roisin rolled her eyes and dropped nimbly to stare into the keyhole’s workings, finagling entry with a dexterity Tilly admired without interrogation. ‘She’s all yours,’ Roisin smiled, straightening up and gesturing inside. ‘You’re not coming?’ ‘Yeah, nah. I shouldn’t’ve even come this far.’ ‘You’re just scared,’ Tilly jeered. Harder to tremble through a smirk. Roisin shrugged expansively. ‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘Maybe I’ll be too scared to wait. Maybe I’ll head back while there’s still light out here.’ Tilly couldn’t make out her expression, backlit by the setting sun. Behind, the distant flames of the hab’s towers flickered above the palisades, the switchback stairs she’d descended hours ago, and the junkyard where she’d met up with Roisin after her shift. Roisin, who spent four out of five shifts digging through ancient metal for parts—with as much luck as a doctor seeking transplants in a morgue—had agreed to join on the proviso Tilly took one of her scullery shifts; a condition generous to the point of formality. Maybe she’d hoped to find something on the way, but the path was well-worn and predictably picked clean. ‘I’ll be quick,’ Tilly said, looking into the house for the first time since they’d arrived. ‘Attagirl.’ Tilly stepped inside, telling herself there was nothing to be afraid of. She didn’t believe the stories. Because, well, they were stories, and even a story told faithfully to the first generation becomes falsehood for the second, muddied by time like third-shift bathwater. Maybe a wisewoman had lived here, once, in her grandparent’s day or earlier; her mythic predictions ensuring an immortality of sorts. Maybe every generation since had merely been complicit in keeping the story, at least, alive. What kind of girl would go to all the effort of finding the wisewoman’s cottage, and then reveal the whole thing to be a sham? Better, surely, to claim the old crone told her precisely what she wanted to hear, to parlay generations of myth into a very real boon. All she had to do was find the wisewoman’s table—in the stories, it was always in the farthest room, in the coldest part of the house—and return with a souvenir to prove her pilgrimage. This she would then barter, along with the wisewoman’s words—supposed words—at tomorrow’s ceremony, to show that her wishes carried with them the gravity of tradition. The pilgrimage itself was nothing more than a formality, really. Just evidence she held true to the power of stories. Just evidence she’d play along with whatever other rituals came up. Just a bit of make-believe. She moved a bit quicker, impatience characteristically shoving caution aside. As she progressed further into the house, the chill burrowed into her and she wrapped her arms tight. As she crossed the threshold of the final room, she blinked as light exploded out from a ball above, shining down on a table covered by a red tablecloth, enclosed by chairs, on the farthest of which sat— ‘Ah,’ the wisewoman intoned, her ancient face turning up and blinking in the sudden light. ‘Tilly Dea.’ ‘I—’ Tilly stood, still, in the doorway. ‘I didn’t think you’d really be—’ ‘Here?’ the old woman asked, eyes glimmering as if lit from within. Her mouth lifted into a tight smile. ‘Where else should I be? Now, your pairing day. You’ve come to see if anyone’s asked for your name, yes?’ Tilly stared, slowly pulling out one of the empty chairs before sitting down heavily in it. ‘Only one,’ she managed. ‘Paul Driscoll.’ ‘Paul?’ the old woman’s eyes darted up, crinkling at the edges like burning paper. ‘Try again, lass. Does he even know you exist?’ Tilly frowned. She’d be surprised if Paul knew anyone existed, to be perfectly honest. Anyone outside one of the books he kept his nose in. But they’d talked, once or twice, and she figured they were both as likely as the other to end up with no matches on pairing day… ‘Ryan?’ she asked, thinking. The old lady shook her head, not unkindly. ‘Dennis? Jack?’ ‘Slow down, girl,’ the wisewoman chided, standing up and walking around the table to face her. ‘You’re talking to the wisewoman, and all you can think of is boys?’ Tilly frowned. ‘It’s my pairing day tomorrow,’ she said, meekly, in the shadow of the older woman. ‘I need to know which boy—’ The lady frowned, taking Tilly in. ‘I thought you came to ask,’ she went on, at length, ‘if anyone had asked for your name. I’ll tell you freely that somebody has.’ Tilly glared. ‘I’m not here for tricks,’ she spat. ‘I just need a name! I said I’d be quick, Roisin’s waiting just outside—’ At Roisin’s name, the old woman’s smile returned, and she raised a single eyebrow. Tilly paused, and then—‘no,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘That’s not—’ ‘Oh, a single scullery shift!’ the old lady smiled. ‘That’s no price. Come, girl. You never questioned how she works four shifts in the scrapyard but is spotlessly clean when you meet?’ ‘How—how did you know about the scullery shift?’ Tilly asked. The old woman’s smile stayed fixed, her eyes glimmering. ‘How do you know how clean—’ She pushed her chair back as the old woman came closer; a chair leg caught on the rug underfoot, and she tripped on the sudden ridge of fabric. Reaching out for purchase, her hands clasped on the wisewoman’s shoulder, and they collapsed to the ground with a sickening crash. Tilly found herself atop the wisewoman’s prone form, and staggered upright as she heard a gasp from the doorway. ‘I—I didn’t mean to—’ Tilly stammered, before Roisin dropped nimbly down to her haunches and rolled the wisewoman over. One of her eyes was smashed—smashed, like glass—and small sparks sputtered from the cavity. Roisin supported the wisewoman’s head from behind and, without warning, twisted the entire thing, effortlessly separating head from body. The break was clean—there was no blood, but a thin trickle of grease poured out from the neck and dozens of wires snaked in the air between the … parts. ‘Of course,’ Roisin was saying, under her breath. ‘That’s how she kept going. I should’ve—how was she powered?’ she went on, heedless of Tilly shaking nearby. Roisin hefted the entire body up onto the table and squinted down into the neck, lips pursed in thought. ‘Roisin,’ Tilly started, as Roisin plunged a hand down into the wisewoman’s neck, ‘had you come here, earlier?’ Roisin turned, a thoughtful look on her face. ‘I think she must have been broken,’ she said, eventually, not looking directly at Tilly. ‘I think—if I can find the right parts—’ ‘I’m—not sure she was,’ Tilly said, standing and taking hold of Roisin’s other arm, careless of the grease covering her sleeves. ‘I mean … she is now.’ ‘She’s completely hosed, now,’ Roisin said. ‘Totally rooted,’ Tilly smiled. ‘Good thing you can fix things, huh? Come on. Big day tomorrow.’ Hand-in-grease-covered-hand, they set off, retreading the path home and covering unfamiliar ground.
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Jun 15, 2022 08:48
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Crits for Brawl #345 Weltlich - A Slice of Starving Sky: It’s hard to pick a favourite thing about this story to call out in particular, which I think is why I gave it the win last month — there are clear stakes set up early on, the three characters are all fleshed out well, there’s a nice sense of atmosphere (kinda want a mince pie myself, now, suffering through a Melbourne winter), and Mari Lwyd is an absolute delight. I particularly love how you leave its supernatural existence ambiguous, with hints leading either way with the hand reaching up to grab the pie, to the transmutation of the spurs into gold at the end. To an extent, though, this ambiguity works against the prompt: having a character with such an ambiguous identity seems contra to the spirit of omniscient third-person, delightful as that character may be. I’ll allow it, in this case, grudgingly. Otherwise: I found some of the references to “Neo Swansea” and the “digital bell” a bit incongruous, and I wasn’t sure if you meant to take some of these worldbuilding elements further or if it was just a way to add some more cyberpunk-ish flavour to the setting. Well-written overall, no gripes with the plot or the pacing, and each character’s arc reaches a neat conclusion through the story. Nae - The Miracle at the Night Market: … meanwhile, for all you don’t want Mari Lwyd eating you out of house and home, Mari seems like a perfectly lovely guest compared to Three-D Eddie. Well done on creating such a detestable character! I think, as with Weltlich’s story, I would have really liked to see some more from the third character — in this case, we spend barely a sentence from Eddie’s perspective, before it’s back to Olivia judging his appearance. I think you could have established more of his (terrible) character by giving us some more of his viewpoint. Bits like “no it’s not Miracle Whip!” might also work better from the omniscient narrator, rather than directly through dialogue; there’s a lot of potential here for dramatic irony, waiting for either Olivia or John to call it Miracle Whip and trigger his rage, and I think you spiked your guns a bit by having Eddie tell Olivia about it early on. I also feel like the first two paragraphs are out-of-place in the rest of the story; they introduce John’s character, but the second paragraph in particular feels too expository given we’re about to see a very specific case of intolerable tourists. (Also, I was kind of waiting for the mayonnaise to actually be some miracle ingredient that completely redeemed Eddie’s character, but I’m glad you didn’t go that route and the ending was solid, even if John didn’t get any kind of resolution to his arc.)
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Jun 15, 2022 12:43
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Crits for Week #514 Carl Killer Miller - Down in the Belly: On a first read, I was a bit irritated by how close the first corn cob reference is to Frenchy pulling out the offending holder. On a second, I’m more accepting of it, but I think it comes down to where the story’s intentions lie: as a mystery about how the alligator was killed, I would have preferred Chekhov’s Corn Cob to be dropped earlier in the piece, and then returned to as more of a reveal. But as part of a comic reflection on how easy it is to destroy “apex predators”, and how tenuous power is, the construction works well. I do like that it’s clearly established as an alligator upfront, and don’t think that needs to be a reveal in itself. I think, in fact, fooling the reader into picturing a human autopsy before revealing it’s actually an alligator would just be frustrating. Thranguy - A Manifesto Written on Lightning-charred Paper: I’m with Jib in that this doesn’t read as an in-universe epistolary, at least from the beginning. It feels like this conceit becomes clearer as the piece progresses, but until then it reads more as a monologue. I’ll freely admit I got incredibly lost reading this with all the names coming thick and fast, and I do think there’s just too much happening here for me to get emotionally invested in the protagonist’s plight. Cedina, for one, could be mentioned earlier in the piece, as a bit of foreshadowing for Jovethian’s eventual intent. Right now their mention feels a bit arbitrary at the end, when I’m already exhausted keeping track of so many names. (And it would be trivial, I think, to cut the number of names: Flivnis is mentioned once to no real effect, Darvae could be removed entirely if his role in setting up Katsoval’s cruelty is replaced by an earlier introduction of Cedina, Alixstan could just become “Vladovarus’ father”, etc). Otherwise, I’m not completely sure I understand Jovethian’s motivations: he’s killing himself, and in doing so shorting their engines, which will provide the optimum conditions for the rising … that he’s trying to instigate through this letter? Unless his death is going to cause the machinery to fail extensively, it feels a bit premature. The man called M - Manly Games on the Sea: Once again, there are tense issues in the opening, but at least they seem limited there — once the story gets going in earnest, it all looks to be past-tense. The prose is serviceable enough, but it’s lacking any kind of tension or stakes. You say “his pride was on the line”, but outside of that reference it doesn’t feel as if there’s any consequence to who wins or loses. It doesn’t help that the narration flips between each character in turn, so as a reader I’m not sure who I should be rooting for to win the thing. Ted and Jackson are fairly indistinguishable as characters and I don’t really get the “thrill of competition” from their match. The ending is a bit “eh”, for me. It does feel like your entire story basically exists as a build-up to deliver the punchline about it being the Titanic, which isn’t great, but in the context of the story it also doesn’t make much sense. If I were on a cruise, I wouldn’t watch a tennis match and say “wow, I hope that’s the most exciting thing I see”. Yoruichi - Family: Is “spag bog” an NZ thing? I mentally corrected the first instance of “spaghetti bolognaise” to “spag bol”, which I thought better matched the register introduced with “yeet”, so I was glad it was shortened on second reference, even if to a weird other variant. Some of the blocking confused me a little, which ordinarily wouldn’t be an issue, but I wasn’t quite sure if some of the magical references are meant to be clues that Carol’s actually a witch, or if it’s just an ongoing riff. Part of me was expecting the fridge to turn into some sort of Narnia / Tardis-esque refuge from the heat. Maybe it does, and the “too-small fridge interior” is a clue that this happens, but it could probably stand to be slightly more acknowledged? The characters are all well-established and I get their motivations, even the odd aspects like why Carol’s there in the first place. I’m not sure you could entirely justify that without writing a much longer story, but I think the references to Andrew’s family being different and more attached go a long way to explaining this. Probably the strangest part of the story, for me, was Vivienne lamenting the lack of physical letters from her family in a time where the word “yeet” exists. Antivehicular - Self-Poisoning: ‘Magpie’ is such a good name for this character. I don’t know if it’s her given name or a name she’s chosen for herself — she seems the type to adopt her own name. The worldbuilding is effortless; there’s enough familiarity for me to latch onto, and things like the Forest work well as signifiers even if the story never quite makes their reality clear. It’s a lovely read with a lot to ruminate on. The ending fell apart a little bit, for me. “maybe she can accept not getting old if it means remembering what she was” is fantastic, and the final line lands, but there’s a fair amount of additional worldbuilding in between that’s perhaps coming in too late, which risks the beauty of Magpie just enjoying this forbidden pleasure. I think it probably needs a structural shuffle to really get the most from it — I’m also eyeing the earlier line “Nobody in the Forest ever lived to get old”, which feels misplaced at the moment — but the bones are definitely there. The only change I can recommend off-hand is fixing the repeated “buts” in the second-to-last line, which break the flow a bit.
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Jun 16, 2022 10:14
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the dumplings weren’t even hot after all that 400 words It’s three-AM, station time, and Hannah still hasn’t shown up. The deal was, I’d take the first shift if she got here before the really weird aliens started arriving, and now I’ve got dozens of ships backing up while a furious, tentacle-faced visage repeats their docking credentials for the hundredth time. I flick the mic on and stammer, I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch—, and the translator echoes some squelching approximation of contrition. It doesn’t work; their tentacles flare orange, its furious response sloshing through the speakers. ‘Esteemed warrior,’ I try. ‘Please accept my sincerest—’ The tentacles shake and spittle covers the camera, blurring the semaphor of indignation. ‘Insolent flesh-purse!’ the translator reads out. ‘Your ancestors feed grublings!’ The feed for line two flashes amber, and I fumble to answer it, hoping it’s Hannah with an incredibly good excuse. ‘This is alpha-one-three-seven,’ the voice announces, in the clipped tones of military patience. ‘Currently seventeenth in queue, requesting progression estimate, over?’ Oh, thank god: never so happy to hear a man’s voice. ‘Roger that,’ I say, slipping back to familiar parlance. ‘Experiencing moderate delays, anticipate—’ ‘Oh wow,’ the man says. ‘Carol? Carol, it’s me, Lloyd! What are the odds? Hey, I never finished telling you about quarks, maybe while I’m here we should—’ Back to line one: ‘—may your children choke on your intestines—’ Line three blinks on and I toggle over. ‘Bay Control, it’s Medical, we have a transplant for the Pryctorian ambassador currently in queue, requesting urgent—’ Line four: ‘Bay Control, why is the Kryndal Chancellor requesting your head?’ Line one: ‘—may your ancestors drown in their own—’ ‘Oh, gently caress you and your ancestors,’ I hiss; realising, too late, that my mic was still switched on. There’s silence following the translation, and then the tentacled face flashes green and a horrible squelching laughter fills the room, so loud I barely hear the autodoor slide open behind me. ‘Ah, you’re a quick learner,’ Hannah says, sidling up beside me and placing a take-away container on the console. ‘Took me five shifts to realise they only respond to aggression.’ ‘Couldn’t have told me that two hours ago?’ I ask. ‘Or, y’know, gotten here?’ She slides into the chair next to me and smiles nervously. ‘I got you dumplings?’ she tries, opening the box. ‘Took ages to get them. God, you wouldn’t believe the lines at the food market …’
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Jun 20, 2022 04:03
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in, flash please
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Jun 22, 2022 04:06
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Flash: The jeweled sea ever-lingers in the mind. The Old Man and the Sea Monster 1500 words The port-side city straddling the Alvistican sea—built half of shanties on treacherous undulations, and half of entitled incursions into cliffs carved by thousands of thousands of storms—is known by many names. In the cavernous stone-hewn halls, the grape-addled Aspirantii speak fondly of Rivachet, another jewel in their bloody livery; and on the ever-shifting expanse of the docks, those draped in sealskin sharpen their spears to lilting lullabies of their ancestral Ebh–Dakhor. The fur-bedecked figure a league hence knows not these names; he seeks only warmth, and water, and whatever sustenance his host can spare. Wrapping his cloak tight around his muscled frame to stave the worst of the night winds, he makes it halfway down the hill before some primeval instinct bades him pivot and unsheathe his greatsword in one smooth movement. No sooner has he brought his sword to bear than a terrible clash of steel-on-steel strikes his ears and then the muscles of his arms, and he realises at once the blade was meant for his blood. His assailant retreats a step, dancing on the tips of their feet, brandishing a curved sword in the style of an Eryttian mercenary. Their face remains hidden behind a veil, but for a slash of pale flesh—within which two eyes pierce, bright as jewels. ‘Have honour,’ the man admonishes, advancing with his own attack. The wraith dances nimbly away before darting in and under the broadsword’s second swing, rising up within the man’s guard. ‘Reveal your face and fight like a man,’ he growls, dodging the curved blade’s response with grace incongruous to size. ‘Or are you some demon sent to test me?’ Without waiting for response, the man lunges a killing blow, which slides inside the billowing fabric and exits impossibly clean; the demon trills with laughter and spins, broadsword trapped by cloth, neatly torn from the warrior’s grasp. Disarmed, he leaps forward with fist prepared for a blow; but rather than connect, his fist meets empty air and he stumbles to a fall, collapsing on the wet ground. Through fatigue-blurred vision, he watches his assailant loom over his prone form, before kneeling down and laying the heavy broadsword across his chest. ‘No demon,’ the voice says, light and gentle; a gloved hand reaches up to discard the veil, and the face that peers down at him—the face of his victor—is as pure a beauty as any he has seen. ‘Though I took you to be one, before you spake a language older even than their kind. Tell me, stranger, what mortal man walks these lands at night?’ ‘A travelling warrior seeking shelter,’ the man growls, rising with effort. ‘My name is Brae, of the Scealcrethe; who are you, to watch for demons in these times? And what city lies yon, that treats its guests as such?’ ‘My name is Yflnea, of the Welcyri. And what you’ll find of the city,’ the lady smiles, turning and gesturing out to the buildings in repose, ‘depends on the weight of your coin-purse. Although: from your spirit, you may find yourself welcome in each of its halls, as a hunting cat finds succour in each kitchen. These are hard times, friend, hard and dangerous. Your sword may yet find blood tonight.’ ‘Do not speak to me as “friend”,’ Brae expectorates, sheathing the broadsword and resting a gnarled hand atop its pommel. ‘Nor of hard times, or danger.’ The lady smiles, and shrugs lightly. ‘I would not dare patronise a warrior thus,’ she says. ‘Know only that demons, like cities, go by many names; and hard times, too, are spoken in many tongues.’ She turns, then, and retreats into a mist that seems to rise only to envelop her; his eyes, beleagured by exhaustion, seem to watch her dissipate entirely along with it. Snarling, Brae turns once more to the city, casting weary eyes upon its two halves. Few lights break the gloom of its expanse, shunned even by the moon above; beyond, the Alvistican sea stretches out, empty even of the night-time trawling vessels favoured by the cat-eyed Farrekhs. Within the city, the girl’s words prove prescient. Those behind the doors carved into the sheer cliff-face sneer down at him; but further down the city’s declivities, as the scents of roasting meat and mulled wine give way to salted air, and raucuous merriment turns to sonorous lament, he finds charity. A family of sealskin-clad fisherpeople, watching his immensity pass their shanty with the uncertain steps of one unaccustomed to sea-travel—as the town itself sways with the whims of the waves—call him into their hut and serve him well from a too-small pot of what looks to be soup of silt, and hunks of coral-hard bread. When he has supped, and drunk his share of their boiled water, he reaches in to his furs to retrieve what meagre bronze he has picked up along his travels. The family refuse his offering, folding his fingers back over the coin, and refuse too his offer of a knife or pouch of Marindian ash-dust. ‘I thank you,’ he tells them, rising at last to leave, ‘but I cannot leave indebted. Surely there is some task I may yet accomplish to return your kindness?’ After some murmuring translations—only the eldest of the four, a wizened assemblage of leathery skin dwarfed by his cloak, can speak Brae’s tongue, and then haltingly—the offer is relayed back to him, as such: ‘Great warrior,’ the eldest begins. ‘We cannot accept money, nor gifts. We are poor, but we are proud. We, too, wish to earn our way. Once, our people thrived, by diving into the sea to collect jewels from the seabed. With these we earned our keep; trading to those who cared for such earthly treasures, in exchange for flint and steel and medicine. ‘But there is a darkness now, drawn by the extravagances of excess above. A foul demon lurks underneath, feasting on our divers, protecting the jewels. It has taken our livelihood, our food, our hopes. ‘It is much to ask. But if you can slay this beast, we will hold you to no debt in this lifetime or the next.’ # Brae is waiting at the end of the dock, surrounded by the desuetude of a once-plentiful people, when the terrible beast makes itself known to him. No sooner has he unsheathed his broadsword than a leathery appendage, wide as a tree-trunk and pliable as a vine, tears up out of the water and lashes toward him; leaping back, Brae lands in a crouch and swings forward, lopping the tip of the whip off in a single motion. There’s a guttural cry from below, and the wooden boardwalk shudders and then begins to splinter as three more vines reach up out of the depths and latch onto its wooden supports. Brae squints down at them as they writhe across the planks, seeking purchase; he has heard tell of sea creatures with arms made of snakes, countless in number, and he grins to find the truth of it. Here is a battle promised by legend. As the moon reveals itself from parting clouds, he sees the glimmer of jewels in the tentacles, each affixed to a sucker and pulsating with a sick heartbeat. Striking forward, he slashes at another limb, but confidence almost ruins him; as if predestined, the tentacles curls out to grab onto his sword, wrapping itself tightly around the blade. There’s a burst of trill laughter, and the head of the beast finally emerges from the briny depths; rivulets run down its smooth enormity, a slab of dark slickness broken only by a gash of white, from which two jewelled eyes pierce out. ‘Hah! Twice the fool, to be fooled anew,’ the mercenary’s voice calls out from somewhere within the terrible visage, as the sword is finally wrenched from his hands. ‘I knew you would be more satisfying as meal than conquest,’ it continues, as the tentacles grope toward the warrior holding ground. ‘Then I shall rent thee from within,’ Brae glares, reaching inside his furs for the knife. The trill laughter continues, and Brae barely hears a call behind him; the old man, wielding naught but a thin birch spear, hurls it toward the warrior. Catching it, Brae leans back, and hurls the spear forth; it flies true, striking clear between the eyes. The tentacles flare up, and freeze, as the creature lets out an otherworldly cry; and then the jewels explode from it, covering the docks in shimmering treasure, before the fleshy tentacles collapse atop. Brae reaches down into the fleshy pile, ignoring the sudden clamour as the sealskin people gather the jewels and the fresh meat from its corpse. His hands close around the hilt of his greatsword, and he lifts it free, sheathing it bloodied. The old man watches him, from a distance, and nods his thanks; Brae merely nods back, turns, and departs.
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Jun 27, 2022 10:33
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