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Jan 12, 2022 06:48
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The Ride-Along 1005 words Prompt: Passengers hire a drifter with unusual powers in Montana. When the red Hyundai rolls into the parking lot of the Billings depot, Dee's been there for two weeks: a freakishly long stay, enough to make her twitchy. The red Hyundai is road-dirty, with Washington plates: on the road a while, and probably not about to stop here for good. It's a decent shot at work and a ticket out. Three people pile out of the Hyundai, and they don't waste time in tracking her down at her truck-stop diner table. They're two guys and a girl, young and unwashed and exhausted, and Dee lets them order coffee and eggs before they get down to business. "We're on our way to Indiana," the girl says, after coffee and before breakfast. "We heard the stories about you. Dee the Driver." "Dee the Ride-Along. I don't drive. That's the first rule." "But the rest is true? We can pay up front. I know it's a bit of a long haul." "I've had worse." Dee hasn't been that far east in years, but maybe it's time. The local trucking companies are rebuilding their fleets, and there's not as much call for her power anymore. They're going to outgrow her. She smiles, trying to make it look friendly and not desperate. "What are you offering?" "What's your standard rate? We have scrip and stuff, whatever you want. And... do you need anything special? To make it work?" Dee shakes her head. "As long as I'm in the car, you'll get where you're going. Simple as that. I think we've got a deal." *** Dee's clients are Andrew, Lily, and Kelvin. When the conversation drifts onto powers, as it always does, Andrew stays silent. He's got long sleeves and a scarf on in midsummer, and Dee figures he's got a drug gland he's covering up. Everything Lily wears turns black and stays that way; she's hoping to find a tailor who wants to save on dye. Kelvin never drops anything and never trips. "Still not sure if it's a power," he says, "or just luck. Not something you can make money with, right?" Dee shrugs and stares out the window. When the world boiled away, she got a more marketable consolation prize than most people, but that's all. "I make decent money," she says, "but it's not a life. That's why you're all heading out to Indiana, right?" "I have a cousin out there," replies Andrew. "He says they've got more houses than they know what to do with. Arable land, central to the routes. Could be something -- gently caress! Check engine light's on." "Don't worry about it," says Dee. "I've gotten dead engines across the finish line. Just keep driving." Andrew frowns but drives. Later, when they stop to camp for the night, he tinkers with the engine silently. Dee knows her words will be wasted. *** One of the front tires blows out in South Dakota, near the Iowa border, and this time the clients refuse to keep driving. The Hyundai limps along to the Sioux City depot, where Kelvin goes in to haggle for repairs and Andrew makes a drink run; Lily and Dee are left to watch the car. "Christ, the sound of it," says Lily. "I've never driven on a rim before. Do you really just tough it out?" "You get used to it. Look, you hired me for a reason, right? The depot guy's going to gouge you, and we're only a day out anyway. I'll get you there. Why spend all that cash?" "Because when you can fix something, you don't just let it rot." Lily's face is cold and hard, and for the first time, Dee thinks about why the universe gave her the gift of unrelieved black. "We need that car once we get to Terre Haute. It's all suburbs out there. I know it's all the same to you, but we can't afford it, okay?" Dee's never thought of herself as a talker, and she's never wanted to be, but something in her wants to talk now: a helpless, ugly thing crawling up her throat. "Yeah. Okay. I get it. You've got a future to worry about, right? I've got this job and the next one, and that's it. I'm just the ride-along, and I ride until I'm not needed. Fix the car and ditch me." "Wait, I mean --" Lily's face falters. "That's not what I meant. You don't... is this really all you have? Christ." Slowly, her expression reasserts herself, firm but not angry. "Kelvin and I were talking, and we wanted to invite you to stay with us in Terre Haute. Andrew's cousin says they need every hand they can get out there. I know we're not friends or anything, but if you want to get off the road, you could stay with us until you find a place." Dee wants to get off the road. It's been years since she wanted to be there, since some urge for flight pushed her out and the newborn broken world said go for it, and since then it's just been survival and not much else. "Maybe," she says, trying once again not to sound desperate. "I'm not good for much, though. I can't even drive." "Oh, is that -- oh. Well, you could learn. I was just thinking, I bet they could use a bus driver out there who's always going to finish the route. Or a mobile mechanic?" Dee shakes her head. "All I know about cars is, I get in them, they get there. That's it." "You could learn," says Lily again, glancing across the parking lot. Kelvin's striding their way, carrying a glossy tire and a wheel cover, and Andrew's following behind with more supplies. "Ask Kelvin to show you how to change the tire. It's easier than you think." "Right," says Dee, and means it. Terre Haute, Indiana will be the closest she's gotten to home in years. Maybe that tire'll hold a while. Maybe the engine won't die. Maybe she'll make it somewhere with something she can salvage.
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Jan 17, 2022 06:57
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Jan 19, 2022 12:12
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A Campfire Tale 862 words Prompt: COUNTRY ROOOOOOAD TAKE ME HOOOOOME TO THE PLAAAACE I BELOOOOOONG A SECONDARY WORLD WHERE YOUR OLDIE IS A BAAAARD OH IS A BARD Why, hello there, young one. How does the evening find you? Is the stew sitting well? Good, good. No lute, I see, so you're not here for music... ah, you'd like a story? Very well. How about a story about you? Don't feign indignation, now. I've seen how little interest you've taken in this expedition, and I can't imagine two days in these dreary swamps has kindled your imagination. Anything I could tell you about the local fauna would be put to use making my corpse look more convincingly savaged. Do you think I've never seen a young one like you fishing for material before? The daggers in your sleeves aren't as well hidden as you think. Is that a spring rig? Very clever. Very conspicuous. Have you used them before? Yes, I thought not. You can try your luck, if you like, or you can sit down and listen to my story. Good. Good boy. You were a foundling, weren't you? Abandoned at a church, wrapped in rags but bright-eyed and well-fed? Maybe your parents just don't remember your birth, but there you were one day, a perfect child. A miracle, surely, and your parents never questioned it. They were older, I would guess. Childless a long time, or their other children were dead or disappointing. You were an answered prayer. Then you grew up fast, too fast. How much of your childhood do you really remember? Not enough, I'd wager -- not that anyone noticed you'd gone from babe in arms to strong young man in three or four years. Your parents were old enough that the illusion still held, didn't it? Nothing to question. Then you started to hear the music, the sound of the celestial spheres, and you left your cuckoo's nest to see the world. Sing the songs. Bring joy. Find your kin, sing together, and then kill them. This is the part of your story that's less clear to me. Why do you bright-eyed young bards always hunt each other down? I'd wager you can't tell me -- I was supposed to be your first, wasn't I? -- but I'd love to know what's driving you on. Is it jealousy? You all have divine voices, of course, but even the divine isn't all equal. Or is it some animal urge: defense of territory, perhaps? Establishment of dominance? Mating, gods help us? Do you take trophies from each other? Do you eat each other? There's so much I've always wondered, but none of the bards who've come to kill me have deigned to tell me, or to have much of a conversation at all. You're very patient, young one. Very polite. You don't need to stare like that, you know. You haven't figured it out yet? I'm not one of you. I'm a bard by skill, not by birth. I was nobody's miracle, and I've never heard the Great Celestial Song. Learned the lute and pipe in my winters on the farm, then the blade for a living when the harvests failed, and then the stories on the road. I'd have thought you'd know it from my voice. Aren't many of you who get as old as I am, but their voices don't age with their bodies. You wouldn't know, though, would you? If you'd seen one, they'd have gutted you before you'd even sat down by the fire. They're a hungry lot, old bards. "Fraud?" Of all the times to speak, you choose now, and it's to call me a fraud? I've been a liar in my time, and a cheat, but all my work is honest. You and yours are conduits of joy, but that's all you are -- no more authors of your songs than the riverbed is the maker of water. What little I've made in this world is mine. I've got two verses of "The Elf-Lord and the Dowager" in circulation now. A funerary song for an old friend, thirty years ago, that they still sing all down the western coast. Not much of a legacy, but every bit honest. As for the rest... wherever you got the silver sword on your hip and those daggers up your sleeves, they're unblooded. My blade's older than any of your living kin, and it's been more than enough against a dozen of your brothers and sisters who thought I would be an easy target. Oh, don't you dare look so shocked! Haven't you been listening? Are you as slow as all that, young bright-eyes? You've got two options. If you still want to kill me, then get on with it. I'll tell the rest of the expedition you died a hero. If you'd rather live to see the end of this journey, though, set your weapons down and start talking. You've got to have a story of your own somewhere in that bright shining head, don't you? Tell me where you came from. Tell me about that silver sword. Tell me what the Heavens sound like. Give me a reason to keep you alive, and I'll teach you how to live through a few more years and a few more siblings. Well? Speak up, boy. I'm waiting.
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Jan 24, 2022 07:19
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In. This is Foghorn. Foghorn's seen some poo poo. 
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Feb 12, 2022 04:16
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A Signal in the Fog 819 words Stuffed friend: Foghorn slips into his human's dream world with such ease that, for a moment, he thinks he's learned how to dream himself. He's in a classroom, peeking out of a backpack, and Laura is at the desk, writing something too far away to read. She's hunched over and tense; her hand moves like lightning from line to line, but she never turns the page. This is a nightmare. She's having a nightmare, and at last, Foghorn is here. It's been a very long time since Foghorn was needed, and in truth, he thinks he was never needed very much. He was a strange choice for favorite: a carnival prize, cheap fake fur and cheaper flocking, made to be discarded after a few weeks or traded for something bigger. He's gone everywhere with Laura, but he's never been a guardian, just a silent and sympathetic friend. How can he be silent, though, when his girl's gripped by a nightmare? He tries to cry out, but his beak doesn't open; neither wings nor legs cooperate when he tries to force his way out of the backpack. Even here, he's just a toy, and a third-rate toy at that. There is nothing in the nightmare but time, and Foghorn thinks as hard as he can manage. Something unfamiliar itches inside him, but it's hard to tell if it's the power to help, or just the desire to. If this is Laura's nightmare, then it works by the rules of her imagination, doesn't it? Laura's never thought about him as a protector or a savior, but he's always been present, the constant companion. If his place in her mind is as something present, then maybe he can push at that, make himself known. Foghorn thinks harder than he ever has and imagines herself near her. There's a little pop of tension in the air, barely palpable, and then a second Foghorn is sitting on Laura's desk. She looks up from the endless test, and Foghorn watches her from two angles at once; it gives him a strange, dizzying feeling, like nothing his simple body has ever felt before. "Foghorn?" she says. "What the hell?" The borders of the room are blurring. Some conscious part of Laura's mind is stirring, and the room is dissolving around them. Good. The dizziness is only getting worse, and Foghorn is ready for his own dreamless rest. *** After a few more nightmares, it gets easier. Foghorn splits himself into three, then four, then more, and with practice the disorientation starts to fade. Instead, there's something almost comforting about it; it reminds him of very old memories, of his first journey, packed tight in a plastic bag with dozens of his brothers en route to the fairgrounds. Foghorn stacks himself high in the classrooms and bookstores that populate Laura's nightmares, into the trunks of broken-down cars and on top of endless piles of clothes waiting to be packed into tiny suitcases. Everywhere Laura's anxiety might send her, Foghorn makes sure that she sees him. She always recognizes him immediately, but it always takes time for her to put the pieces together. "Two Foghorns? That's funny. Wait, three?" Even in the deep haze that she's in while dreaming, she senses something wrong. One night, she even says it out loud. "This doesn't make sense. There's only ever been one of you." On one hand, that's not quite true. Foghorn has laid in a bin with hundreds of his brother-selves, before that long journey in the plastic bag with a few dozen; when you're a mass-produced thing, you know it forever, no matter how much you're loved. On the other hand... it's been years, hasn't it? Many years, Foghorn thinks, though he's never been too good with time. He's been washed and stitched up countless times by Laura's mother, his eyes repainted by her father, his tag that marked him as one of many cut off and lost a long time ago. There's only one of him, and that's what he means to tell her. There's only one of him -- and if there are more, something's wrong. Laura is easily lost in her dreams, and the message takes a long time to get through, but one night, it breaks through the waves of fear and worry. "Five Foghorns?" she says, out loud, with only the Foghorns to hear her. "That only happens in dreams. Which means... holy poo poo, this is a dream, isn't it?" Her shoulders relax, and the twisted landscape around her begins to blur, its demands on her loosening. "Just a dream. Okay. Breathe." Foghorn wasn't made to last long, but here he is, after all these years. In the waking world, dust collects on his shabby fur and glossy plastic eyes, but in Laura's dreams, he's her hero at last. She's given him a life, and in return, he can give her back a decent night's sleep.
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Feb 14, 2022 08:29
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In, with: quote:Some of the full-bodied popes are a million times bigger than us.
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Feb 16, 2022 06:48
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The Oblate Job 1671 words Prompt: Some of the full-bodied popes are a million times bigger than us. They open their mouths at regular intervals. They are continually grinding up pieces of the cross and spitting them out. Black flies cling to their lips. The Deepgreen Colony contract looked better than it had any right to be. Even the chintziest outfit could write an attractive contract, and Deepgreen was about as chintzy as it got: a breakout commune colony on a swamp planet, risky enough that even the sharkiest loan corps wouldn't underwrite them. They'd made it a few generations, though, enough to start worrying about genetic bottlenecking, and they'd scraped up just enough to make Jack and Mason take a look at their offer. Not much cash in it, of course -- if they'd had the cash, they'd have bought a fresh gene line legit -- but a little, plus citizenship and lifetime room and board on Deepgreen, if they wanted it. It never hurt to have more places to lie low. The Church wasn't in the business of pursuit, but you never knew, right? Stealing oblate embryos from the High Cathedral was a step up in ambition, but not in difficulty. The Church relied on biometric security, and Jack and Mason came from a mission planet; even five years since the escape, nobody had bothered to flag them in the system as apostates. It was as simple as a pupil scan, then access to facilities that didn't even lock the interior doors. Sometimes Mason wondered if they even counted as thieves, when the Church made these jobs so drat easy. Waltz in, grab a few pallets' worth of embryos and gene stock, and walk out whistling a hymn. Mason always told himself it wasn't supposed to be this simple, that one day it wouldn't be, but the Church hadn't put up a fight yet. The setup was easy: their well-worn sexton's robes, plus the bio-stasis cart that'd give them a comfortable window to work with the samples. No weapons, nothing suspicious. The loading-dock gatekeeper at the High Cathedral didn't question their cover story -- with a dozen deliveries of fresh offerings from the mission worlds every day, why would he? -- and Mason checked them in while Jack pushed the cart. The hardest part was always keeping his breathing even, swallowing the mote of fear that the alarm would sound and the system would start its loud proselytizing at a "lost child," but as always there was just a chirrup and the glowing white splash screen, with WELCOME HOME EPIPHANY JOHNSON! in what someone thought was a "friendly" Gothic font. Mason exhaled, keeping his eyes level. This had to look normal, to the biometric scanners and the security cameras and the smiling desk clerk. It was a well-practiced act, but it never felt good. The clerk waved them through with a "welcome, sisters!" (and Mason could practically hear the gritted teeth behind Jack's practiced smile), and Mason followed the memorized map towards the laboratories. The easiest path went through the Oblate Quarters: corridors of metal cells with plexiglass doors, isolation without privacy. The High Cathedral oblates were a uniform lot, shining blondes in white robes, kneeling on the floor in prayer or sitting on their metal cots in blank-eyed stillness. Mason kept his eyes on the path. It'd be just as fast to head across the production floor on their way out, with less to see. Mason and Jack's luck held all the way to the labs: empty hallways and unlocked doors, a few with notes about being "on prod." Mason let himself whistle a little as they loaded up the cart, scanning bar codes into a data pad. "You're in a good mood," said Jack, with a half-raised eyebrow. "Nerves holding out?" A break in character, if there'd been anyone there to listen, but that was Jack for you. One of them had to be fearless. "Yeah, I'm fine, just fine," Mason replied. "You think we can head out via the prod floor? Looks like it might be busy." "It'll be fine. It's always fine. Busy is good. You all set?" Mason nodded and tightened the cargo straps on their score: thousands of embryos and many more gametes, all secure, all going from the Church to a co-op colony. None of them would be oblates. None of them would ever be named Epiphany. Thank the cosmos for small favors. *** The crowds picked up as soon as Mason and Jack crossed from R&D to production. Most if it was workers, the sextons in brown utility robes and celebrants in laboratory blue, but several of them led packs of oblates behind them, in tight lines that shuffled like they were manacled. Mason kept his eyes forward and his mind on the map, even as he muttered reflexive "excuse me"s as he carved out a path for Jack and the cart.. Nobody looked their way; all eyes were fixed upwards, at God or something like Him. The first sign they'd hit the Primary Production Chamber was the sudden grade in the walkway, just enough to give a little resistance to the cart, and Mason grabbed his end and helped Jack pull it up. He glanced upwards, taking his eyes away from the walkway for the first time, and the whole scene hit at once: the vast vaulted ceiling, the walkways spiraling up and up, and the impossible bulk of the Saints. Each Saint was a structure in and of itself, caged and supported by wrought-iron scaffolding, perfectly proportioned human bodies draped in gore-stained silver silk. Fluorescent halos lit their lovely, vacant faces, and their jaws chewed endlessly with a placid rhythm. Mason could barely make out the figures on the walkways leading to the Saints' mouths: workers in brown, feeding oblates in white into the open maws, which swallowed nothing. Mangled remains poured from the Saints' mouths, down below where Mason stood, but to what Mason knew must be harvesting vats and packaging lines. He thought of the relic he'd received for Confirmation, the little locket of sanctified bone chips, and knew now that those bones had been carved by Saintly teeth. "Jack," he said, and only in speaking realized how silent the room was, save for the mechanical sound of mastication and the wet thuds from below. "Jack, we have to move." Jack said nothing, and Mason looked back to see him staring at the Saints, knuckles white on the cart handle. Mason grabbed his side of the cart and yanked, and Jack stumbled forward. "gently caress," he said, so low that he was barely audible even in the silence. "gently caress." Mason thought about the route and pulled hard on the cart, and after a moment, Jack followed. There would be no whistling this time, no hymns: just the sound in his head of teeth on bone. *** It was an old superstition of theirs to ride in the cargo bay on the way back from a job, but Mason yearned for his quarters, for the comfort of his shoddy foam mattress and staticky music player. Jack hadn't said a word since they'd loaded up, and Mason couldn't force himself to find chatter to fill the air. Deepgreen was seven hours away. Jack didn't speak until Mason was mid-bite of a meal bar, as if he'd been waiting for a moment where Mason couldn't interrupt him. "They were holy. They were blessed. And now we're... we're stealing that." "gently caress, Jack," said Mason once he'd forced the dry lump of protein down his throat. "You saw it, right? Can you think of a worse way to die? Chewed up, and if you don't die from that, the fall?" "But they weren't screaming," Jack replied, staring straight forward. "I think maybe they were happy. They got their birthright. And now we're taking this lot away to work themselves to death on a swamp planet?" "We're taking them away so they can be people. Work, sure, but whatever work they want, and play too. Fall in love, have kids, watch those kids work and play and be free. They're not gonna go from the womb to a cell and then into the loving jaws!" "And they'll never know God," said Jack, "not really. They'll never be a part of Him. You know they use the relic flesh to seed new mission planets? That's as close to God as you can get, birthing a new world for Him. That's like Heaven." He closed his eyes, then opened them again, staring at the cargo freezer. "You ever think about Heaven?" Mason hadn't thought about Heaven in years, not since they'd promised each other that they'd escape, even if the only road out led to Hell. But they hadn't escaped, had they? Every job, the Church welcomed them back. They weren't "breaking in" any more than you could break into Sunday Mass. "What I think," said Mason, "is that we need downtime. Why don't we take a few days on Deepgreen, relax some, and maybe we get out of Church space for a while. Find other jobs." "I think we..." Jack stopped himself, even as Mason could still read his lips, mouthing take them back. And then what, he thought? Confess? Go back, ship ourselves off to be Epiphany and Prudence forever? But Jack shook his head. "Yeah, I think so. Take a little time. Just, I..." "I love you, okay? I'm right here with you, and I'm going wherever you're going. But not home." "Yeah," said Jack, and closed his eyes again. Mason crossed the room, sat down next to Jack, and laid his arm across Jack's shoulder. He told himself that this would pass. They'd talked about God before, in the long days between jobs when the money was running out, but they'd never faltered. Jack was brave, and no Saint could change that, not even those Lucifer beauties with shining white teeth. If Mason had to be the brave one for a while, he'd find a way. They'd manage. God was always watching. They'd never thought they could outrun him, just spit in His eye and laugh. If that led to Hell, to a death in the crushing fist of the Church, then it was still better than the Saints' jaws.
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Feb 21, 2022 07:42
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a friendly penguin posted:A Touch of Death The Firstborn in the Garden 493 words The Firstborn is bone-tired, and the road is very long. The path to the Old Garden is sunbaked and desolate, abandoned now, but still familiar: the land where Mother and Father first knew pain, and where their oldest children were born to it. The Firstborn farmed it, when he was young, and the fruits it yielded were peerless. Now, at the end of his life, it is dust. The Firstborn has outlived Mother and Father, siblings and children. He has spent his life in the fields, taming the earth and feasting on its bounty, through hopeful springs to proud autumns and back. He has fed his family since it was him, Mother, Father, and Little Brother; now his family is endless, spread through all the fertile valleys, and the strength left in his limbs is barely enough to feed himself. What he has learned from the earth has spread through the lines of farmers and pilgrims, and he has nothing left to teach. He has outlived everything but his own body: the leathery hands, the aching back, stick-thin legs that still carry him on. He is not missed. None watched him depart or have noticed his absence. Nowhere in the cities of his kin do they speak of him. The Firstborn has toiled dutifully, faultlessly, and the reward for a long and faultless life is oblivion. He has seen it in his wife, who worked without ceasing and loved with a bountiful heart, but whose face has nearly vanished now from his mind. Their two surviving children, aged and faded, do not speak of her. The children's children are as distant as the stars. Oblivion tears away those he loved, and tears him away in turn; even his own name seems strange and remote to him, like a tool that no longer fits comfortably in the hand. If he is lucky, someone will live to bury him, but that is all. The last hope is the myth: that the fruit of the Old Garden can re-weave a life. All the Firstborn wants is to be remembered. He is not a fool; to leave a legend behind, he knows, his new life will not be faultless. A good story needs conflict, whispers a voice in his head that might be God. All his work and love will be washed away, for some unknown pain, and yet the hunger drives him on. Mother and Father learned pain, he tells himself. Is pain not good enough for him? At the end of the road, the Garden is still green, and the branches part for him. He finds a near-forgotten fruit, his favorite from his youth: orange-red, not quite round and not quite sweet, an old friend returned to him. He bites into it and chews slowly, crushing the bittersweet little seeds between his teeth. As the world unravels around him, to be written anew, the Firstborn thinks his last faultless thought: "this tomato is good."
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Mar 2, 2022 08:52
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sebmojo posted:Spaceman Jim versus the Plague Beasts of Venus The Electric Butcher Dances All Night 494 words When the arena cleaners wheeled in the carcass of the Slovg'nar, the Electric Butcher put on a clean apron, turned up his music feed, and began to hum along in a happy monotone. Butchering the legally-edible losers of the Galactic Hippodrome always kept his skills and his hand-blades sharp, but this was a special treat. The Slovg'nar was a succulent game bird, hunted nearly to extinction (No, too grim. Let's switch that up.) ...a succulent game bird, more feisty and delicious when wild-caught, and as interesting to disassemble as it might have been to taste. The Electric Butcher extended his hand-blades and set to work. bouncing to the rhythm of pounding Saturnian industrio-dance. The phone rang halfway through the severing of a knee joint, but the Electric Butcher never missed a beat. The ringtone was analog and faintly unpleasant, as if they'd actually put a silly metal bell in the thing -- maybe they had, given how retro it was, with its discolored white plastic. It was impossibly antique (too much phone exposition, get on with it) The Butcher retracted one hand's worth of blades and answered the phone. "Hippodrome Butchery, Butcher speaking!" "I need you to send the Slovg'nar neck to the Proving Grounds. Put your pyrite inside. The fate of this galaxy and others hinges on it." There was a click, which the Butcher knew meant the call had disconnected, in this terrible old thing's idiom. The Electric Butcher was not built for this sort of thing, but he had the circuitry to take in the command. Slovg'nar neck was hardly a valued cut, especially not charred as this one was... and his pyrite? Well, that was sentimental -- a gift from his wife, back when they'd been courting and he'd only been an Electric Apprentice -- but when had he last looked at it? Sometimes, you had to let go of sentimental things; even an old service droid like him knew that. Sometimes you had to trust (Laying it on too thick? Sometimes you have to, babe. Sometimes your little guys need that little bit of a push, to get your theme out on the page, so here goes:) Sometimes you had to trust the order of things, the fundamental rhythm of the universe. You had to trust in resolution, and it would come. The Electric Butcher knew this well, after a long life of struggles rewarded, mysteries understood. (not on the page, but we must imagine the Electric Butcher happy, right? Keep it light.) The Electric Butcher severed the seared, skinned neck of the Slovg'nar, then withdrew the pyrite from his tool drawer. He gave the chunk of pseudo-gold one last squeeze, for good luck, and stuffed it wrist-deep into the bloody trachea. A wrap with butcher paper, a call to a courier drone, and it would be off. With luck, the galaxy might yet be saved. (He doesn't know. Doesn't suspect. Let's hope it stays that way.)
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Mar 6, 2022 12:28
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In!
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Mar 29, 2022 07:40
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Sunrise 864 words Gem: Padparadscha sapphire In the gem-fermenting trade, pedigree matters. It's been the driving force behind all of your professional priorities: a strictly adequate education, saving funds for the the installation of a top-of-the-line endocrucible and its matching benchtop devices, then paying for clean reagents and rigorous certification. Your profit margins could be better, but your clientele is solid. You have a steady rotation: divination rutile and earth-shaping polycrase most of the year, lunar pearls for cleaning cycles, then dryad-fooling quick-amber to purify your inner furnace. It's not glamorous work, but it keeps the lights on. The sapphire comes out of your throat as part of a batch of pyrope, special-ordered by a necromancer acquaintance. Necromantic pyrope is always blood-dark, steeped in hateful humors, so the single pinkish-orange stone stands out from its siblings when you start sifting and washing. You assume a rogue spessartine, but the scry-box reads CORUNDUM, five tests in a row. Corundum is alchemically inert, only of interest to a few Saturn cultists, who both strongly favor blue stones and don't pay their invoices. You set it on your benchtop and stare at it for a moment. It's an irregular spheroid the width of your thumbnail, the color of a cloudy dawn. It is beautiful. It is worthless. You don't know how your body even made it, or how to make it stop. You scour your notebooks for an answer. Your reagent regimen is the same as ever; the color of the stone suggests iron or chromium, but you haven't fermented any iron since your last peridot order, years ago. Is your crucible retaining sample that long? You think of your certification, your calibration schedule -- a budget that can't take extra strain, another surgery -- A long cleaning cycle, you decide. That night, you ingest the reagents for lunar pearls: calcite pills and powdered nacre through the hatch under your tongue, down into the crucible, and fish oil and flaxseed to your stomach. A week later, the pearls you vomit up are translucent and orange as roe. Beautiful. Impure. Worthless. You take freelance mixing work to pay the bills, and you try another cleaning cycle. *** Something is broken inside you. Even after months of pearl and amber fermentation, when there should be no mineral matter left in your crucible at all, the sunrise stain lingers, and your one attempt at rutile produces two more salmon-pink chunks of corundum mixed into the harvest. The amber still sells as well as it ever did, and you manage to hock the pearls to novice geomancers who aren't concerned about certificates, but your thin savings run thinner every month. A long night with the books convinces you: a replacement crucible, or ruin. A replacement crucible and ruin, between the costs and the recovery time for the surgery, but better to do it now while you can still salvage a few clients. You'll call your mother to help you through these next few months. You'll survive. When you lower your head to sob, you try to tell yourself it's just physiological, the clearing of backed-up humors. You awaken at your desk, cheeks still warm and damp; it's just before sunrise. You stand up and walk outside, slippered feet crunching through half-rotten late-autumn leaves, and you peer between the bare trees at the distant horizon. The sun is the same pinkish-gold as your failure. The dam of your grief breaks, again, and you slump against a tree to bawl. You shove a handful of bitter chokecherries into your mouth, and your crucible hatch opens automatically -- as if it knows better than you, now. An hour later, a single iridescent egg rises from your throat. When you open your mouth to disgorge it, it hatches, and the chickadee inside flies away. There is a broken miracle inside you. *** One of your clients has openings for bench alchemists. When your interviewer asks why you're changing jobs, you mention a desire for stability in your life and applications for your education, neither technically lies. You were adequately educated, but there are clearly too many things you just don't understand. You stop fermenting chokecherries, but you stop with your standard formulations too. When your crucible hungers, you feed it novel mixtures, just to see what happens: experimentation, something you haven't done in far too long. Any dose of aluminum brings up corundum, some pinkish-orange and some in colors you hadn't imagined. You should probably consult a gemologist, you realize -- someone who knows the whole absurd range of what the earth makes. You have to remind yourself it'd just be for curiosity's sake. The earthborne-gem market runs on certification and pedigree as much as the alchemical market does, and trying to sell them body-fermented corundum will work as well as selling them live toads. If there's a buyer for what you bring forth, they'll be unscrupulous, or young, or artistic. If there's not a buyer... well, money's not the only thing to live for, is it? After you settle in at the bench job, you have your orange pearls strung, and your first sapphire cut and mounted on a pendant: a golden sunburst. It is worthless, but it is beautiful, and beauty deserves to shine.
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Apr 4, 2022 05:33
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THUNDERDOME DV: Things to Do in T-Dome When You're Doomed This week, I'm interested in character-focused stories. Your prompt is this: your protagonist learns they have only a limited amount of time to live, and there's nothing they can do to change that. Maybe the cancer's back and it's everywhere this time, or the starship's life support is breaking down with no help in sight, or an imp's manifested on their shoulder to tell them Satan's taking them back to Hell in 7 days -- the point is, the end is nigh, and there's nothing left to be done. What will they do with the time they have left? To clarify: I'm not looking for Twilight Zone-type stuff about people struggling futilely and ironically against their doom, or creating self-fulfilling prophecies to fulfill it. I'm interested in what your characters do when there's a ticking clock, no hope, and nothing to lose. If you write me a Twilight Zone episode, I will be very cross. Tone, genre, and all of that good stuff is otherwise up to you. Standard rules apply: no erotica, fanfiction, political screeds, or dick pics. Signup Deadline: Friday, April 8th, 11:59 PM Pacific Submission Deadline: Sunday, April 10th, 11:59 PM Pacific (or whenever I go to bed that night/Monday morning, you know the drill) Word Count: 1500 Judges: Antivehicular Thranguy Nae Entrants: 1. Chairchucker 2. sebmojo 3. derp 4. JetSetGo 5. Vinny Possum 6. The man called M 7. Ceighk 8. AllNewJonasSalk 9. Bad Seafood 10. Nikaer Drekin 11. Tars Tarkas 12. Uranium Phoenix 13. Albatrossy_Rodent 14. hard counter 15. Yoruichi Antivehicular fucked around with this message at 10:13 on Apr 11, 2022 |
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Apr 4, 2022 23:30
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Apr 9, 2022 09:33
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Apr 11, 2022 20:41
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TD 505 RESULTS: The Prompt Is Just A Place To Hang Your Head This was an interesting week to judge: generally competent entries that often lacked zing, or didn't click with a particular judge because of personal reasons. The reader is, as always, your worst enemy. That said, consensus has been reached and judgment shall be rendered. Your winner, by unanimous decision, was Yoruichi's "Goodbye", a piece that kept it sharp and focused in a week that often wandered! Good stuff. Honorable Mentions go to Ceighk's "The Remainder" and JetSetGo's "Sacrifice on the Glory Road," where we each had some quibbles but generally found the writing solid and enjoyable. No DMs this week -- it was a mixed bag, but the judges agreed that even the weaker end of the center brought some stuff to the table. The loss goes to The man called M's "Dead Man's Jazz", which fell into some of the common traps of the week (excess exposition) and some novel traps of its own. Keep working and keep fighting, M, but... this one wasn't great. On the whole, this was a solid, high-effort week, and I sincerely appreciate you all working with me on a challenging prompt. Throne's yours, Yoru!
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Apr 12, 2022 22:59
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May 4, 2022 03:07
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T-Rex's dream: This isn't the dream but a little bit of context: I dreamed of the same places often and sometimes, even when I was asleep, I was capable of recognizing that. This was one of those situations. In the dream, I was in the jungle on the sides of a dormant volcano, one that has water in the middle instead of lava. One with a tree at the edge of the cliff that I've used to jump off and escape in other dreams. I know that I'm dreaming. I also know that I'm being chased. But I know this jungle. It's my jungle. I'm able to outpace the men and dogs that are chasing me but instead of jumping off the tree and into the water I slide off the cliff edge and catch hold of some roots. I cling to them and watch as my pursuers leave over my head and go screaming past into the water far, far below me. I climb up and I'm face to face with an evil man in a green army uniform. I know he's going to kill my family. I fight him and I get him on the ground and I'm strangling him as hard as I can but I can't keep his windpipe closed long enough to suffocate him. It feels like I'm trying to pinch a water hose through his neck. I'm so frustrated I'm crying and every time my fingers lose strength and he takes a breath, he laughs. He tells me he's going to kill my family and there's nothing I can do to stop him. Anti's interpretation: I think this is a dream about the limits of personal control of our circumstances, and the helplessness that hitting that limit can create. The dream-self has perfect control of their environment, able to manipulate it to vanquish their foes, but facing the danger head-on leads only to failure and frustration -- a sudden realization of where one's control and mastery stops. It feels like a dream about the moment you've hit the wall on a personal problem, or possibly find yourself face-to-face with the inevitable. (Saying the evil soldier who wants to kill your family and cannot be stopped represents Death feels kind of hacky, but... I think he might represent Death? Or a similar inevitable force, anyway.) *** Death and the Emperor 1008 words The last emperor of the Peregrine Peaks was the Great Father of the world for thirty years, but he was only a father by blood for eight of them. His name has been struck from history, but his daughter's was preserved: Tahla. She was born with a weakness of the lungs, and by all accounts she was never truly well, but she lived as fiercely as an oft-bedridden child could. The journals of her tutors tell of a girl who attacked her studies with fervor, and her doctors' journals tell of her stoic acceptance of every new treatment. Her father's words are lost to us, but we know he loved her dearly. How else can you explain what became of them? The first of the Emperor's wars for Tahla's life was waged in the traditional manner, by the finest medical minds the imperial coffers could buy, and for eight years its soldiers held the line against death. When at last they faltered, the Emperor declared a second war, against the spirit of Death itself. Even in those antique days, it was known that Death carried itself on the wings of birds, so the Emperor ordered the palace windows barred with decorative grating, so densely worked that not the smallest sparrow could find purchase. The trees and shrubbery around the palace were pruned diligently, such that a radius around the walls was bare of nesting habitats. The Emperor suggested a campaign of poisoning, upon which his advisors deliberated, until Tahla asked for mercy -- even if there were to be no birds near her barred window, she wished to hear their distant song. This, the Emperor obliged. I hope it was a comfort to her in the months to come. Once the perimeter was secure, the internal defenses began. Tahla kept her room, but the connecting passageways were made into an ever-rebuilt maze, to confound Death if it managed somehow to stumble inside. The servants tasked with Tahla's care were given new quarters at the heart of the labyrinth, well-appointed but windowless, with scullery and sanitary facilities of their own: no excuse, then, to ever leave the guarded bastion of the Heir's Quarters. The cost was immense, but there were no protests from within or without. Meticulous to the last, the Emperor maintained his stewardship over his lands, and his advisors seemed over-awed by the hints that his plan might succeed. The doctors supplied no timetable for Tahla's death, but it had not yet come, and the young heir maintained her strength and her spirits. Had the Emperor, the greatest of his line, tricked Death? Could the fortress of the Peregrine Peaks be shelter eternal? No, my dear, they were not fools, although they certainly were foolish. The people of those days simply held great hopes, that's all, and too much faith. Snow fell on the barren palace gardens, the workers tore down and rebuilt the maze-warrens of the Heir's Quarters, and Tahla weakened. The Emperor took to sleeping in a chair at his daughter's bedside, his cavalry sword lying across his lap. The night that Death came to Tahla's bedchamber, slipping past the drowsing nurse at the door, the Emperor greeted it wide awake. "You learned the maze," he said. "I should have had them work faster." Death did not reply. "You have not yet won," continued the Emperor, who was unfazed by a silent audience. "I have read the old tales, oh Death, and I know you are not sovereign. You serve Fate the Weaver above all. Are you prepared to disobey Her?" Death was, of course, still silent -- it does not speak to us, and never will. The only sound was Tahla's ragged breathing. The Emperor stood up, set his sword aside, and reached into his pocket for a vial of liquid, which he drank in one swift motion. His jaw clenched, but soon he returned to his natural iron-stiff composure. "That should work in a minute or two -- less time than Tahla has, anyway. If you take me instead of her, Fate's workings stay intact. If you take us both, your Lady's weave unravels. You see your duty, don't you?" By now, the night nurse had stirred, watching silently from the doorway; it is in her journal that we found the Emperor's words, and his meaning. Even the lowest servant of the time knew that the Emperor was a weaver himself, the spinner of careful webs of power and favor across the empire, all set to collapse if he were betrayed or deposed. If the Emperor died with Tahla still alive, she and her mother would ascend to Empress and Regent uncontested, and assuring the stability of Fate would buy her at least a few more years' reprieve from death. If both Emperor and heir passed in the same night, a dozen claimants on the throne would descend on the heartlands of the empire. The world would be blood and fire, the weave of fate destroyed for untold multitudes. The Emperor stared into the empty eyes of Death and dared it to blink. Death did not reply. It reached out both its hands, and it snatched the Emperor and his daughter away in the same instant. You will learn more of what followed, of the long wars and the ashen peace, when you are older. For now, it is enough to know what the Emperor's pride cost him, and why those who followed struck his name from the records. All that remains of him is this story, the memory of his hubris, and one surviving mosaic from his palace: a man and a little girl, hand in hand, under the northern sky. Have you seen the picture in your history book? The girl is pointing to Polaris, but the man looks only at her. They say it's Tahla's work, when she was well enough to decorate her own chamber, and I like to think she tried to show her father what he couldn't see. I hope that she guided them on, once Death made them equal.
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May 9, 2022 03:59
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In, will take a cozy conflict
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May 9, 2022 23:38
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Beep Beep 757 words Cozy conflict: I can hear it, but I can't find it. Something in the apartment was beeping. Tracy forced her eyes open, ripped away from the fleeting half-dreams she'd been drifting through on the way to sleep. The sharp electronic chirp cut through the white noise of the running dishwasher, and Tracy ran through the potential sources in her head: smoke detector? Carbon-monoxide detector? No, not loud enough. Her phone was on vibrate; Marissa's phone was with her at work. Neither of them had set a non-phone alarm in who knows how long. What in God's name was beeping? Not just beeping, Tracy realized as she stood up and glanced around the living room. The thing was playing a chirpy song, a tune that sounded vaguely familiar even in mangled MIDI form. A weird noise and a half-remembered song? God, she'd never get back to sleep. Time to go on a hunt. Tracy started with the bookcases. She'd owned a few books as a child with embedded sound chips, theoretically intended to only play when the book was open, but prone to bugging out and playing endlessly for years. None of them had survived her childhood, thankfully, but who knew what Marissa might have brought home from her last visit to her parents? The newest additions to the latest bookshelf were mostly old college textbooks, though, and all blessedly silent. The remaining shelves were all full of old friends, the comfortable patched-together collection, and they were definitely not playing a maddeningly familiar song. (What was it? Tracy could practically hear a line about diamond stars, sung in a masculine swagger. What in the Hell was that song?!) A step into the bathroom and a quick visual sweep confirmed the lack of anything electronic, and so did a walk across the apartment to the kitchen -- finally clean, with the last load of dishes still running, loudly enough that Tracy could barely hear the beeping over the noise. Good. She didn't relish the possibility of sorting through all the utensil drawers for a forgotten egg timer. The only plausible place left was the bedroom -- the place with the most stuff, naturally, and the most places for some random gizmo to be thrown into and forgotten. Ah, well. They'd been putting off decluttering too long anyway; maybe Tracy could get started while she searched. The beeping was at its loudest in the bedroom, but where could she even start looking without getting lost in the weeds? Tracy took a step back and walked the perimeter, with as much focus as she could manage. The closet! Oh, God, the closet. Nothing to it but to finish it. The closet was simultaneously the most and least organized space in their apartment, neat rows of clothes battling with boxes of junk. Everything they hadn't bothered to unpack from the last move had ended up stuck in here, and it was far past time to throw most of it out, especially if it included some strange singing desk toy. The song was coming from above her now, loud as anything, and Tracy could finally place the voice that was yowling the lyrics in her head. Marc Bolan. Was she really being driven to madness by a terrible MIDI rendition of "Bang a Gong (Get It On)?" Tracy stood on her tiptoes and pulled the first box down -- all old paperwork, no sound. The second was just as silent, containing a few sets of fitted sheets too small for their mattress, definite thrift-store stuff. She hauled down the third box, somehow heavier than the paperwork, and there it was on top: an open greeting card, MIDI chip screaming its little heart out. Tracy closed it as swiftly as she could, trying not to look at the layer of wrapped packages underneath. No wonder Marissa had been dragging her feet on cleaning out the closet. She hadn't wanted to spoil her new hiding place for birthday gifts. And that song -- Tracy'd sung it once at karaoke, hadn't she? The night she'd finally worked up the nerve to buy Marissa a drink and strike up a conversation. She'd almost forgotten, and it was sweet to be reminded. As beautiful silence reigned, Tracy put the boxes back in their place. All further chores could wait; she'd done her good deed for the day, and now it was time to nap away the rest of her day off, in the home she and Marissa had built together. Next month, after her birthday, there'd be time for thrift-store trips and decluttering and productivity. For now, it was time for a well-earned nap in a quiet apartment.
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May 16, 2022 06:11
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In, mood plz
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May 20, 2022 23:28
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Amelia, After the War 1119 words Flash mood: ominous Inspiration statement: The major inspiration for this piece stemmed from "Impossible Germany, Unlikely Japan" and its themes of where you land not mattering, which made me think about the weird liminal space of airports. This combined with the imagery of ruined homes and solitude, along with the slightly eerie tone of the rest of the album, to make me imagine a story of someone struggling to start a new life, with their past in ruins and their future a blank. Amelia's flight began on a dark rural runway, but it ended at a civilian airport that could have been anywhere: fluorescent-lit white and grey, broken up by the transit of heedless crowds. Every airport was the same, which had unnerved Amelia in her youth but comforted her now. The city outside the gates would surely have its own character, a current in which to swim or be swept away, but in the airport she still knew how to exist. She crossed patches of linoleum tile and thin carpet, one hand pulling a wheeled suitcase, the other on the strap of her purse: the one piece of luggage and one "personal item" to which her life had been boiled down. She walked past clusters of fast-food shops surrounded by harried families, then the restaurants and bars where the 24-hour alcoholics congregated, and finally found an option that suited her: a nameless food kiosk, opposite an equally nameless newsstand. She bought a ham sandwich and a bottle of water, sat down on a bench to eat in silence, and then bought a deck of playing cards and a package of emery boards from the newsstand. Her nails were ragged, and she'd have plenty of time for Solitaire at her destination. Down in the baggage claim, a dark-suited man held a sign with Amelia's maiden name on it. She'd cast off Henry's name, of course, which felt a bit like pulling a rotten tooth: the loss of something precious, a part of her whose absence still ached, but which could not be allowed to fester. She followed her escort to his SUV, whose trunk seemed far too large for her paltry luggage. Once she was buckled in, the man made a tentative attempt at conversation. "How was your flight, ma'am?" "Fine," Amelia replied. "Uneventful." She'd mostly slept, aside from the infrequent moments when someone had given her cranberry juice or crackers. "I suppose," she said after a moment of silence, "that I ought to thank you and your government. For the hospitality." "We're grateful to be able to offer it, ma'am. We've arranged a house for you and a stipend for living expenses. You're free to spend your time as you see fit, but there's an office in your new neighborhood who would be willing to take you on as a typist and clerk, if you'd like the work. English-language, of course. We left the information in your new home." "Thank you." Of course they'd arrange something innocuous to occupy her, and in truth, the thought wasn't unpleasant. She'd dreamed of that kind of job as a girl, something enough to support a glamorous city life, but now it was the offer of routine that comforted her. Nobody dreamed of being a doddering grey-haired file clerk, on a path leading from mediocrity to oblivion, but she knew now that there were much worse paths to follow. The conversation lapsed. Amelia rode in silence, staring out the window at a landscape of freshly-built exurban sprawl, as if the airport had never ended. If this city had a character, she'd have to find it for herself, if she cared to. For now, a place like any other would suffice. *** The house where she was dropped off was a single-floor bungalow, tucked into an odd-sized lot in a housing development so new, there were no trees larger than trellis-reinforced saplings. Her marital home had been much the same, save for a tiny second-floor bedroom, a compromise for if children came before they had the money to move. Children had never come (and what a blessing that seemed now), and they'd never felt the need to move, especially with Henry gone so often. The places he'd carved out for himself there, and the things he'd brought in... but this wasn't that house, Amelia reminded herself. That house was a crater, and Henry was dead, all his ugly dreams burnt to ash along with his body. This new house was hers and hers alone. The house was furnished comfortably enough. The floral-patterned living-room suite would have looked antique even when Amelia was young, and several porcelain animal statues graced the mantelpiece, over which an elaborately-framed oil painting of a farm scene hung. Some government decorator had clearly been hired to make this look like an old lady's house, and they'd done well. Amelia thanked them for the hardwood dining suite, dignified and functional, as she sat down and opened up the pack of cards. There was nothing like the ritual of Solitaire with a new deck, shuffling and dealing crisp plasticized cards, to give herself a moment to think. This home was as soulless as the airport, and there wasn't much she could do to change that. She'd brought a few books with her for the bookshelves, only one photograph (her mother and her from a childhood beach vacation, so long ago she needed to read the inscription to remember the year), and no other keepsakes. Nothing from her old life had really been hers; Henry had bought everything, touched everything, and tainted it all. She'd left it all behind in that stinking ruin he'd made of their city. In time, she hoped to forget his face. There was a new life here, a smooth grey life, for however many years she had left. She'd buy a file clerk's wardrobe, work diligently, and not make conversation. She'd learn the language, then venture into the city proper, learn the greetings and the cuisine. In time, she might aspire to be a model expatriate, the sort who makes stumbling but polite conversation at the supermarket, a soft and harmless displaced person patronized by the locals. In ten years, if fate allows, maybe she'd sit in a downtown cafe and love this city like she loved the old one. For now, it would be best to let herself fade away and be forgotten. Amelia gave herself five passages through the deck before she declared the Solitaire game lost -- flagrant cheating, as Henry would have reminded her if he'd been watching, but who was there to argue now? Still, it was well beyond time to get on with it. She let herself consciously acknowledge the manila envelope in the center of the dining table, next to a vase of silk flowers. The contents of that envelope, first. Then surveying the bedroom and unpacking, but first, the envelope. She heard the sound of a car outside, but disregarded it; it was past time she learned to live with background noise again. It was only when the car stopped that she looked up, tensed, and waited. There were footsteps, heavy and conspicuous, on her gravel drive. There was a knock at the door.
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May 23, 2022 06:14
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Time to wrap tape around my knuckles and nod sagely. (Someone judge, low word count plz)
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Jun 3, 2022 22:38
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Chili posted:Antivehicular and derp. Stop fighting, it's gross. Anti/Derp cheatbrawl, go: Fake It To Make It 383 words Summoning a demon with its true name is more a suggestion than a rule. Gareth stumbles on that fact when a missed syllable on one of his first attempts produces a confused but competent imp, and he spends the next few years of study chasing down references in the literature. There are fewer than he expects, but what he can find is clear: complete names are better, but the magic can make fragments work, sometimes less than half. When research fails, audacity can win the day. Research fails Gareth after five syllables of the true name of the Lord of Bloody Spires. Audacity will have to do. When Gareth intones the fragments of name he has, plus the hissing drone that serves to fill the gaps, the shape that materializes looks correct enough at first: a serpentine body, dozens of wings, a head festooned with horns and crowns. It comes into focus, but the details just don't fill in, until Gareth realizes there won't be any coming. The wings and horns are smooth, flat triangles; the crowned head's face is two glowing dots and a slit for a mouth. It's a rough sketch of the Lord, nothing more, and it stares at him with deadly intent. "Give me purpose," says the pseudo-demon. Gareth hasn't summoned anything, he realizes. He's created something, cheated the universe into coughing up an approximation. He can't send it back to Hell; it doesn't know the way. The bindings are careful and thorough, and they shackle him as tightly to the demon as it's shackled to him. It must serve him, and he must accepts its terms, but what purpose can a charlatan offer a half-made thing? "I seek wisdom," says Gareth. "Knowledge of the Bloody Spires, the Distant Peaks -- the borderlands between life and death." "My..." The demon is silent -- never before has Gareth seen a demon, even an approximation of one, at a loss for words. "My template would know these things. I do not. If you would have your wisdom, we must find it together." It seizes Gareth, very gently, in its smooth translucent claws. Its half-real wings flicker when it flies. Gareth forces himself to keep his eyes open; it's time to see just how far his audacity is going to take him.
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Jun 10, 2022 12:10
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The Cut of Your Jib posted:Week 514 sign-ups technically closed, but since this week has a low amount of entries, any stragglers who want to sign up late can have another 24 hours to commit but must riff off this ad: I will straggle in with the Coated Tongue ad (Others can too, I'm cool with it)
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Jun 11, 2022 05:51
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1126 words Prompt:  "Open your mouth," says the Doctor, and Magpie does. It's the same routine every morning in the Supervised Living dormitory: the examination upon waking, with the metal scraper along the tongue that Magpie can barely feel anymore, and then the lecture. The white scum coating Magpie's tongue is thicker some days than others, but it's always there. "The toxins are still present," the Doctor says, in the slightly flatter tone that indicates disapproval. "I will transmit your dietary plan to the cafeteria. Do not engage in unauthorized dietary activity, or your continued residence in the Wellness Center may be re-evaluated for noncompliance." "I understand," says Magpie, to make the lecture stop. It's not a lie, really; she does understand, but understanding isn't the same thing as compliance, even on the days that she tries. She knows she should be grateful to be here. She sleeps better at the Wellness Center than she ever has, and dreams less. She's less hungry, more energetic, very rarely in pain -- and less and less herself with every day. Magpie tells herself that she's building a new self here, but it feels like a hollow framework she doesn't know how to fill in, and all the Doctor ever tells her is comply. As the Doctor wheels out of her room, its LED gaze already on the next door down, Magpie washes and dresses for a new day. She's got a work shift scheduled, at least. Sweat purges toxins. Breakfast is yeast biscuits and yogurt; today's results must have been bad. Magpie crumbles her first biscuit into the yogurt, because two things that taste like nothing can at least taste like a different nothing when combined, and tries her best not to think about all the lives she's sending into her gut to die for her. Do toxins need sacrifices? Half of everything the Wellness Center serves is probiotic -- yeast, yogurt, the chewy candy that doesn't quite taste like fruit -- and the rest is plain macronutrients, fuel to keep her going while the medicine does its work. It's good for her. It's filling. She eats, and feels nothing, and thinks of nothing. Her work shift is eight hours doing daily maintenance in the air-scrubbing tower. It's Magpie's favorite rotation of the week: climbing the racks and sliding out the grime-caked filters, like climbing trees and picking fruit, back in the Forest. The old man they've got catching for her is white-haired, but his hands are sharp, and he catches every filter she drops and slots them into the disposal bin neat as anything. It's a better shift than she's had in a while, interrupted only by breaks for water and the green yogurt smoothie she's been prescribed for lunch, which tastes slightly like grass and thus a bit better than nothing. Magpie tells herself that all her days can be like this, if she complies. Nobody in the Forest ever lived to get old, but there are old people everywhere in the Wellness Center, walking and talking and working. Doesn't she want to get old like that? Magpie can't answer that. Instead, after work, she walks to the gardens, and the gate still lets her in. One day, she expects, the Doctor will restrict her keycard access as part of her daily prescription. That'll be the beginning of the end -- the path to healing or to the Residency Assessment Committee -- but it's not today. Today, the gardens are open for her, and she can forage. The Wellness Center's gardens are beautiful, and always in bloom, but flowering plants are often fruiting plants too. After years in Supervised Living, Magpie knows just what to harvest when, and now it's rose hip season. The pink rosebushes at the northeast corner go to seed the quickest, and it's the quietest corner of the gardens, farthest from the benches and fountain; Magpie walks nonchalantly along the paths for as long as she can, then glances behind her and steps out onto the grass. There's a place behind the rosebushes just big enough for her, if she crouches. The rose hips are bright red and ripe. Magpie strips the hairs from each hip with practiced skill, then stuffs them in her mouth and tries her best to chew slowly, to savor. The taste is tart and floral, filling her mouth and nose, and if she closes her eyes she can imagine she's back in the Forest, scavenging for Mother, eating as much as she dares before scampering home. She can make each hip last for three minutes, if she tries. Five hips is fifteen minutes, about as long as she figures she be out of sight. When the last rose hip is just lingering flavor in her mouth, she stands and stretches, as if she might have just taken a nap. Magpie knows what she's doing. She watched the films carefully when she arrived at the Wellness Center, and she passed the entrance exam with a perfect score, which has only ever been fodder for a Doctor's lecture. She ought to know better, and she does know better, but knowing doesn't change the fact that foraging for berries is the only thing that makes her feel alive. Every taste is more toxins from the soiled earth, more poison in her gut, more residue on her tongue -- but it's also more flavor, more memory, more life. More of herself. It's killing her slowly, but maybe she can accept not getting old if it means remembering what she was. Magpie knows where this ends. It ends in willpower, where she walks away from the gardens and gets well at last, where she finally complies -- or it ends in the Residency Assessment Committee, the scowling faces of human doctors, and Living Transitions. If she's lucky, they might send her to Group Semi-Supervised, with fewer rations and less access but still indoor shelter and filtered air. She might find a sponsor there, or a friend. If she's less lucky... De-Residence Transition, with a satchel of clothes and yeast biscuits on her back. A return to the outside world, with its smoggy skies, tainted water, and poisoned fruit hanging from every tree. A short life ahead, and no excuse but what? Freedom? Happiness? What did any of that mean? A smart person, or a brave one, would make the decision for freedom or for life and stick with it. Magpie has never thought of herself as smart, or brave, or even honest. This will end someday, one way or the other, but she has no nerve to make a decision, but one day the Doctors, or the Committee, or her own body will make it for her. In the meantime, yeast biscuits keep her alive, and rose hips let her dream.
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Jun 13, 2022 04:58
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The title for this piece is Self-Poisoning, by the way, because I am a fool and a rube who somehow cut off my title when I went to frantically post carry on
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Jun 13, 2022 05:00
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THUNDERDOME DXV: Fun-Sized Thunderdome 2: Blood in a Juice Box Back in November 2018, I ran a micro-flash week as a weird counterpart to NaNoWriMo. This week, I'm running a micro-flash week for one simple reason: we all need to bleed. The rules for this week are as follows: 1. Your maximum word count for the week is 400 words. You can toxx to increase that to 500. 2. Everyone who signs up can submit up to three stories. These stories must not be connected in any way (i.e. no writing a regular-length TD entry and posting it in three chunks). Flash rules will be available by request, up to three per person. They will probably just be whatever song lyric I have in my head at the moment. No erotica, fanfiction, political screeds, or Google Docs/archive-breaking formatting. Otherwise, go nuts. Word Count: 400 x3 (500 x3 with toxx) Sign-Ups Close: 11:59 PM Pacific time, Friday, June 17th Submissions Close: 11:59 PM Pacific time, Sunday, June 19th Judges: Antivehicular ?? ??? Writers: 1. rohan  2. Chernobyl Princess 3. Carl Killer Miller 4. Thranguy 5. derp 6. Albatrossy_Rodent 7. kurona_bright 8. Copernic 9. Bad Seafood 10. Chili 11. BeefSupreme 12. Tyrannosaurus 13. Sitting Here 14. The Cut of Your Jib 15. MockingQuantum 16. Gorka 17. Yoruichi 18. hard counter
Antivehicular fucked around with this message at 23:31 on Jun 19, 2022 |
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Jun 13, 2022 09:22
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Chernobyl Princess posted:In! He thinks he'll be all right, but he doesn't know for sure Like every other unindicted co-conspirator Thranguy posted:In, three flashes. (Bftbg) Departure, Godspeed, bless his heart, Good Lord What a fuckup, what a fighter In my dreams, it seems That my eyes are always shooting laser beams Just because you don't believe it doesn't mean I didn't mean it derp posted:in, and i'd like to request three animals/plants/insects because i like to write about nature Wilson's storm petrel Cattleya orchids Citrus flatid planthopper kurona_bright posted:In, two flashes Throughout this entire ugly outing I've been mumbling the convex of what I should be shouting Now and then I stumble on What I've misplaced but never lost BeefSupreme posted:in Wearing long sleeves to hide the mark of Cain Colour my life with the chaos of trouble 'Cause anything's better than posh isolation The Cut of Your Jib posted:in, one lyrical prompt pls The refrigerators house the frogs The conduit is the hollow log
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Jun 15, 2022 22:12
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MockingQuantum posted:In, two flashes plz It never hurts to give thanks to the navigator Even when he's spitting out random numbers Through the vines and the street Slants the light and the heat As narrow as the archer’s window grows
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Jun 16, 2022 05:41
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Oh, hey, signups are closed
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Jun 18, 2022 11:12
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Submissions are closed!
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Jun 20, 2022 09:42
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Thunderdome Week 515: JUDGMENT In general, I enjoyed judging this week! I thought it was, overall, a well-executed week, without a whole lot of a low end. I believe my cojudge may have disagreed, but so it goes. We did, however, agree on the WINNER: Bad Seafood's "Puzzle Night," which is nice and cozy until you realize you're bleeding everywhere, all in 400 words. HMs are based largely on my own fiat: Sitting Here's garlic soup story, Tyrannosaurus's "Great Apes," and Bad Seafood's "Gratitude" also really used their word count well. This was a good Doof week. Go read his stuff. The single DM is MockingQuantum's "Mist," which both judges agreed didn't feel complete. Your LOSS, which is pretty much purely my fiat, is Gorka's "Magic research." This isn't a terrible piece -- this week didn't really have any stinkers -- but it was the least satisfying for me on the whole. Crits will be up shortly. Doof, it's your throne.
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Jun 22, 2022 01:34
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TD 515 CRITS Like I said in the judge post, this was a pretty solid week! As usual with small-word-count weeks, the weaker pieces either felt like they didn't have enough space for their story or tried to cram too much exposition in. Seriously, though, this was a tight field, and I didn't particularly dislike even the loser and DM. Chili, "Corporate Climbing" Somehow I suspect this will not be the last Boss Baby story to hit the thread. New archive tag when? All that aside: I sort of want to know more about this protagonist. I'm getting a depression vibe here, someone who doesn't accurately recognize how the world views him, and it'd be nice to see him react more to actually getting the job (and maybe having to actually try?) This is an interesting dude, and I'd like to see him in a longer-form piece; I'm not sure the length is working for you here. It works for the joke, but there's more here than the joke. Copernic, "Straight Shooting" This is a weird little piece, and I'm trying to figure out if I think it really works. The prose is disjointed, which works to create a sense of unreality that works for the plot, but at times is a little wonky to read. (Having the first sentence all dialogue reads very oddly.) I'm also not sure why Will is here -- not every detail needs a payoff in short fiction, but in microflash, it probably does. Tyrannosaurus, "Breaking News: Industrial Giant Caterpillar To Relocate From Illinois to Texas" This is a piece that was clearly written for its title, but I think the execution is very solid. I appreciate the fact, in particular, that this is a <i>unionized</i> industrial giant caterpillar, and that the people who work on it are making a rational decision, which might be the lesser evil even as the caterpillar lays waste to the highway. This one has good bite without feeling trite or mean-spirited, and it feels realistic instead of polemic, despite being about... you know... a giant caterpillar. Albatrossy_Rodent, "Combination" This is light and insubstantial, and I'm guessing that's intentional, but y'know, sometimes a micro-week can support some jokes. I laughed. I'm not sure I have anything more to say about it? It's light, it's funny, it's only going to work for a very specific subset of people, and that's fine. BELATED CRIT EDIT: I described this story to my fiance a few hours after reading it, and not only were they delighted, I liked it more in the explaining! This might be high on my list now. It's just really fun. derp, "bad soil" In my limited experience with orchid cultivation, this piece is chillingly accurate. It's a nice short piece for setting its mood and getting out, and I think it's successful in that: the ultimately self-destructive frustration of failure for no clear reason, as the rationales get more desperate and unlikely, adapts well to the length. Thranguy, "Eye Contact" This is pretty good! I get that you're doing a comic-book riff here, but I'm not sure the Paragon logo stuff entirely jibes with the rest of the story, where the point is more the Paragon saving people as a human act. It's a decent riff, though, on what laser eyes would mean and the potential hazards of using them. MockingQuantum, "Mist" This honestly feels like it needed to be in a larger story -- I'm just not sure the word count gives this enough room, and it feels like you're just really establishing the concept more than writing a full piece. I'd love to read a full story about the narrator being thrust into Willis's position, having to learn the art of astronavigation on the fly just to survive, but this isn't quite satisfying on its own. Sitting Here, "Daily Special: Roasted Garlic Soup (V)" This is a nice little meditation on the risks and calculus of helping others. I'm particularly fond of the urban nature imagery here; I can absolutely picture the tree sprouting from its little patch of soil, defiantly spreading seed pods everywhere, and the little puddle it captures underneath it. This strikes me as a strong piece for the week in that it knows its scope and achieves it, even if that scope is limited. Chernobyl Princess, "SZC-2077219-NG015" I like the shell of this, but I think it suffers a bit from the stakes not being completely clear. Are these robot kids actually at risk of being decommissioned, or is this basically just a caper? I guess being teens means the stakes may not be totally clear to them either, but things got a bit muddied for me by my worry that they were actually in danger. This might be another one that isn't a great fit for the word count and could be expanded. Thranguy, "Freefall" I see what you did there with the motorcycle and the hang glider, even if I feel slightly called out. For me, at least, this is competently written but falls flat. I think this is a somewhat over-ambitious action scene for the word count, and we don't have enough time to really get a feel for the character or feel like they're making choices or taking risks. It all feels kind of easy, which isn't a good thing. Yoruichi, "Rats Rats Rats" I know you've described this in Discord as just a bit of nonsense, but it kind of works, in its off-kilter way? Rats are simultaneously delightful and horrible, and this is definitely a story about that! (I thought about going into a long explanation here of the circumstances of rats eating their babies, in the grand spirit of TD Crits Teach You About Animals, but, y'know, nah.) Carl Killer Miller, "A Body as Abnormal as the Mind" I was really enjoying this at the start -- I think there's a good character voice here and some excellent sensory description, particularly the "weak, chewy snap" as a description of opening the cap of a plastic bottle -- but it lost me at the end. Is the implication that, while the narrator assumes Jason murdered Benjamin, that Benjamin may have murdered Jason instead? Or that the narrator is completely off-base about this person he knows through AA and thinks might be a murderer? Or that Benjamin's body is hidden somewhere? (References to a carcass in a murder mystery are always going to feel loaded, IMHO.) I'm just not sure what this piece is supposed to leave me with Carl Killer Miller, "The Earth Is Thick With Noise" Oh boy, heatstroke delirium! This took me a couple of reads, especially to realize the breaks in continuity are deliberate, but I think I see where this is going. The language is great, and the plot being pretty thin gruel is forgivable at the length. I wish there was a little bit more here, but what's here is fine. Carl Killer Miller, "Hot Pork in Motion" Is this now the second story you've written for TD about dosing people with PCP as an act of revenge? This may be the most successful of these pieces as a complete story. We've got characters who are sketched out through this single conversation, and a very realistic vibe of the "service worker being friendly to a slightly weirded-out regular," with the extra wrinkle of... well, the service worker being about to harm a lot of people and trying to give a favorite regular a heads-up. The dry voice of the regular, who is clearly in completely over their head, works well for this. Bad Seafood, "Puzzle Night" drat, this one cuts like a scalpel. This is a very careful use of economy in both form and detail, saying just enough that the truth of the situation hits the reader on their own. (The tea bags hit hard, man.) Not a lot to say about this -- it's absolutely efficient, tuned, and ruthless. Nice stuff. Chernobyl Princess, "Shiny Things" Aww, this one is just sweet. This is another one that aims conservatively but hits its target, I think: just a nice childhood/parenthood moment that feels nostalgic and well-observed. rohan, "the dumplings weren't even hot after all that" This is another one that's light, breezy, and adequately satisfying. (I particularly cringed at Lloyd, whom I'm guessing is the galaxy's champion of not taking any drat hints.) I think you would want to beef up some of the character stuff if you were planning on making this longer, but as stands, it's just fine. Bad Seafood, "Gratitude" Another simple, effective piece. (This seems to be a theme this week, pleasantly enough.) The use of omniscient voice is a good choice here, since I think conveying the protagonist entirely through her actions is a good way to keep things efficient without losing much, and her actions tell us what we need to know about her. This is good stuff. Tyrannosaurus, "Great Apes" Oh, this is ominous and does a good job at setting its tone immediately and conveying personality through dialogue. "Fuckstick" is, let's say, a challenging word to deploy appropriately, but this is a good usage. The dialogue is nicely paced in terms of escalating the emotion and stakes, taking our protagonist appropriately from concern to scorn, and Hagen from hostility to murderousness. hard counter, "Based On a True Story" I 100% believe this is based on a real adolescent experience, because this is painfully accurate adolescent nonsense thinking, starting from the bit about forgetting to put down the cases while you're waiting in a parking lot. It's unembellished, but I think that's probably for the best, because this is really one of those dumb unglamorous situations that doesn't require or benefit from a lot of beauty in the prose. The italicization choices are a bit odd. Why "Central Station," in particular? The Cut of Your Jib, "Kenopsia" I suspect this might be my fault because of the relatively concrete flash rule, but while I see what you're doing here, I think the animal-voice usage hinders this piece from being emotionally affecting in the way it ought to be. Writing animal-voice descriptions of humans and human things is immensely difficult to do properly, and I think this errs on the side of being too vague, pretty but not really punchy. I was also going to rant some about the use of "Anuran" to name a frog, but that was redeemed by the last line, which I think is implying it's a group name as much as an individual's? The last line works, in my opinion, although I'm not sure the piece does as a whole. The Cut of Your Jib, "Anemoia" The second story from the same flash rule? Huh. Okay. Let's see where this goes. Oh, it's an Awkward Office Guy story, which I guess fits with the Grandaddy flash rule. This is kind of endearing, in that painfully awkward way where Chris is clearly trying to be considerate but also clearly living entirely in his own head, and I'm mostly glad his coworkers seem to be throwing him a bone towards the end. The Cut of Your Jib, "Paramnesia" This is a nice little meander that really doesn't quite go anywhere. I was waiting for some uniting element about the relationship, some kind of overarching theme, but I guess it's just sort of unfocused memories of spending time with their kid at the fair? It's nice, and well-written, but it doesn't quite hit for me. Gorka, "Magic research" I love the final visual here -- always hard to go wrong with hummingbirds -- but most of this story feels like I'm just being told what it is. If this had room to breathe, for the characters to actually be characters and not just declare the conflict of the story at each other, I think this could be nice, but as it is, it feels like a very first exploratory draft of a story. Thranguy, "Forever" This feels a little bit rougher and sketchier than the other two you submitted this week, sort of gesturing at a general sad-immortality plot; I like the implications of the last line, of flirting with the possibility of your own death but still not being ready for it, but I wish this was otherwise a little bit less about the big picture and more about these characters in particular. I don't have any kind of feel for them besides generic sad (horny) immortals. kurona_bright, "Stars" This one's a bit tricky for me. My gut reaction is that this is the story before the story, and that the real story here is in Ellie and her mother actually having that conversation, but on the other hand, I think the revelation that one can't keep family relationships on autopilot is kind of a story of its own? I feel like this is a little bit kneecapped by the length, once again, and the desire to explain the whole scenario instead of just starting (say) in medias res, with Ellie staring at the campfire while waiting for her mom to return, figuring out what she wants from there. I think a focus down on Ellie's feelings would help it. Bad Seafood, "Course Correction" This is kind of a rough read, although the ending helps. I think using just "Them" for the alleged inhumans is a deft choice, since it could apply so broadly; my mind definitely jumped to "women," but there are any number of outgroups that our protagonist's unpleasant relatives could be talking about here. Good imagery in response to the dead old man (grandfather?), which does a lot to paint him as a repulsive/persuasive figure. BeefSupreme, "Benevolence" I hate to end the week with the same crit I've used on a bunch of other stories, but this one feels slightly abrupt, like it needed more time. I think there's a decent balance of telling to showing here, given your word count restrictions, but I wish Kalen had been given the chance to make a real decision at the end (or that the old man grabbing him had explicitly been to prevent him from having to, instead of just getting him through a barricade? Maybe that was the intent, but it wasn't clear to me). I think you could probably nail this with like a couple hundred more words and a fleshed-out ending.
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Jun 22, 2022 01:35
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In.
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Jul 13, 2022 22:59
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Circular Firing Squad 988 words The night after Naevia's wake, once the great wave of love and grief had crested and broken and drained into the gutters, her five best friends gathered to settle the question of justice. The nascent spirit of their revolution floated in the stuffy air above them: invisible, a knife-slender shape that cut its way through the air in restless loops, like a space where an eel might be. It knew the truth, but the truth was only a footnote. "It had to be one of us," said Lucius: tall and lean, his beard groomed to the highest precision his cheap straight razor could achieve. The spirit remembered Naevia's teasing of him for that beard, for the vanity that strained against his poverty. The gun in his hand was worth more than any of their lives, though: a gleaming military piece, no doubt stolen from some rich uncle's unlocked display case. Lucius's grip was steady and his gaze unyielding. "Only we knew about her. Which one of you?" The first to speak was Cornelia, clad in the green-checked sundress she wore to every meeting, as if it were camouflage. "Her address was public knowledge. We didn't have time to get the safe house prepared before the leak. What were we supposed to do?" Behind her, dark-haired and servile Decimus nodded and rested a hand on Cornelia's shoulder. "There just wasn't enough time," said Decimus. "Not enough time to stop the cops." The whole affair had been five days: five days from when Naevia's manifesto had gone viral, and the nascent revolution inside her had quickened into quasi-life, and when Naevia had lain dead at the foot of a dingy apartment stairwell and the spirit had departed with her last breath. For cautious Cornelia and dull Decimus, it must have been a dizzying rise, and now it would be a short sharp fall. "And they were pretty quick, huh? Quick like a loving snitch. You two --" Lucian wheeled on the silent pair in the corner, Livia and Fabian, siblings two years apart but close as twins. "A little favor to your mother at the Defense Bureau, huh?" The siblings tensed as one, and the spirit could see the spark of fresh anger ignite in them, searing and brutal. Their hatred of their mother was a twisted skein nestled deep in their hearts, sending black threads into everything they felt, every connection they forged. All five of them were entangled with other: threads of resentment, thin glittering wires of lust, braided cords of loyalty ready to snap. The tapestry of their fellowship would not survive the night, but would it fray, or would it be cut? "gently caress our mother," howled Fabian, to the room and to the world as much as to Lucius. "I loved Naevia. We all did. You know, that, Lucius, unless you're the one who didn't. The one who brought a loving gun --" But now Cornelia had drawn hers too, a chunky zip-gun gleaming with solder lines, pointed at Lucius's head. Before she could tell him to drop it and let them all walk out alive, Lucius's hands made the choice for him: two shots into Cornelia's chest, a neat firing-range grouping, and one into Decimus as he tried to pull her out of the way. They fell together, Decimus sprawled over her as if there was something left to save. Lucius froze, conscious mind catching up to instinct, and Fabian tackled him to the ground. Lucius's gun went flying, and the pair thrashed and kicked and slapped, the ugly fighting of two men who hadn't brawled since childhood. Lucius took the upper hand, slamming Fabian's head into the wall with hateful force, once, twice, thrice -- until Fabian's fumbling hand at last found his boot knife, and planted it deep into Lucius's gut. Another slam, a twist of the blade, and both men lay together, still. The only sound in the room was Livia's sobbing. "Naevia," she mumbled. "Naevia, I'm sorry. I can't do this." Livia stepped over the bodies of her brother and their friend and picked up Lucius's gun. There was no hesitation as she placed the barrel against the underside of her jaw and fired. The spirit of the revolution, placid as ever, maintained its vigil. It thought, almost in passing, of the truth: that Naevia had died of a few too many drinks, wearing heels a touch too high, and trusting a slick ill-maintained stair railing. The police and the Defense Bureau knew nothing about the manifesto, about Naevia, or about the cell that had just burnt itself out. They would, soon enough. This had all only begun. Now there was the question of a host. Cornelia and Livia had been dead before their bodies had hit the ground. Fabian had lingered longer, but the head trauma had taken its toll, and Lucius wasn't far behind; the spirit could see him life ebbing away as the gut wound bled and the sepsis took hold. Decimus, though, was alive: gripped in pain, close to blacking out, but alive. He would live long enough for the ambulance, surely, and the spirit would take care of the rest. Decimus was a fool, but the spirit of the revolution needed fools. Its only goal in life was to live to grow old, fat, and obsolete. A host like Decimus -- now the sole survivor of senseless political violence, true believer in a new way, a fine young man who could nod and smile and recruit his own army -- would carry it there, into a high office, into a future with a lavish state funeral and the oblivion of becoming status quo. The spirit descended, slipping gently into its new host's open mouth, down his throat and into his chest, where it curled itself around the frayed threads of love and hope and grief. It could hear the sirens in the distance. The revolution would soon begin.
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Jul 18, 2022 07:55
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CORN BRAWL CORN BRAWL CORN BRAWL The Roundup 439 words It's late spring at the co-op, a bright warm spring, and Old Man Aaron has his gene-scanner ready to go. The top indicator light's blinking amber, and Yitzhak steps off of the farmhouse porch to take a closer look. "Thing booting up okay?" "Taking its time about the firmware," says Aaron. "At least it's still pulling updates, old as it is. Got to be sure when I do the walk. Can't let any of the Roundup slip through." Yitzhak's heard the story every season he's come out to the co-op: how Aaron's for-profit monocrop operation had been downwind from a Monsanto field without a genomic license, and how cross-pollination and the lawsuits tore it all down. He's never seen a lick of proof of it, unless the old man's vigil counts: days at the beginning of a growing season spent doing nothing but gene-scanning the seedlings and culling anything with even a trace of proprietary DNA. It could be the act of a guilty seed pirate, but after the point of ruin, does guilt or innocence matter? Yitzhak's walked the rows with the old man before. There are fewer culls every year, and it's hard not to just sit him down and explain how ag law works these days. How all the strong stuff's locked in the domes, where no pollen enters or leaves; how any strain they find out here's going to be so obsolete that none of the corps would bother suing even if they knew. How the corps don't sue co-ops anyway, for the same reason you wouldn't arrest a housefly for trespassing. How little they'll find, and how little it means. It's not worth the fight, though -- never has been, never will be. The corn needs thinning anyway, and the co-op thrums on without some kind of perfect efficiency. They can spare a few days of an old man's labor, and Yitzhak's too, for that matter. If they cared so much about his pulling his weight, they wouldn't let him keep coming back, season after season, to his escape from the city. "I'll help you out," says Yitzhak. "Do the thinning if you do the scanning. Many hands make light the work." "Right you are, boy," replies Old Man Aaron with a grin. "Think this might be a good season. Our last real good one at the old place had weather like this when we planted. Best corn harvest I ever saw..." They walk together down the rows of new corn, the gene-scanner's light solid and green. Maybe this is the year without Roundup. Maybe this is the year Old Man Aaron earns his rest.
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Jul 26, 2022 12:04
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GANG BRAWL ROUND 2 Your prompt is "infinitely late at night" 500 words, due in 12 hours (midnight GMT / 5 PM Pacific)
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Jul 26, 2022 13:11
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GANG BRAWL ROUND 2 RESULTS I hate to make this feel less like a gang brawl and more like a tag-team match, but in another field of solid stuff, it was Weltlich's entry that really sang to me. The love of Fourthmeal, I guess. Welt, all yours for Round 3!
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Jul 27, 2022 01:05
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In!
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Jul 28, 2022 01:20
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