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I'm in as well!
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Feb 4, 2022 01:10
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| # ¿ May 16, 2024 07:42 |
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Earning a Salarium in the Dusty Plains of the Atlantic Ocean 2004 words I was about to die. Worse, as John preached about the power of the Ford F-150 truck, I realized we were idiots. It wasn’t John’s fault—the preaching, the about to die part was most definitely his—even my corporate regulator was firing on overdrive. As my heart beat faster, facts about Cup Noodles invaded my thoughts and calmed me down. Suddenly, being surrounded by falling meteors wasn’t such a bad thing. In a way, it really helped push profits. The truck continued to drive through the dusty plains of the Atlantic Ocean, the mining equipment in the back groaning every time we hit a bump. An ominous boom behind us portended our death. Inside, I worried. Not for my life, but for our daughter’s, Betty. She was safely sleeping underground, while we were top-side, searching for salt-asteroids. Betty wasn’t an idiot, she was bright as a star! At five, she could recite the names of the long-gone oceans. She had a future ahead of her — or well, she did as long as we could cover the price for her schooling. The meteors that slammed all around us turned into soothing, giant cup noodle containers. I pointed at one of them, which was headed straight at us. Instead of swearing, my regulator hummed to life, and I screamed, “CUP NOODLES LEFT!” “The V-8 Engine of the Ford F-150 truck cannot be compared!” John said as he swerved, narrowly avoiding a giant cup noodle container that would have turned us into a crater. It crashed into the ground. My regulator hummed to life and I saw shrimp-flavoured dust cover our windows, now with less MSG. I didn’t want to die. We weren’t one of those anti-corp Virtuosos: Artists who spend their whole life living to die, and dying to say one free word. Imagine that, giving away something for free! Not us. We were good corporate miners, just trying to provide for our daughter. But we were idiots. Only desperate idiots would have gone top-side during the middle of a meteor storm. Only daring idiots would have nabbed a meteor and hoisted it in their truck. And only soon-to-be-rich idiots could haul it back to the underground in the middle of a meteor storm without dying. I turned around and stared at our loot. In the bed of our truck, faintly glowing with a blue sheen, was the largest salt-asteroid I had seen. All we had to do was survive long enough to sell it. Then we could get Betty into a school. She could get an education and maybe even an unpaid internship! She could drink water, and not that green-colored swill they give us miners. Actual clear water! But, I shouldn’t have turned around. I had almost forgotten why we were soon-to-be-dead idiots. I felt that familiar electrical hum from my regulator as my heart beat faster. Soothing ads for Cup Noodles floated across my vision, and the smooth cultural rhythms of Takeshi Ida, our CEO, purged the evils of this world from my mind. Problem was, the thing that was going to kill us wasn’t from this world. The creature jumped into the sky, meteors slamming against its malnourished, outstretched wings, like small pellets melting through leather. Feathers sloughed off its molting body and the gigantic space corvid landed with a thunderous stomp. It raised its beak to the heavens and cawed. Even as meteors crash landed around us, I heard its cry of vengeance. Then, the space corvid directed its singular ire at us. “Did you know that Cup No—“ I took a deep breath, and the regulator let me speak my own thoughts. “Why did you poke the giant crow?” I asked John nicely. John turned towards me, another almost-fatal mistake as we drove straight into a smoldering hot crater. The truck’s shocks absorbed most of the impact, but we went into an uncontrolled skid. I gasped as our salt asteroid rolled to the right, bumped into one of our mounted drills, and bounced up into the air. It landed, barely, back into the bed of the truck. John, struggling for a moment with his regulator, said, “You poked it too.” That part was true. We had heard about the space corvids. It’s why you wait until after the storms to gather salt asteroids. We had thought them to be superstitious legends. But, in my defense, John poked it first. When one sees a giant crow crash from space, corporate regulator or not, one’s curiosity is raised. A quick look in the rear-view mirror confirmed the crow was gaining on us. It hobbled as it ran, and every few steps it leaped into the air and spread its molting wings. Large holes marred the wing’s membrane, and skin sloughed off of its wings as it tried to fly. I imagined it flying across the cosmos, up until it got caught up in a meteor storm and crash landed on our barren, dusty, planet. The corvid leaped into the air, trying to fly. It tried to escape this world, but either it was too weak, or earth’s gravity too strong. It fell and landed hard on the dusty plains, fury in its eyes. I would be pissed too if my intergalactic road-trip ended in a poo poo-hole like earth. The ground quaked as it hobbled towards us. It wasn’t its size that made me think of death; it was the desperation in its eyes. My corporate regulator fired off as I looked down its maw. Maybe it thought we were a delicious cup of noodles. As the truck bumped over the gravel and dust, I could see the flag perched on top of a sand dune, our finishing line in this deadly race. John was focused on driving, swatting away ads his regulator was throwing at him, so I grabbed the remote. I pushed a button. The sand dune rumbled. Where once a sand dune stood, a small garage appeared. It’s open door, leading to the underground, promised safety. The truck came to a jerking stop. My seat belt slammed against my chest. My head narrowly missed slamming into the hard metal of the chassis. John wasn’t so lucky. His head slammed against the steering wheel with a mighty thwack, and he lay there motionless. “John!” I said in alarm. The poor sod could only handle a few thwacks to the head. It wasn’t his fault his regulator had been installed poorly. A quick check to see the rise and fall of his chest swayed my fears. Then I turned around to see why the truck stopped. Two beady, desperate eyes glared back at me over our meteor. The truck groaned as the crow’s beak bit down on the chassis. Its tongue, a pink piece of flesh threaded to resemble rope, lashed out. I yelped, and the helpful image of an old man holding cup noodles floated in front of my vision. Wet saliva washed over the windows as its tongue pressed against the glass. My regulator hummed to life as I heard the sound of glass breaking. I was going to die, and all I wanted was to eat some delicious cup noodles. Brand images flooded my mind and commercial tunes ran across my lips. The tip of the corvid’s beak punctured the top of the truck. I watched as its tongue wrapped around our salt meteor, and slowly dragged it towards its gullet. All of our efforts, for naught. Our daughter’s future was slowly being swallowed. I was going to die praising Cup Noodles. In the depths of my brain, far away from my regulator, a feeling flickered to life. Small embers of anger fed on a mother’s love, or perhaps desperation. I unbuckled my seat belt and kicked the window out. Helpless, I watched as the corvid swallowed the meteor. I leaped after it. I ignored the corvid’s hot, humid breath. I ignored the smell of rotting stars. By now, the corvid had half of the truck in its maw, but everything I had went into grabbing our salt meteor, our daughter’s future. The corvid’s mucus stung my hands, and I swore. At the last moment, my regulator replaced my words. “Cup noodles, now with 100% space salt!” I desperately clung to the meteor and pulled. My feet shot out, kicking the crow in its teeth, its tongue, but I might as well have kicked the dirt for all it cared. I fell, falling back into the truck. My hand slapped against one of our mounted mining drills, and I propped myself up against it. John woke up then. I could tell by the angry platitudes to the Ford F-150 that came from the cab. The crow took a step forward, the back half of the truck now fully engulfed in its throat. My regulator hadn’t stopped humming since I had leaped into the corvid’s mouth. I heard a high pitched electrical whine, then a jolt of pain split my skull. Takeshi Ida stopped speaking, Cup Noodle ads faded from my view, and I could see the nightmare I was in. Within the corvid’s esophagus, I saw rotting stars, remnants from planets long gone, and so many bones. I also saw our daughter’s future disappear into the corvid’s stomach. “Reverse!” I instructed John, almost choking on the putrid stench of the corvid’s breath. “Reverse!” The truck groaned to life, tires spinning against corvid flesh. I flicked the drill’s power button to on, and with my other hand aimed the drill straight dead center. The Ford F-150’s V-8 engine roared. We shot backwards; the drill ramming into flesh. Green ichor splattered onto me and pain soon followed as it sizzled upon my skin. I heard the motor struggle. I heard the pained screams of the corvid. Smoke emerged from the drill, but it kept spinning, kept cutting, kept hurting the beast. “gently caress you!” I screamed, middle fingers raised in the universal symbol for human defiance. My ears split as the corvid roared in pain. I felt it heave as our drill tore through sinew and muscle. We came out the other end. Green blood covered me, the truck, and our salt meteor. Behind us, the corvid lay dead. For a moment, there was just the reassuring sound of meteors crashing against the barren earth. Then, John emerged from the cab, his arms wide. I rushed towards him, jumped into his arms, and he said, “THE FORD F-150 HAS THE BEST MILES PER GALLON!” We laughed. We looked up for any wayward meteors, and then we both looked at the salt-meteor. Green ichor covered our loot. We rushed to the meteor and frantically tried to wipe it clean as the corvid’s blood dissolved the precious salt. One last act of revenge, as we watched our pay-day turn into a useless rock. All our efforts for naught. Poor Betty wouldn’t be going to school. No way could we afford it on a miners salary. My poor girl wouldn’t be getting the chance to climb that corporate ladder. Nobody wanted a meteor, there was more than enough rock underground. They just wanted the salt; the primary ingredient in Cup Noodles. “Ford F-150 this!” John yelled. Tears stung my eyes. I sniffled, ignored the smell of rotting corvid, and yelled along with him. I opened my mouth and screamed, “gently caress!” We both paused and stared at each other. I opened my mouth and quietly said, “gently caress.” No hum from my regulator. No sweet cultural rhythms about MSG bounced in my mind. John looked at me, half amazed, half in fear. A sly thought crossed my mind. Another way to afford the tuition for our daughter. “Isn’t that one of those free words those Virtuosos go on about? Like when they blow out their regulators, they scream ‘gently caress the Corps!’ before they die?” John nodded. “They are just over the hill.” I smiled. “We should go over there and charge ‘em for these words!”
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Feb 6, 2022 22:17
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Thunderdome gave me outstanding critiques, but they were podcast episodes. I get more out of an audio format than written format. Main factor though is I've been busy! Most of the time, the story I can pump out in a week isn’t for this audience. I remember my unsubtle pride-week story seemed to make the judges uncomfortable, but not in a bad way. Can we critique if we don’t judge or participate?
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Dec 24, 2022 00:38
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Ceighk posted:Chasing Cars Hopefully this is an accepted form of Critique. Google doc has some more in-depth comments. If you don't like the critique you can brawl me in a story involving clitorises and Cthulhu. Overall I enjoyed this, but didn’t want to read more, nor would I remember this piece. The middle is my jam, my fellow writer! We got things happening, we got mystical ladies in dresses up to no good. We got action and we got choices and consequences happening. Why I wouldn’t want to read more is the ending execution is rushed. JP suddenly makes this decision because he “knows he can trust this crazy lady that I hit with a car”. My suspension of disbelief shattered, and I actively questioned JP’s choice (and not those good kind of questions). I couldn’t connect JP’s decision to any meaningful character arc. If I was invested in JP, I know I could let that pass, and get into it. The start is why I wouldn’t remember this piece. The start is setting up backstory and trying to show Bart is an rear end in a top hat. I got so caught up in the directions and aurora borealis that I didn’t catch what the scene was trying to do. Then when the piece jumped into who and what JP was, and his school history, I wanted more plot, than backstory. Finally, while Bart might be making a stupid joke, I find that this doesn’t set up the relationship enough to justify JP trying to kill/run Bart off the road. But this is an awesome story considering you had a week to write it! I see a solid story in here, with some rushed execution. I come away from this wanting to give you more words so you can flesh out the characters and relationships more! https://docs.google.com/document/d/1KNqrBVxiRzUyBKgvyTRiaOLgV1vJ7wfgFXj9O4Alcew/edit?usp=sharing
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Dec 27, 2022 21:24
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Admiralty Flag posted:The Gift that Will Keep on Giving Overall I was invested in the characters in this piece, and you can tell because when the denouement hit I wanted to know more about other characters reactions. The start was interesting, we are immediately given a hooking question, and I wanted to find out about those gifts! There was a bit at the start where the question was raised: Who brought the flowers? As we go down the list of suspects, we kind of lose a bit of the hook in your question. This was due to the daughter doing her own thing, and the father not caring about the gifts as much. It was a weird speed bump, and necessitated more prose and more lists of suspects to get the story on track. When the ex-wife arrived I wouldn’t stop reading, being invested in the story now and getting to the payoff. I noticed a bit of a continuity snarl (Or was it a sinister remark) when the father mentions they talked about this, but I don’t see where they have. I like this section a lot, and could spend a lot of time dissecting it. But I want you to know it works! I don’t understand what we are trying to do with the ending. I feel sad that the mother died, but I don’t get more from it than that. You could switch it up with their family pet dying, and I’d have the same reaction. Don’t understand what I am supposed to have learned, or realised with the mother dying? Is this an Aesop about how to handle mentally-ill people? Also the ending line doesn’t really connect with anything in the story. Regardless I found this highly entertaining! Impressive you banged this out in a week. I was hooked from the start and continued to be interested up until the near-end. In depth crit here: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1YGo_g6Szf52LcHu4CJb1VLB0e-rQ5pKQZnSsGjolfyI/edit?usp=sharing
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Dec 28, 2022 01:52
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I'm in! Willing to trade critiques before Sunday.
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Dec 29, 2022 04:45
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derp posted:i agree with chili, after many nms in a row, especially for stories i felt really good about, i have now and then started to wonder what is the point of entering this contest anyway and then stopped entering for months at a time. curlingiron posted:I don't mean to diminish anyone's feelings saying this, as I have personally shed actual tears over crits, and have had my heart broken by no-mentioning (or DMing!) on something I was really excited about. Chili posted:Nah, look. This is a real thing. Antivehicular posted:Yeah, I think it's an emotionally tricky scenario. I can pick up what everyone is putting down. I don't see wanting to be praised or cheerleading as being a bad thing. I understand that ThunderDome thread isn't that way. Can we specifically request crits when we submit? Is there a place where we can say "I need support, and am willing to trade hugbox crits"
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Dec 30, 2022 05:52
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The Courage of Nearly Flightless Birds 532 words I dreamed of birds that could not touch the sky, No matter how hard they try, I dreamed of chickens, and all I could do was cry. I woke up on the fiftieth day after the first death in my family. Again, I dreamed of chickens last night. A brief shower, a quick breakfast, then I arrived at work and told myself everything was alright. Because why wouldn’t it be? The receptionist smiled warmly, full of fake glee. The office was full of understanding sympathy. I play the part I have prepared for: I nodded when prompted, calmly focused on my tasks, and never, ever cried. Everything was still alright. Every meeting I go to, everyone tiptoes around. They give sympathetic speeches, only wanting to hear their own sound. The work day ends and everyone lets out a sigh. I made it through another day. Everything was still alright. At home, nothing is different. As we were washing the dishes, my husband told a joke and stared up at me, his anxiety apparent. I weakly laughed: not too forced, and not too hard. Seeing me smile, for him, things were going back to normal. He desperately needed everything to be alright. It is in the middle of the night that I dream of truths. Once again in my dreams, the chickens come to roost. The chickens that will never reach the sky, no matter how hard they try. They live with that simple fact, so why can’t I? The birds beckoned me to watch as they laid to roost. A gigantic mother hen squawked, offered me her largest egg. I held it close to my chest to protect it from hunters. I could not help but wonder if the hens missed their eggs when they were plundered. I curled myself around the egg and felt a heartbeat thumping against the shell. So much potential. So much of what could have been. It was here, wrapped around an egg, that I felt whole. Felt right. Then my abdomen throbbed, the pain ached. The egg crumbled, then I waked. My eyes opened to see a room I had tried to avoid. A room filled with small toys, clothes and baby bibs. The truth stood in front of me: an empty crib. Acknowledging the truth would mean realising that even as I stewed in my grief, the world kept turning. Everything has to be alright, otherwise I need the world to be burning. I’m tired. Tired of pretending everything was alright. Tired of pretending that I was not mourning. Like the chickens who look upon the sky, I knew this crib would be forever empty. Somehow, the chickens kept on breathing. They wake and lay their eggs, despite their knowing. My grief has opened a wound that has become infected. Every day fake sympathy, fake feelings, fake pretending to be normal. Every day I was dying. Like the chickens, I would never fly, but that doesn’t mean I should die. It was time to start living. It was time for a new beginning. I wake up on the fifty-first day after the first death in my family, and can finally admit: everything is not alright.
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Jan 2, 2023 08:57
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| # ¿ May 16, 2024 07:42 |
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Crits for a few people! Towards a Brighter Dawn by Admiralty Flag https://docs.google.com/document/d/1iicP6hgmGBNJ3XcjlG4NnYdghDbJ4nor3-AoQdlCbD4/edit?usp=sharing Overall this didn’t intrigue me as much as your first piece. I wasn’t invested in either character, nor did I understand their stakes. However this piece does something majorly different from your first piece: It tries to say something. It tries to instil hope in the reader. For me, the “Story” starts where Annabette’s says “I don’t want to go.” As soon as Annabette says those words, everything you have previously wrote is going to support any future drama, stakes or interest. I think my opinion would be different had the start been better. The start starts off with this weird cyber-noir feel, with a character ruminating on their choices, and unfortunately for you, my dumbass immediately made jumps in logic that did not pan out. As well we have no sympathy for either character, so we don’t even know who to root for. Finally, we have no idea what this world is like, so we don’t even know who’s side is the “right” one. What we are left with is watching a scene unfold, as the reader is sinking in quick sand, having no solid foundation to stand on. The question you put forth—do we as individuals have a obligation to contribute to modern-day society—is an interesting one worth of exploring. I like how the story ends on an upbeat note, the answer is yes. I don’t like how this very complicated question is resolved by an easily stopped mugging. Regardless, this is a neat and different take when I compare it to your first story. This one is tackling a very complicated question, and even tried to aim for an uplifting ending! With revision and tweaking, I know this story will be one I will enjoy! For closing comments: I think if I was invested in either a character, or the outcome of the question, I’d enjoy this piece more. Or if I was invested in the world (Which really means if I’m invested in the outcome of the question), this could work. Tourmalina by Rohan https://docs.google.com/document/d/1yYMTmylG03TgCWPiwp8ziagNruGdt_C_1Xl9IwXyl_c/edit?usp=sharing Hah, I love the expectations of Tourmalina, versus the reveal that she is a party rocker. It’s very funny, and Its setup well. I have a few issues with the piece though. First off, I think you could cut off a good third, maybe 2/3rds of this story. The start is all setup and backstory, splayed against a conflict that isn’t resolved and doesn’t seem to matter (How is our protagonist going to meet boys now? It’s never resolved and doesn’t come up) I also found that the world building didn’t hold up against close inspection. We are lead to believe by the protagonist’s mother that Tourmalina won’t be coming to university, but that seems to be defied in your last scene. If the story is about your protagonist and Tourmalina deciding to stay together, then the rules you laid down in the world directly contrast that (The accords HAVE to be followed, so it sounds like Tourmalina HAS to stop following Protag) The good news is though, I wanted to see more of Tourmalina. When the protag was explaining things, and even when Tourmalina was explaining things, I wanted to read those scenes! See Tourmalina in action, and see your protagonist out in the world doing things! It's not a joke by Flerp https://docs.google.com/document/d/1P_k8u712e3ormXYThSYOYQwZwLFhFVvPyRYASFQiM0Q/edit?usp=sharing This is a super cute story and I feel endeared to our protagonist. I want him to succeed at life, or to realise something and have a character arc. And that’s probably gonna be the biggest criticism I have about this story. I don’t get to cheer on our protagonist because they don’t change. It’s a good piece that focuses on a single character and explains their situation and gives them a happy ending. I don’t come away from learning anything, or feeling like your character accomplished something. Maybe it's too vague for me to understand. You can see above where I totally mess up what “Allows for” means :P. Maybe the fact that he found someone is the character arc. I really like when it’s Christian and the character, and we get her internals. I was entertained and there is a bit of tension in the conversation. I didn’t understand how he lied to Christian thought because he seemed to tell the truth about the sun. Regardless, this made me feel fuzzy inside. Kind of a giggle-squee feeling. Well done! Flyerant fucked around with this message at 17:00 on Jan 3, 2023 |
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Jan 3, 2023 16:32
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