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Oct 12, 2022 11:39
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Old Gods 1071 words Rivulets of water trickled down the window as thunder growled in the distance. The rain, my mother told me, was a blessing from the gods – our lands had been wrought with a terrible drought, killing our crops and starving our people. But at the time, I didn’t believe her words; I was only eight years old, and the lightning that tore up the sky certainly didn’t lessen my fear. Nonetheless, I perched at the windowsill, eyes transfixed on the stormy scape as I waited for the weather to pass. Survival became difficult. Each year, the rains fell increasingly seldom, until the worst of the seasons came to pass. Dry and barren stood our once-lush fields, skeleton branches scraping the sky with their feeble fingers. The villagers were desperate, willing to fight even a mouse over a single grain. Any sense of trust in the community had long dissolved, and neighbors accused each other regularly of stealing food. Sometimes, I’d wake up to a ruckus, only to find that some of them had started a brawl in the center square. Frustrated with the situation, and looking to save our family from starvation, my mother made the decision to move. We packed our bags with the few belongings we treasured and began the arduous trek toward a new home. The new land was bountiful and vast, but its people were strange and unwelcoming. The whisper of our native language, the accent that slipped from our tongues, and our unfamiliar clothing were cause for discrimination. My mother worked from dawn till dusk, while my sister balanced a part-time job with her schooling. I studied diligently, working to erase any trace of my homeland, if only to fit in among my peers – but it never seemed to be enough. Sometimes, in the dead of night, I could hear a voice: a low but fervent susurration as my mother knelt in front of a small shrine she had constructed against the southern wall of the house. I knew she was praying to the old gods, the ones she believed would gift us with wealth and good fortune. She would light a candle, perhaps burn a small wooden charm in offering, and wait. She would wait for hours, days, weeks – as if she expected her diligence to produce results one day. But I believed no more in these old gods of hers than I did during that rainstorm. Before we even realized, we had acclimated to our new home. We would never be fully accepted, but at least we knew how to manage. After completing her studies, my sister moved out, seeking opportunities in a larger city. I stayed behind with my mother, taking up a local job as she worked herself into ruin. By now, her health was suffering from the countless hours she had labored to provide for our family – and yet she refused to retire, insisting that she would rather toil until her very death if it meant I would live an easier life. I arrived home from work one night to find my mother collapsed on the floor, struggling to breathe. I wanted to call a doctor, but she waved me away, insisting that she just needed some herbal tea and an offering to the gods. Ten years had passed since the day we’d left our homeland, and still she clung stubbornly to her traditions. I became worried, angry, resentful of my roots. If my culture believed I should leave an elderly woman to waste away slowly, leaving her fate in the hands of some invisible deities, then I would reject it without hesitation. I made the decision to betray my mother’s wishes and dialed the hospital. My words hit her like a hammer driving nails into a plank. “The gods cannot heal you,” I told her, and a mixture of fear and sadness welled up in her eyes. “They can’t hear us from here, or maybe they never heard us at all. You need medicine, not faith. The gods have never given us anything.” “The gods can help,” she rasped out as I waited on the phone line, “but you must be patient.” “How can I be patient?” I snapped. “They drove us from our land, led us to a place where we’re treated like savages, and now this? The only reward we’ve been granted is thanks to your hard work. And now, you’ve worked yourself sick. If there were gods who cared about us, we wouldn’t be here!” Her face grew grey at my outburst, and she pursed her lips. “The gods will be displeased with you,” she foretold, before she was interrupted by a cough that wracked her body for several minutes. When the ambulance arrived, I rang my sister. She told me she couldn’t visit, but that she would ask me later for an update. The paramedics loaded my mother onto a stretcher as I watched uneasily. The hospital discharged her with a prescription and instructions to rest for a week before going back to work. I picked up the medicine and instructed her on the dosage, and she seemed grateful but withdrawn. I attributed it to her feeling poorly, and I didn’t give it more thought. That night, I heard her tiptoe to the shrine once more. This time, her prayers were disturbed by intermittent coughing. In the morning, I found her curled up at the foot of the shrine. The candle flame had long since flickered to its death, and so had my mother. Her hand clutched a small wooden offering, and I felt sick as I ran to her room. On the bedside table was the bag of medicine, unopened. I could scarcely focus on the aftermath – the cremation, the funeral, the fatigue as my sister and I cleaned the air of death from the house. It felt surreal, like a dream I had yet to awaken from, but I knew it was just as real as everything else I’d known. And in the evening, I knelt in front of the little shrine at the southern wall of the house. I lit a candle, if only to see whether I could understand what my mother had put so much faith into. Atop the shrine stood tiny clay sculptures of strange creatures and heroic figures. The candlelight sent shadows dancing across their features, and for a moment, it seemed as if the old gods had come to life.
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Oct 16, 2022 23:38
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in!
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Oct 25, 2022 14:03
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The Darkness Within 1476 words "Last, but certainly not least, is the upright Three of Cups," crooned the fortune teller to her captivated customer. She traced her finger delicately around the edge of the tarot card, waggling her eyebrows for added effect. The candlelight bounced off her sharply defined features, casting an air of intrigue about her. "Perhaps you've been seeking resolution to a persistent problem, or hoping that an old wound will heal." The boy nodded, enraptured, and the woman continued. "This is the chance you've been waiting for," she declared soundly, and her client gasped in delight. "Now, beware not to let your fears and doubts overtake your drive to seek a solution, and all will be well." She smiled brightly, and held up a hand in a wave. "The pleasure is all mine. I wish you a fortunate day!" Dashing out of the tent with a huge grin on his face, the boy skipped away in glee, nearly crashing into a group holding ice cream cones. "Watch your step!" one of them shouted, shaking his head in disdain. "Well done, as usual, Madame Leyla," smirked the gentleman in the back of the tent as he came forward to watch. Leyla grimaced, the unpleasant expression in stark contrast to the heavy makeup she wore. "Three more hours of this, Roderick, and then I'm finally free of this poo poo," she pouted, her wine-red lips exaggerating her disappointment. "If I didn't need to make easy money, you and I both know I wouldn't be here." "Oh, come on," Roderick chuckled, "it's not that bad. It's just a carnival routine, and you happen to be half decent at it." Shuffling the tarot cards back into the deck, the fortune teller let out a dramatic sigh. "But it's so stupid. I mean, even I don't believe in this stuff. Hell, I'd never pay to get my fortune told! Sucks for the gullible little shits who pay my wages," she added with a sniggering jest. Roderick shrugged, straightening his bowtie. "Well, as long as you can keep it up until closing time." He moved toward the exit. "I'm going to take a dinner break, you want anything?" "I'm fine, thanks. Enjoy yourself!" Leyla dismissed her assistant with a short wave, and resumed arranging the table for the next guest. As the sky began to glow a gentle peach hue, Leyla gazed listlessly into the crystal ball in front of her. She had no gift for fortune telling; that much she knew. In fact, she hadn't a single spiritual bone in her body. What she did have a knack for, however, was telling convincing lies — even to herself. A vision began to form in the crystal ball: a tiny, upside-down figure wearing a wide-brimmed hat and a trenchcoat, and it grew larger and larger. Startled, Leyla looked up through the tent flap to see the very same silhouette approaching. Passersby paused to stare, and many made a pointed effort to move out of the way. The crowd parted to make a path to the tent. Arriving at the entrance to the fortune telling tent, the figure paused. "May I sit?" His voice was like the rustle of coffee grounds, quiet and dark, and Leyla could only nod wordlessly in reply. The man took a seat at the table, and in the dim light Leyla could make out a deep scar stretching from his jawline to his left brow, crossing his eye. And where there should have been an eye, there was a glass prosthetic, painted imperfectly such that the color of the iris was an unrealistic blue, while his other eye seemed a dark, bottomless black. Something about this man's presence was unsettling, and Leyla was fairly sure it wasn't just his outward appearance. But business was business, and she wouldn't dare squirm in front of a customer. "You haven't had your fortune told," the man stated matter-of-factly, and Leyla shifted uncomfortably. He spoke the truth; despite her job, she'd never sought a reading. She didn't need to; she never felt the need to pay for someone to tell her something she didn't believe in. Leyla cleared her throat, looking the stranger in his good eye. "I'm a fortune teller," she explained. "It's my job to do so, not to have someone do it for me." "Then allow me," he said, and the candle to Leyla's right blew out. Glancing at the candle in puzzlement, Leyla could sense her own thoughts running wild. He hadn't done anything to the candle, had he? Only one candle remained, and the asymmetrical light afforded her only to see half of the man's face. The scarred side was obscured in darkness beneath the brim of his hat, perhaps for the better. It was now that she noticed the tent flap had been closed, too — the man must have pulled it shut when he entered. The stranger lifted the crystal ball and set it to the side. "Give me your hands," he instructed her, and she obliged, turning her palms upward as if receiving a gift. His fingers brushed softly over Leyla's, as gentle as the peach-pink sunset somewhere beyond the tent flap. And yet, there was a certain contradiction in his movements — an intrusive, probing tendency. His hands were covered in strange, intricate tattoos — runes in a language she'd never seen. She had the urge to ask about them, but her curiosity was interrupted by a guttural humming sound. For a moment, she took her eyes off the table to glance up at the man, who seemed to be the source of the sound. His lips began to move as the humming was replaced by muttering, then chanting. The air felt hostile, ominous. And then, the stranger reached for the remaining candle and placed it across the table, on the side where the unlit candle stood. Now his glass eye glinted in the light, and the other side of his face was barely visible. He halted his chanting, and it seemed as if his eye stared straight into the darkest corners of Leyla's mind. This was nothing more than an elaborate performance, Leyla reminded herself uneasily. The man was simply putting on a show, and then he would undoubtedly charge her a small fortune for it. But she couldn't break her gaze away from his eye. Without warning, the palm reader lifted his face toward the ceiling and laughed. It was not a maniacal cackle, but rather more measured — a slow, booming laugh, yet just as hollow as his stare. "You are like me," he whispered, the glass eye rolling in its socket to judge Leyla. She wanted to interject, but a nagging feeling curbed her impulsivity, and she waited begrudgingly. "There is a rising darkness within you." His words fell like the quiet patter of rainfall, and yet, they twisted like knives into their audience. "It seeks to choke you... restrain you... devour you." "Join me," he offered, with what might have been the least enticing offer Leyla had ever heard. "Join me, and you will not suffer alone." "Join you in what?" she demanded, disgusted by the turn this had taken. "If you think I'm gonna pay you for your services, you're sorely mistaken." Leyla withdrew — or at least, she attempted to retract her hands. But the stranger latched on, pinning her in place with an unexpectedly strong grip. "Join me," he repeated, his glass-eyed stare boring straight through to her deepest insecurities. "You have nothing to lose. Join me." "Let go of me!" Leyla barked, her attention snapping toward their hands. The man's tattoos glowed in the candlelight, and the shadows cast by the flame seemed to climb from his hands to his arms in an unnatural pattern. In fact, the shadows crept at an ever-increasing pace, shooting up to his shoulders, then to his neck, then to his face. Observing an identical phenomenon on herself, Leyla shrieked as tenebrous tendrils snaked like vines across her body. "What have you done?!" The palm reader merely grinned, his teeth and the absurd blue of his glass eye the only visible details as the shadows engulfed them. "I have embraced my innermost darkness, Leyla... And so should you." The last candle flame extinguished with finality, submerging them in a world devoid of light. --- "Hey, Leyla!" Roderick shouted as he pulled open the tent flap. "I brought you a corn dog, since I figured you'd be hu—" There was nobody in sight. The tarot cards were stacked neatly on the table, and the crystal ball was nestled in the center. A flickering candle stood on either side, and the shifting light played tricks on Roderick's eyes. Frowning at Leyla's unannounced absence, he turned to exit the tent again. "Two more hours, Leyla," he sighed as he left. "All you had to do was stay put for two more hours..."
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Oct 31, 2022 11:43
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Count me in!
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Nov 9, 2022 00:16
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Actually I have too much going on, I'm gonna have to back out. If I can't do that, I'll still try to deliver but odds are I will fail to submit :/ sorry
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Nov 9, 2022 18:09
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Human 1499 words "You've never noticed, have you?" Charlie addressed me suddenly, his eyes searching mine. Before I could press more, he produced a small knife. Without warning, he slit his palm. Instead of blood, a thick, amber fluid welled up from the cut. "I'm not human." In the year I'd known Charlie, never once had I suspected he was a Drone; he certainly didn't behave like one. "Drone" was the term we used for the androids created to increase our mining workforce — most of the Drones were complacent, doing as they were instructed, without any real desire to deviate from expectations. They did their job well, and they rarely sought approval for it. Charlie, however, had always had his sights set high, aiming to appease our supervisors. About 80% of our miners were Drones, and the remainder were convicts like me, determined guilty enough not to return to society, but not crazy enough to be locked away forever. In exchange for food and a roof over our heads, we were assigned to the more dangerous mine shafts, in the hopes that a tunnel might collapse and end our miserable existence. We all knew our numbers could easily be replaced by Drones. We were nothing more than a disposable source of labor, less valued than even the robots who worked beside us — and it showed in our treatment of one another. The usual policy was simply not to ask others about the crimes they'd committed, unless they were willing to share of their own volition. "Doesn't matter," I replied to Charlie, gathering myself. "Being human isn't any better than being a Drone. In fact, it's arguably worse." The skin on his hand began to mend around the cut. I watched with a tinge of envy; Drones were scarcely affected by injuries, free from the constant threat of death hanging over their heads like the sword of Damocles. Drones lived to serve, with low expectations put upon them, but those of us made of flesh and bone were always left wondering if we had accomplished anything worthwhile in our pathetic lives. Shaking his head, Charlie sighed. "You don't understand." He was right: I didn't understand. I hadn't the faintest idea what he was on about, so I remained silent as I listened. "I want to know how it feels," he murmured thoughtfully. "I want to know what it's like to never know when I might be living my last day. To know what a relief it is to wake up and realize I'm still alive. To feel fire in my lungs, the knife through my skin, and recognize them as signs I'm not dead yet." The revelation that Charlie longed for the things I loathed the most left me at a loss for words. For a while, I continued tapping my pick on the wall in contemplation. He yearned to know what it was like to be human, and I, much the opposite. We worked alongside each other in a strangely mutual lack of understanding, and that was all right. Clink. "You know," I started, my eyes on the stone where my pick struck. I didn't need to check whether Charlie was paying attention; he was always listening. "I was brought here because of a work incident." Clink... Clink. The pattern of his mining pick was momentarily disrupted, but it soon resumed. He made no comment, but all the same, it indicated that he was hearing me out. I continued, my voice deliberate. "My colleague had been promoted that morning to a managerial position," I reminisced, focusing on my work. "I remember celebrating that day, throwing an office party." A wistful grin stretched across my lips in fond remembrance. "We congratulated him on his progress, and then... he fell down the staircase on his way out of the office." My tone grew darker. "He'd had too much wine, and he hit his head when he fell. Boom. Instant death, or so they said." I leaned closer to the cavern wall, rapping on it with the toe of my boot. Thump. "There weren't many of us in the office. Of course, we were all interrogated by the police — one by one — and the others cast me as the scapegoat." Charlie was silent. I kept talking. "It was nobody's fault, really. They had no reason to point fingers, and yet, I took the blame for it. I'm not gonna lie; I'm still bitter about it. There isn't a day that goes by where I don't remember their ugly, sour faces." Clink. Still, Charlie didn't utter a word. I glanced over at him, only to see that he was wholly concentrated on his work. Clearing my throat to call his attention, I waited in anticipation of his input, as he'd usually give. At long last, his quiet, calculated response came. "...You're right. It must be terrible to be a human like you." I satisfied myself with his reply, relieved to get this off my chest, and resumed my task. ~ The next week passed by uneventfully. Same routine, same lack of results. We labored like sheep under the command of a shepherd we hadn't the audacity to disobey, humans and Drones alike. That is, until we struck a vein. "Bonanza!" shouted a miner, and suddenly, the shaft was swarming with activity. We knew we'd be compensated handsomely for the amount we mined, and so the greedy scramble began. For a while I was able to squeeze front and foremost to reap my share, but I soon yielded to the rowdy throng of convicts who stampeded their way toward the wall. I slipped a small pouch of valuable ore into my belt and slunk away as the others started to pick fights. A full-out brawl soon ensued, with miners slamming each other into the walls and brandishing their pickaxes threateningly in a desperate race to steal the ore. I'd been here for ten years and counting, and well I knew what was to come. Cautiously, I took a step back, and then another. Then another. I checked that my pouch of ore was still secured and backed out of the shaft just as a rumbling began to shake the mine. I caught a glimpse of Charlie, encircled by the ignorant miners. He, too, seemed aware of the imminent danger, but his only escape was barred by the unruly mob. With a weary groan, the tunnel began to collapse. I sprinted toward the lift, ground trembling beneath my footfalls, and counted the seconds before the shaft was buried. ~ "Shaft 35 is gone," I reported, holding out the pouch of ore to the site supervisor. Narrowing her eyes, she glanced around shiftily before pocketing the precious metal and handing me a week's worth of food coupons. "We got another cave-in," she hollered at the engineer, then motioned for me to follow her. "Let's get you equipped for cleanup." Leading me over to the cupboards, the supervisor proceeded to scan her biometrics on the electronic lock panel. A door clicked open, and she pulled out a small pistol and torchlight and handed them to me. "You know the drill," she muttered disinterestedly. "Remember to shoot anyone who can't work." I trudged back down to the shaft, holstering the pistol before switching on the torchlight. Sweeping the beam across the fallen rocks, I could make out the shapes of several bodies entangled in the debris. I drew the pistol and ventured closer to see. There was a click as I switched off the safety. A muffled moan emanated from one of the trapped miners, and I shot him as soon as I located him. Amidst the rubble, the mangled figure of Charlie was barely discernible. His humanoid features had been severely distorted with the heavy impact, and his skin struggled to heal itself as fluid leaked out from the gashes. His circuitry lay partially exposed on the side of his head. "It must be terrible to-to-to-to-to be you..." he spluttered, his speech malfunctioning. "...to have no sense of guilt for what-what-what you've done." He regarded me sadly. "I don't want to be-be-be-be like you." I knew he never would have understood. Drones could never fathom the complexity of human life, the emotions that boiled within us and chained us like prisoners to our pasts. Sure, they could express a desire for something, but they never understood what an incredibly strong motivator jealousy truly was. My eyes met Charlie's, as he lay almost completely encased in rock, and an ironic smirk crept across my face. "This is what it feels like to know you're living your last day," I told him. "This is what it feels like to be human." I raised the pistol and aimed it squarely at Charlie's forehead, where his cognitive center buzzed frantically with instructions to repair his damaged structure. "Isn't this what you wanted, Charlie?" My finger pulled the trigger, terminating him, and then I walked back to the lift.
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Nov 13, 2022 19:58
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In, with #496 People are Still the Same!
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Nov 30, 2022 16:00
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Daughter 310 words Prompt: People Are Still the Same There's a perpetual din in the city center, a mechanical whirr that's so constant, so prevalent, that it mostly escapes notice. Vehicles cruise by, their engines thrumming as they guzzle fuel and broken dreams. The skyline resembles a twilight glow, light pollution from all the neon visual noise burning up the horizon, and the smell of sewage permeates even the cleanest corners. It's not a pleasant place, by far, but it's the only place I've ever called home. The fluorescent metropolis thrums to the beat of its own heart as I snake through the streets on the hunt for a payphone. "Watch it," someone snaps as I brush past them, but I'm already long gone. At last, I spot my target — a land-line phone booth to the side of the cinema. Stepping in, I tap my credit card and punch in the familiar digits, and then I wait. There's no answer. Either she isn't home, or she's figured out it's me. I don't wait for the answering machine. The phone clicks with finality as I hang up. There's nothing for me to hold onto except for a lingering memory, and I cling to it fervently because it's all I've got. The white noise of the city engulfs me as I reenter the pulsating flow of the crowd, blending immediately into the pedestrians. In a way, it exacerbates the feeling of loneliness, but at the same time, I don't mind it. Somewhere in this sprawling urban tangle, I know my daughter is out there, and she doesn't miss me at all. I know she won't forgive me for not being there for her, to laugh with her, to wipe her tears, to partake in her life. But all the same, I still like to imagine that someday, in this loud, miserable city, I might share a moment of happiness with her.
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Dec 5, 2022 09:21
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/in
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Dec 12, 2022 22:08
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Tiptoe 888 words It was never supposed to come to this, thought Tiptoe as he weighed his options. Papa should have come home, Mama was supposed to tuck in the children with a bedtime story, and baby Pip might have slept soundly. The world had been a huge, intimidating unknown, but his home had been a happy place. There had been an abundance of everything they’d ever wanted, and Tiptoe had felt safe and comfortable. But things were different now. Papa hadn't returned from his foray into the house, and Mama had taken ill. Pip was crying all the time, the others were starving, and now it was up to Tiptoe to find enough food for the family. For a teenage mouse, it was a lot of responsibility. Tiptoe had always been small for his age, but his slight physique afforded him extra agility. He slipped through the crevice at the base of the garden shed to venture outside, weaving expertly through the tall grasses en route to the house. He knew there would be food there, and he knew there were risks, but his family would starve if they didn't find a solution soon. The garage door was open, a yawning cavern of intimidating machines. Looming wooden shelves stocked with toolboxes lined the walls, a titan of a vehicle was parked in the center, and two bicycles and that monstrosity of a lawn mower stood dormant off to the side — such equipment was perilous for a mouse who strayed too close. Tiptoe shuddered at the sight of it, and scampered quickly underneath the car, resurfacing near a pile of cleaning supplies. Sensing a pulse of heavy footsteps through the ground, Tiptoe hid behind a shelf just as the door to the house opened. He watched quietly as a human with tousled hair and sleepy eyes emerged, and he waited until he was certain the coast was clear. Then, he darted into the house. Inside, the temperature was cool. Tiptoe could feel the air current through his whiskers as he snuck along the wall. His nose twitched as he sniffed for food — even a morsel, a tidbit, would help their situation. The hallway was long and barren, but it soon led into an immaculately clean kitchen, with shining stainless-steel appliances and a stovetop devoid of any traces of food. A whiff of his surroundings, and Tiptoe frowned; it smelled of cleaning products. But his eyes caught sight of a promising stash — a wondrous, abundant pantry with every snack he could imagine! A roaring sound jarred Tiptoe out of his reverie, and his body went stiff with fear. Around the corner came an abomination, a huffing, raucous vacuum creature with a toothless mouth and a voracious appetite. Its master followed behind, a distracted expression on her face and headphones over her ears. Terrified, the mouse dove beneath the oven and scarcely dared to look. He trembled as the vacuum neared, siphoning out the dust from under his paws, and the suction loosened his foothold as he scrambled to avoid it. But despite his best efforts, he slid toward the vacuum, and watched in trepidation as his life flashed before his eyes. Tiptoe wasn’t brave, and he wasn’t strong. He had always been the smallest of his litter, the runt who got pushed around, who had to struggle to survive, and yet he had never considered himself tough. He had remained with his family, even when his littermates left, because he had no desire to strike out on his own quite yet. He simply didn’t feel ready for it. But now, he had been faced with a big decision, to take a risk for his family. And Tiptoe wasn’t heroic, but he was caring. Memories of the warm, cozy nest in the shed and his sheltered life with his parents flooded his vision as his claws scrabbled against the tiled floor. He could almost hear the excited squeaks of his younger siblings over the drone of the vacuum creature, imagining how overjoyed his mother would be when he returned home with tales of food aplenty, enough to last for days. The flurry of dust bunnies whizzing by snapped Tiptoe back to his senses, and he was fueled with a renewed will to survive, if anything, because his family needed him. He took a deep breath, steeling himself against the pull of the vacuum, and scooted out from beneath the oven, skittering across the vast expanse of the kitchen floor as fast as his little legs could carry him. He heard the vacuum master shriek, and he knew he had been spotted. But he wouldn’t stop running, and he wouldn’t look back. All that mattered to him now was getting home safely. Just as Tiptoe launched himself through the doorway, the drowsy human turned around and began to shout, grabbing a broom to swat at the rodent. Still envisioning his goal, the mouse dodged the sweep and darted straight out of the garage and into the foliage where he couldn’t be seen. The vacuum creature grew silent, and he heard voices as the humans began to talk. Scuttling back to the shed, he recounted his harrowing tale of danger and exploration to his mother and siblings. Pip squealed with delight, and their mother nuzzled Tiptoe with satisfaction. One day, he would be a hero.
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Dec 19, 2022 14:07
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Wintry musical gifts for the prompt pile! Tchaikovsky - Coffee (Arabian Dance) Tchaikovsky - Waltz of the Flowers Sharon Lyons - Don Oíche Úd I mBeithil Loreena McKennitt - Snow Adolf Fredriks Musikklasser - Himlen hänger stjärnsvart Esbjörn Hazelius - Vittskövlevisan
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Dec 21, 2022 17:56
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| # ¿ May 16, 2024 20:08 |
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Honestly, I run short on time pretty often when entering because I procrastinate until the last minute (surprise lol), which is the main reason I don't enter consistently, but I do love reading everyone else's stories each week! But since I'm new, I don't really think my judging would be appreciated as I haven't participated enough to give a formal opinion. I don't mind giving informal crits, though, if that's of any help. Just be warned, I can give constructive feedback but I'm not so great at balancing the positive with the negative.
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Dec 24, 2022 03:34
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