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Ricochet Vector 1237 words Diagnosis: Borderline Personality Disorder My ex was back in town. I mean, I have a lot of exes, but he was the first, is the one that matters. And by ‘back in town’ I mean ‘broke out of the Caldera’. Grievance was on the loose again. Grievance wasn't my first boyfriend. That would be Bobby Doyle. He was a Senior and I was a Sophomore at Faraday High, and we were together until the day he brought a batch of a brand new street drug to a party. Ten of us took it. Five died, Bobby included. The rest of us went to the hospital, and we were never the same again. Four permanently disabled to one degree or another. And me, the one who came out with superpowers. The basic ones: strength, invulnerability, flight. But more of those things than anyone else. My mother used to tell me that that night might have been the best thing that happened to me ever, and it took me almost a decade to understand just how hosed up a thing to say that was. We don't talk, these days. There's this thing that I do where I tell myself this time will be different, that I'll send Grievance packing, with a Megaton punch if needed. But when he showed up at my apartment I agreed to hear him out and in an hour we were naked and sweaty on the carpet and in another hour I was on board with his latest vengeance scheme. We met at the Nexters’ tryouts. Mom had hired a first rate graphic designer to make my logo and costume as Vector. He was Gauntlet back then, for the power glove he wore. There was this instant chemistry between us during that whole process, and we swapped contacts even though we figured we'd both get chosen. The rest of the entrants were total jokes like Videohead and the Ocelot. But in the end, it was just me. “They obviously feel threatened,” I said, the next evening. We started with coffee and moved on to beer at his place. He showed me his plans for his upgraded glove, with long sharp titanium claws. “Red Raptor doesn't want the competition,” he said. Which I thought might be right. He'd been making eyes at me since we met, and was clearly crushing hard. There's this thing that I do where I betray people who are trying to be my friends. Funny thing is that I don't even remember ever deciding to go alone with Grievance’s first plan. It just happened. I cozied up to them all, learned their secrets, told them about my tragic origins. And then we struck. At the end of it the Nextdome was a pile of rubble, Bastion was in traction, Aura was dead, sort of, Grievance was sent to his first prison term, and me: left for dead, immobilized in one of Red Raptor’s gel traps at the bottom of that pile of rubble. Wanting to die. But I didn't. I laid there for a week and nothing happened. The way my powers work is that I can't be harmed but I can be hurt. I was hungrier and thirstier and more miserable than ever but nothing else was going to happen until the bulldozers moved enough of the rubble that I could see light again and fly out of there and slam into a mountain hard enough to burst the gel. Grievance's new plan was a banger. He'd had a lot of time to work on it. There was some hardware we had to steal first. Most of it we got from beating up the STEMlord, one of my least important exes. It was fun, letting loose again. I've done a lot of bad things. Never a straight-up murder, but I've been with guys who did, backed their plays. But it turns out there's no jail that can hold me, literally. No form of power dampening works. Whenever they've tried exiling me to some distant alien world or dimension I come back on the arm of the leader of a conquering army. I'm Sovereign class, as they say. Me and the Glass Tyrant and a few others. They like it that way, really. Way to many of the capes have gotten it in their heads that they're the one who can fix me, and sometimes when they need someone who can, say, carry the Blazon into the center of the sun and live to tell the tale, well, there's plenty who have my number. But the worst thing I ever did? Well, a few years back I seduced Red Raptor. Two days before he was going to marry Aura. Just showed up at his suite crying, almost for real since I'd just gotten dumped by Johnny Guitar, which was for real a low point. But I got him in a hug and let arms wander. He hesitated. “Come on,” I said. “Isn't this what you've always wanted?” “drat you,” he said, and pushed me up against the wall. “God drat you.” I laughed at him, when he tried to say he'd leave Aura for me in the morning. Laughed at him and left. He wound up confessing it all, the wedding was way off, and the Nexters broke up as a team forever. There's a new group now, but they've got nothing in common but the name and a lease on the NextDome. Now sure, he wasn't exactly innocent in all.of that. But I'm literally the only woman who could have done that and it wasn't part of any big plan or anything. I just did it because I could. The best thing I ever did? The sun thing. Saved the whole world, even though Blazon gets the credit. And believe me, it hurt. Only good thing is that the human nervous system can't process as much pain as that should have caused. It ‘only’ felt as bad as getting dunked in lava. But I flew out of there, naked, hairless, blistered and in pain, but that was the happiest I've ever been. The plan was a good one. Foolproof, in the first stage. Grievance was going to take Red Raptor’s head off before he knew what was happening, and the other ex-Nexters would also be dead or off the board in that initial ambush. Then the heavy hitters would come after us, which is where I came in. “This crosses the line,” he said. “Most of them, they won't even be thinking about bringing me in alive.” He had a smile on his face when he said that. He's always had a bit of a death wish. It's part of what I love about him. “You'll come through,” he said. And I knew I would. Kill them. Hit them with everything I had, with the Gigaton or Teraton punches that pulverize mountainsides, that vaporize robots. So there's this thing that I do where I betray people I love. I'd never hit Grievance before, not during any of our breakups. Never outside of roleplay, that is. Never anywhere near this was, which was as much as he could take and maybe a little more. This was when we were setting up and the Saints arrived and he turned to me and I whacked him right in the chest, sending him flying straight into Fafnir's arms. I'd called them. I still have a lot of their contacts.
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Dec 11, 2023 03:22
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If You Don’t Know What Italian Ice Is, You Should Probably Google It Before Reading This Story 1699 words Diagnosis: Restless Leg Syndrome Harris was standing in the kitchen with a coffee in his hand when his husband uttered the last words Harris ever wanted to hear: “I need the van today for work. Do you think you can drive the stick?” An anxious thrum took hold of Harris’s heart. He mentally stomped it down (with a little physical stomp to loosen his legs) and pasted on a confident grin. “Only if you don’t mind me street-racing.” “I’d like to see you try.” Jacob let out one of the easy laughs that had drawn Harris to him in the first place. “Maybe you’ll even win if you can keep your foot off the dash.” Harris tried to laugh, too, but it came out all wrong. It was the dying wheeze of a downed horse on a racetrack: the last gasp of an animal who had no business trying to go fast. Harris did not need to go fast, either. He needed to relax at home, where he could walk around freely to stop the crawling feeling in his legs. Thankfully, he didn’t need to go anywhere today. Just a few chores and a little cooking, and no stalling Jacob’s new car on the highway. “You’ll be fine.” Jacob patted Harris on the smooth dome of his head. “And it’ll be good for you to practice when you go to Rita’s.” Harris’s chest seized. He’d completely forgotten that it was the last day of summer: the last day to get a delicious swirl of custard and Italian ice at Rita’s. Harris had been enjoying the layers of sweet cream and shaved ice ever since he was old enough for solid food, and the last day of the selling season marked an all-important occasion for his family. It didn’t even matter what flavors were available, though they definitely had preferences. Harris’s dad liked vanilla and black cherry; his sister liked vanilla and root beer. Their mom liked chocolate custard with chocolate ice, which everyone found a little disgusting, but Rita’s was a judgment-free zone. It wasn’t like Harris had a leg to stand on, either; his legs were unreliable and his favorite flavor was cotton candy. Life and time had come between Harris’s family, stretching its fibers across ages and coasts, but Harris still believed in the end-of-summer ice cream. How could he not? Sure, he didn’t have much of a relationship with his parents anymore, and he spoke to his sister about as often as he spoke to his accountant, but the annual ice cream feast transcended all of that. It was too sweet, too soft, too sumptuous to ignore. He had to have it—he would do anything. Even drive a stick. — Rita’s didn’t open until noon, so Harris had to spend four hours obsessing over the impending drive. According to Maps, Rita’s was less than two miles away. Reaching it required two turns: one right and one left, not counting the turn out of the driveway. The right would be easy, but the left into the parking required stopping in the middle of a busy street and turning across oncoming traffic. With no signs or lights to help, it would just be him, the car, and two legs that felt like they were filled with spider eggs whenever they couldn’t move. When the time came, Harris made his way outside and sized up his ride. It was a cool car, he couldn’t deny that. A Toyota GR86, brand new in Electric Blue, with a honey-comb grill and a duckbill spoiler that looked like something out of The Fast and the Furious. It wasn’t an expensive car, but it was a rare edition, and it wouldn’t be easy to replace if Harris wrecked it. Harris clutched his keys and took a deep breath. “I can do this,” he said to himself. “That gelati is mine.” The Rita’s website said they had cotton candy in stock today, but he wasn’t the only man of culture in this town. Even on ordinary days, the opening rush could be brutal, but on the last day of the season? If he didn’t quit standing around, he’d be lucky to get anything but cherry. Harris had to duck to get in the car—a treat for a short guy—and his rear end dropped missing-stair deep into the seat. The pedals felt far away, too, especially the clutch. The unfamiliar rectangle sat to the left of the brakes and gas, and it was the primary reason he couldn’t put his foot on the dash to keep his leg from crawling. Car size and safety were two other compelling reasons, but those had never stopped him before. Only now, without a choice, did Harris have to keep both feet on the ground like a chode. He went through the checklist of tasks for starting the car. Left foot on clutch; right foot on break; right hand on stick. He jammed both pedals down to make sure they were in position, then started the car. The engine came to life with a tiger purr, sending chills through Harris’s spine. He wasn’t scared; he could do this. “Clutch down, breaks down. Now reverse.” He shifted the stick into position, then gently lifted his foot off the break. The car began to roll backward with a shudder. His heart screamed at him to stop; his legs screamed at him to move. He apologized to both and slowly backed out to the bottom of the driveway. Backing up wasn’t so bad with a camera showing him his every wrong turn. What the camera couldn’t show him was what he did with his feet to make the electronics start screaming as the car stalled to a stop. “poo poo,” Harris hissed. Jacob had promised him he couldn’t hurt the car by stalling it, but it was still terrifying to have a multi-ton monster go dead under your feet. He grit his teeth, depressed the pedals, and started the car. That got him to the bottom of the driveway, where he was safe to put the car in first and move forward. Clutch down, break down, eyes forward, break up, rolling forward, spiders rolling from his legs, and— Beep! Another stall. “gently caress!” His leg had gotten itchy again and he’d moved too soon. Another try. First gear again: clutch down, break up, gas down, clutch up, but slower. Somehow that worked, and Harris was moving. He resisted the urge to fist-pump and guided the car towards the first turn. He rolled up to the corner and brought the car to an honest-to-god stop. In the world of automatics, he would’ve rolled through that right turn without a care in the world, but he had a gear change ahead and needed to think. At least no one was behind him oh poo poo there was someone behind him. A staggeringly tall F150 loomed behind him like a chrome-plated predator. It was almost a blessing that Harris couldn’t see the driver’s face, because it would clearly be reflecting animal fury at being forced to stop. “Sorry!” Harris said, as if the driver could hear him. His heart beat; his leg itched. He promised them both extra ice cream and checked for oncoming cars. There weren’t any, which would’ve been a nice way to buy time, so he had to clutch in and apply a little gas and clutch out and— BEEP! The car died. The truck honked. “Sorry! Sorry!” Harris scrambled to restart the car from the third humiliating stall of the day. It came alive fast, thank God, and he actually managed to get it moving. His heart kept on bouncing as he shifted the car into second, and then third, but at least the constant movement of the clutch satisfied his leg’s relentless desire to move. That movement, coupled with sheer adrenaline, kept him going the entire mile it took to reach his destination. Rita’s waited before him, its red-and-white awning promising the kind of dessert delights that would make his entire family drool. All he had to do was make one more turn. He crawled to a stop, blinker pointing towards paradise. Cars rushed past him on the south side of the road. He just needed an opening, any opening, and he could make the turn. But he wasn’t getting one, and the waiting was starting to hurt. It was already twelve forty-five: he’d spent longer than he realized sitting at the light, and even longer to psyche himself up and get into the car. The cotton candy might be sold out already. Were all the flavors sold out already? It was the last day of the season; stranger things had happened. Cars kept coming, one after the other. “Come on, come on!” His miserably manic screamed at him to jump and run, to abandon the car and dance in the streets where they could finally be free—or at least let them rest on the god-damned dash. The wave of cars broke. It was a gap of a second, maybe less, but it meant movement and candy and he was loving going for it. Clutch down. Break up. Gas down. “Let’s go!” The engine screamed, drowning out his voice, and he lurched across the street with the grace of a drunken elephant. But he made it, thank God, and he pulled into a parking spot and turned off the car with a sigh of relief that emptied his whole chest. Getting out of the car and stretching his legs might’ve been the best feeling of his life, except for the moment five minutes later when the teenaged cream-jockey handed him the platonic ideal of a gelati. The vanilla peak had been piped to perfection, its matte finish full of inviting air bubbles, and the brilliant blue beneath had the unnatural hue that promised sweet cotton candy. It was glorious in every way: a triumph of creation. And he’d earned it. He held it up to his face and took a selfie, then sent it to Jacob with a smiley face. Made it, he texted. Great job , Jacob texted back. Ready for the drive home? Harris’s legs twitched. gently caress.
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Dec 11, 2023 04:47
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That's it, that's all! Toadsmash is our one failure. Toadsmash, if you post within 12 hours I won't make a stink about your toxx but I'm also not really in charge of toxxes, so we'll see what happens!
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Dec 11, 2023 06:00
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Judgement within a half hour or so!
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Dec 11, 2023 06:01
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Hot and Fresh Judgement: Let's keep it short since crits will follow. As promised no losses or dm's and nothing that made me wish we had them on board to give them, so there you go. The win goes handily to one story and author who was leagues ahead of the pack with a clearly written story, tension that was palpable, and a good character who's diagnosis was displayed decently without it being central to the story. I didn't have to google Italian Ice, I knew what it was, and you deserve some for the best entry of the week Nae, well done. HM's go to two people. Albatrossy_Rodent. Your story was weird and oddly powerful. Kept waiting to see what the metaphor was gonna be, and then there wasn't one. I accused one of your recent entries for a lack of courage. That was not a problem for this entry. Godspeed. HM Kaom. You stepped up and went for the silly choice. You also threw in an extra diagnostic for good measure and you squeezed in a good bunch of stuff into 500 words. Treat yourself to some bok choy soon. HM
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Dec 11, 2023 06:59
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Crits for Week #592 beep-beep car is go - Pushing Paper, Counting Beans: I don’t understand how Stick exists. What is this frame/support frame business? There’s not enough early on to paint a clear picture and without being able to conceptualize your protag’s presentation in some way, it makes it very hard for me to connect with them. That’s just the kind of reader I am but just know, you’ve kinda lost me. And it doesn’t help that essentially the story kind boils down to two entities in conflict that don’t really seem to care too much about one another in either direction. It’s just sorta this hostile interaction with an auditor and… a lean-to? And how it ends? Is this like.. An alternate version of the opening of The Phantom Menace? I don’t know. Anyway, needed more stuff. Albatrossy_Rodent - Chainsaw Hollow: The voice of this is compelling and is essentially the strength of the pice. It was a little tricky for me to parse what was actually happening and if that’s kind of intentional or not? Let’s run with it being odd and vague because that’s the interpretation I’m landing on. Accordingly, the story is honestly pretty terrifying and I’m not sure if it’s in a good way. You’ve got a protag who’s very young and the story glances at sex in a way that made me a bit uncomfortable to read. But then, it’s not really that and I’m not entirely sure what it’s supposed to be, but whatever it is, was pretty chilling in its own right? So I don’t know. The piece was definitely effective but I can’t quite pin down how I want to regard it and am looking forward to what my cojudges have to say. The Cut of Your Jib - frustum occlusion: The reading of this was laborious, in what feels like an intentional and murky sort of way. Of all the diagnostics to get this sort of framing, gambling disorder would not have been my guess. The odd breakdown in language is… curious? It’s not consistent enough to give it any sort of intentional umph and it’s not rare enough to make it seem like a typo. Oddly, it just kinda seems like this story was dictated, in the dark, from a tepid bathtub or something. The vibes of the story are odd and it’s honestly rather difficult to tell much of what’s going on here. derp - I was banned from the Oklahoma City Museum of Art for completely unfair reasons and treated very unfairly as a whole, due mainly to the fact that: You kinda do the reader a perverse sort of favore when you just submit a wall of text. My genuine, and I mean this, gut reaction is, ‘You’re giving me permission to hate this’. So from there, anything better is just a huge surprise. Let’s see how it goes. As it happens… I didn’t hate but I did find the struggle to read it not particularly helpful. Like I understood where this was going and that you wanted some contrast between the glass and whatnot and the satisfaction that could come with picking… I just don’t know that the form you chose helped with that as much as it made it more of a struggle to read. I want to feel stuff when I read stuff, sure, but I don’t want to feel annoyed at the author. Chernobyl Princess - Expectations: Found this a bit curious of a read. The ending felt like what I wanted the whole story to be but the beats prior to it don’t connect for me in a meaningful way. When the bear emerges, my heart did start pumping and I was worried, concerned, and bought it. But then… magic bunny? Did I miss something? Maybe I missed something. I don’t know if I missed something brawl me or whatever. But I don’t really get it. The friends get along well and I liked their back and forth enough but everything prior to that was just kind of standard I guess. Kid not understood or accepted by parents, yeah I don’t know. Felt a bit by the numbers. kaom - Flash Fry: Thank you kaom. I was hoping someone would rise to the occasion and you did. The story itself is fine enough, with the shop owner doing a pretty decent job of flashing that hoarding tendency. Not much to blast apart here as you disclaimed against. The story kinda is what it is. I think, with such a short wordcount to play with in this instance you do share a bit of attention on the shopkeeper and the customer and you would have done better if you picked one and stuck with them. Thranguy - Ricochet Vector: This started off so strong and then it became a bunch of and then mini vignettes, many of which could probably have been expand on as the entire story and I could see this being my favorite for the week. The dx was made to be kind of the main attraction. In a way, it almost felt like the story was written by looking at a list of BPD characteristics and then churning out a small example of one with a mini story. Nae - If You Don’t Know What Italian Ice Is, You Should Probably Google It Before Reading This Story In a weak week, writing a cohesive, compelling story that is clear and has some nicely defined tension is gonna be enough to take it down. Perhaps a little heavy on the DX but it’s shown effectively and resonated with me as I read it.
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Dec 11, 2023 06:59
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WEEK 593: THE GIFT THAT KEEPS ON GIVING THIS IS A NO LOSS/NO NEGATIVE MENTION WEEK BECAUSE JESUS DIED ON XMAS FOR YOU’RE SINS Happy Holidays, one and all! No matter what God you do or do not believe in, Capitalism is here to remind you that it’s the gift-giving season, and you need to give gifts to others. But hey, you might get a gift, too. Isn’t that be nice? This week, I want you to write selfishly: give yourself the coolest, sickest, most amazing gift you can imagine, then write me a story about what you’d do with it. I don’t want you boring me with ‘meaningful gifts’, though, like the return of lost loved-ones or the solution to your existential problems. This is a capitalist holiday, and I want you to give yourself some material goods and wasteful experiences, and I want you to have fun. No expenses, no guilt. Just an extremely good time for the holidays. So go ahead, Thunderdome: treat yourself to that Italian vacation you’ve always wanted, or that Batmobile or that mansion or that anteater (please Jesus), and write me a story about what you would do with it. Because really, how often do we let ourselves imagine absurd luxuries in earnest? We all deserve a little fun every once in a while; what better time than the holidays? Word limit: 1000 Deadline: Sunday at 11:59 PST, or whenever I wake up in the morning to shut it down. No erotica/no fanfic, though I’m not sure how you’d pull that off EDIT For clarification: 1) I wrote this prompt in the hopes that you guys would go autobiographical, but if you’re in a situation where you can’t or don’t want to think about something totally frivolous, you can write a story about a character getting an awesome gift, too. 2) You don’t need to worry about downsides if you don’t want to, or even reality! Maybe you’ve always wanted to dance in a famous ballet but you have like six kids and also you can’t dance. Your gift to yourself can be shoes that make you into an incredible dancer, and also they come with a competent babysitter who doesn’t charge and can be trusted implicitly and your kids love them, too. Don’t get bogged down in logistics on this one; this is your chance to handwave away hardship for a minute and do something you’ve always wanted to do. Take it! Nae fucked around with this message at 16:49 on Dec 11, 2023 |
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Dec 11, 2023 07:20
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Crits for this week: Pushing Paper, Counting Beans Structure: -If a paragraph is written from one character’s perspective and it’s followed by a quote, the reader assumes that the speaker is the character whose perspective we were following. -Dialogue tags (he said, she said) can be passe, depending on who’s critiquing, but clarity is king. -You have an arc! The story has a beginning, middle, and end. -Your characters mostly have motivations (The auditor audits, the ship rebels), which is a surprisingly major hurdle for a lot of flash fiction. The great thing here is that if you look hard into those motivations and see if they have a throughline that can be followed in the plot from beginning to end, you can also see where your plot and story are weak. In this case, it’s the motivation and action of the ship, which is a combination of too little too late and thin in general. Story: -Murderous spaceship gets audited -There’s a good amount of backstory here, but thankfully it’s fairly pat so I didn’t have to do a whole lot of guesswork. Still, your story doesn’t start until a good chunk through your piece. -If you read this story after writing it and thought that something felt off, here’s a guess: the protagonist is the ship, but the driver of the action is the auditor. This dynamic isn’t bad, exactly, but it requires some very strong writing to make sure that the ending doesn’t come too abruptly. -Biggest problem I have: if the ship already knows that they’re going to kill the auditor, why the back-and-forth that makes up the bulk of the story? Why does the ship protest and evade when its solution to being audited is so apparent (and evidently simple) from the start? Why do people in the future only sometimes use contractions? Chainsaw Hollow: Structure: -You have an arc! There’s a beginning, middle, and end. -Your protagonist has a motivation and undergoes a change in perspective from beginning to end! -If you did the above intentionally, well done. If you didn’t, seek to. -You use too many words. This is in an attempt to communicate your style, but the sentence structure gets tiresome the longer I read. Story: -Virginity, except it’s birds -There’s an audience for this style of story, probably, but it’s definitely not me. -It’s difficult to do a stream-of-consciousness story in the flash fiction format, because you end up spending so many words to communicate your style that you don’t have very many left for your substance. -You took a formative childhood experience, contrived a metaphor for it, then stretched that metaphor until it wailed to be taken out back and put down. If you swapped your metaphor for the experience that you were trying to depict, you’d have a very, very basic story. This means that your piece has to be compelling solely on the virtue of its style, which I don’t think it is. frustum occlusion Structure: -I read through this two and a half times looking for a couple things that are essential to a story: a protagonist whose motivations I can understand and an arc for that protagonist that carries that arc while being changed by it. I did not find these things. -I believe that a good flash fiction story (or heck, any good short story) should be able to be summarized in a hundred words or so. The hundred words should carry all the substance of your story, mostly (mostly) devoid of style. If you can’t do that, then you don’t have a story, but a pile of words. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but it’s not a story. Story: -Person fails college, dad bets. -You have a tremendous amount of set-dressing here. I get asides, I get some entertaining and colorful language, but I don’t get a story. As far as I can tell, your protagonist maybe failed their first semester, or got close, but no one really cares. Also, their father has a gambling debt, which is apparently consequential, or maybe it isn’t. -On the subject of the gambling debt: I think this is supposed to be the axis your story revolves around. Problem is, without more meat on the bone, it’s lost among other similarly colorful details. I was banned from… Structure: -This is entertaining and it’s kinda a story, in that I have a clear picture of the protagonist and the events which occur, but it could have gone for another page or three or been cut in half without changing its impact. -I don’t mind the block of text, because it’s consistent with the headspace of your protagonist. Story: -Man with psychiatric condition destroys art exhibit -Due to its lack of arc, this sort of story lives and dies by the entertainment value of the events within. From two or three sentences in, I understood that this piece would not move me or make me think, but existed solely to entertain sentence-by-sentence. This is a tall order. You did ok, but I am basically exactly the target audience for this story so who knows. Expectations Structure: -WHAM Priestess Ottavia of the Gilded Branches with a loving folding chair out of nowhere. You’ve gotta foreshadow a drop like that somehow. It’s such a wild tonal shift. -You have a cool idea for a world, a world with baskets and magic and bears and fishing. This is fine, but this isn’t worldbuilding dome, it’s thunderdome. That doesn’t exactly work, but you get me. You get to worldbuild as a treat for telling a good story, not the other way around. Story: -Girl can’t do magic, then does. -”Running now. Bee and Sandy were a flail of limbs and panic. Something was wrong with this bear, it was starving in the summertime when it should be getting fat on berries. More importantly, it was faster by far than a pair of teen girls.” This is where your story should start. There’s an old piece of TD wisdom that says you should cut the first 500 words of your story. In this case, absolutely correct. -Try rewriting this story from the quote I suggested and I’ll re-crit it. You can include absolutely everything about your worldbuilding, but you may find that if you start with action, it will flow much more naturally. Flash Fry Structure: -You have an arc! This story has a beginning, middle, and end. -The story seems thin, doesn’t it? It’s because your stakes are weak. If Gail doesn’t get bok choy, so what? She can use cabbage, or broccoli, or pitch the thing and order a pizza. The two tension points (the kids want it and she’ll look bad for not buying it) aren’t powerful enough to sustain any dramatic tension. Story: -Woman purchases produce, is extorted. -Okay, I think you’re going for a Shirley Jackson-style ‘this is an everyday occurrence but something is just a li-i-i-ittle off’. Problem is that I need more context. I see that you were leaning very heavily on your prompts, but I need that content in the story itself. Ricochet Vector Structure: -I waited and waited and waited for the actual story to start. They’re gonna meet Grievance NOW. No, NOW. Then it happened, in the second-to-last sentence. So what was all that stuff before it? -The story is written like a conversation, or an interview, but there’s no arc and there’s nothing driving the words forward. You ask a question, then you answer it. The protagonist doesn’t actually do anything, but talks about having done a bunch of stuff. Story: -A superhero memoir -The ‘story’, as it is, is a description of other occasions where things have actually happened. Overall, this reads to me like the opening to a much longer piece. Italian Ice Structure: -Your story has an arc! It has a beginning, middle, and end. -Your story has stakes! I care about your protagonist succeeding. -Your story isn’t bloated! It gets right down to business from sentence one. Story: -Man versus machine for ice cream stakes -This is a great example of a story’s stakes not needing to be world-ending to be compelling. I wanted that man to get his god-damned frozen treat. -A good story travels on ‘incremental perturbations’, sequential challenges that your protagonist faces in order to fulfill their arc. Your perturbations are a little one-note and a bit predictable in that they all go about where you expect. Not a bad thing, if done well, but the story didn’t surprise me. -I called the ending about ¼ of the way through the story. There’s probably something else you could have done there. -Overall, nice little thing. -BRAKES.
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Dec 11, 2023 07:20
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ty critters in
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Dec 11, 2023 07:43
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gently caress it in SurreptitiousMuffin fucked around with this message at 09:07 on Dec 11, 2023 |
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Dec 11, 2023 08:47
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Yeah, yeah. I'm in. Let's rock and roll.
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Dec 11, 2023 16:44
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In, toxx. The next two people to enter may request a dramatic reading/ad-libbed audio crit by me of any story from 2023.
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Dec 12, 2023 04:37
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Ooookay gotta be IN for that
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Dec 12, 2023 05:04
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i will take a dramatic reading of this one: https://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?threadid=4021140&userid=160102&perpage=40&pagenumber=1#post533243019
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Dec 12, 2023 07:14
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Yeah you didn't ask for us to post our gift upon signing up, but I'm doing it anyway because my gift is the best gift. In. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p8dC7807ma4
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Dec 13, 2023 05:27
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The Ballad of Croaky Bugchuck 1000 words From the moment the commercial came on over my bowl of dry Cheerios, I knew it was my destiny to own a Blurp Ball. The pleasing, squeeze of the greater ball outside, and the subsequent launch of the inscribed blurb inside tempted my imagination. It would shoot out like a rocket, and though I somehow knew the matching sound in the commercial wouldn’t follow me into reality. Even if it wasn’t there, I’d hear it. I’d hear it every time. The family’s Hannukah decorations served as a backdrop to the moment, and with it finally in my hands, I stood there, terrified to give it its maiden squeeze. Surely, the first time would be the best. My grandfather once told me to make sure that anytime a new pack of playing cards was opened, to try and be the first to riffle them. ‘One of life’s little treats’ he called it. This would be the same. I’d squeeze The Ball, launch The Blurp, and ascend to the ceiling in a spiritual experience that I’d later reckon would only be comparable to the first push of a heroin needle. I couldn’t waste it there. While my brother Darren was already tearing into his next present the limelight skated away from me. This moment either needed to be for everyone, or just for me. And with the attention darting around from person to person, and present to inferior present, now was not the time. I expected pressure. Pressure from one and all to be there and witness the wonder of the act. I got none. Those Philistines were not worthy, and I knew it. I snuck it into my pile of presents and hid my disappointment, all the while, feeling remarkably unseen and misunderstood by the people closest to me. ***** 11:50PM, I waited until I could be as certain as possible that the house was asleep. The click-clack from my brother’s incessant button mashing on his Gameboy had ceased, my father was sawing logs in the bedroom and my mother had long since lemon pledged her way through the entirety of the house. It was time to Blurp. As I withdrew it from my night-table drawer and I got to look at it, really look at it, I learned the true beauty of ugly. Croaky Bugchuck, while not the Blurp Ball I requested, was the Blurp Bal, I needed. It was green and gnarled with a plastic dribble of mucus pasted to its chin, its bulging yellow eyes would strike fear and dread into the soul of any who regarded it. But best of all was its Blurp. The munchkin-shaped house fly which would soon take its maiden flight across my bedroom and change the course of my life forever was a marvel to behold. Its sharp fire-engine red eyes glimmered in contrast to its bold blue body and it ripped right through my heart and I just wanted to squeeze it. But not that way, never that way. The maiden flight was to be done with intention. I aimed at the TMNT dartboard that hung crookedly over the inside of my bedroom door. I tilted ever so slightly above Krang, predicting a slight loss in height. I took a deep breath and settled myself gripped Croacky Bughchuck tightly and barely pushed my fingers inward… Weeeelllllllll…. The fly sang out as it flew from The Ball’s mouth, and I dropped it to the floor. We are but mere and humble toys The frog joined in with a booming baritone. And I hope we don’t annoys! The Fly echoed in a bluegrass holler. But we have some ‘portant things we needta tell ya, You squeezed him! Yes! You squeeze me! So we thank thee! Yes, we thank thee! Cos’ now we’re free, thank god for this Decembah! I had barely even squeezed The Blurp, and suddenly I was in the audience of a back-and-forth musical. The Blurp and The Ball seemed very intent on delivering their song though, and my mother had ingrained in me the value of being a good host, so I let them sing: Now listen here, my child My dear partner has compiled! The finest pearls of wisdom, for your young mind Let’s start off nice and easy, There’s no need to make you queasy! Your family doesn’t get you but they’re still kind The frog rolled over to my bed, bounced up on to it and perched itself atop my Baltimore Orioles pillow. The fly flew back over to him and they sat next to each other. But that you mighta known, I doubt your mind’s been blown! And we only have the day to do your bidding Wait, it’s 11:59! Oh dear god, we’re out of time! About those pearls I guess we were just- Life vanished from Croaky Bugchcuk and his partner, and they were still once again. The promised magic from the commercial had faded, and I was free to play with my toy. I picked up The Ball and loaded The Blurp. I again aimed at my dartboard and felt the scene I had witnessed slowly begin to tuck itself into my memories. This time, I squeezed hard. The Blurp shot out of The Ball as the geniuses at ERTL had designed. The sound wasn’t there, but in my head, I heard it. The mute and lifeless fly careened toward the bullseye on my dart board and struck it with a satisfying thud. The weight of the empty ball still felt satisfying in my hand and when I walked over and picked up the fly its heft surprised me. I smiled down at the duo of globular perfection. I needed no more words from them. They were perfect, and they were mine.
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Dec 13, 2023 15:09
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I'm in
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Dec 13, 2023 22:42
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Ride 995 words The bullet entered Ham’s skull just high of middle. It carved a steaming, spitting canyon of cauterized brain, and Gus fell to catch him. The body hit heavy on the big man’s shoulders, not even twitching, stone cold dead. Gus stooped, lifted, and took a shuddering breath. Fat loving Oliver had run Broadway Pawn since they’d been kids, been in a wheelchair when Gus had brought in his daddy’s watch last week, but he’d still be out the door in a second, right after slapping the silent alarm. Still, Gus kept his eyes shut tight as he waited for the jingle-jangle of the shop door, the insides of his lids blue-white from the solar flare of the muzzle. If he opened them, he’d see what he’d done, what he in no way meant to do. “I need a car,” he said, to Ham’s slackening corpse. “I need to get out of here. I need a car.” Still no Oliver, still no jangle, just the soft patter of rain on asphalt. Then, as Gus squinted one eye open, the car, the gift, appeared. It hadn’t been there when he and Ham had hopped off the bus, hadn’t been idling fumes in the vacant lot as they argued, Gus knew that. But now he had it, keys in the ignition: the car he’d begged for as a teen, though at that precise moment he cursed his younger self for not aiming higher. Gus dragged Ham into the passenger seat, hefting his boney hundred-fifty-odd pounds like they were nothing. A trunk would’ve been ideal, but the ‘89 Forswith Dakota had only ever come as a two-seater compact, power windows optional, cassette deck stock. Just before he threw the thing into drive, Gus whipped off his bucket hat and snugged it over Ham’s head, tilting it over the blood-slicked face, trying and failing to reapproximate the halves of his skull. He drove. A quarter mile later, Gus heard him. “Didn’t go right, huh.” Ham’s voice was scratchy and clipped, as if his brain were taking a trial-and-error approach to the synapses of speech. Gus let out a choked, involuntary sound, half chuckle and half yelp. He moved to scoot the hat from Ham’s face, but froze when the body let out a pained groan. “Sure about that, brother?” it asked. Gus took a left, still a good dozen miles from the highway. “You’re dead,” said Gus, not pulling his eyes from the road. “Probably so,” said Ham. “Always told ya, guns ain’t toys. Not meant to be twirled. And say, where’d ya get this ol’ bucket? Electric blue, half-stroke lawnmower engine under the hood.” “All I could think of,” said Gus, as he checked the rearview. “Whenever I think of cars.” “No imagination,” said Ham. “No trunk, neither.” “You’re dead,” repeated Gus. “Gonna rub it in, huh?” asked Ham. “Still, probably so.” The pair drove, Ham’s head lolling at every stop sign and Gus’s eyes roving, looking for a sign that they’d been found running. “Hey,” said Ham. “Gus, buddy, something’s drippin’ into my…and I can’t move my…oh. Oh, that’s a taste. That’s a fla-vor.” Gus’s stomach roiled. LeHigh Street would take them straight to the highway, then the interstate to Doc Steffey’s, and no one would be the wiser. “Like I’m lickin’ a nine volt,” continued Ham. “And every time I swallow, if what I’m doin’ is swallowin’, I can hear this fuzz. Ten-Two, Ten-Two, car eleven responding to a One-Ten. It’s a bust, Gussy, big mister ‘lectric blue One-Ten.” “It was an accident,” said Gus. His hand flew to the radio and he began spinning the dial, hitting the presets, jamming his pinkie into the tape deck. “That hurts,” said Ham. “C’mon, quit it.” Gus obliged. “I’m not guilty of anything,” he said. “Just a disagreement between friends, bad accident. Nothin’ intended, you know?” Ham made a sound like a cassette rewinding at high speed. “Oh yeah,” he said. “Two pals squabblin with a loaded pistol in a pawn shop parking lot. Me with Edie’s stocking in my back pocket, you with one already on your hubba-bubba face. But yeah, Officer Car Eleven on the One-Ten, nothin’ intended.” Gus slowed as he watched a blue light reflect off a building a few blocks back. The cop car cruised across the rearview, and was gone. “Although,” continued Ham, “if I’m still alive under this hat, maybe you and me can explain this away. I’d do that for you, Gussy. But hey, if you shot me dead and I’m just in your head, comin’ born from the same place as this car, you’re gonna fry. So whaddya say, gonna take a peek?” There, up ahead, Gus saw the sign. The 45 onramp laid just a few turns away, a mile at most. “Why’re you being that way?” asked Gus, taking a turn hard enough to make Ham pitch in his seat. “This morning it was ‘easy score’, ‘we’re in this together’, ‘fuckin fat Oliver’s never gonna miss it’. Shut up, goddamn, lemme concentrate.” “You shot me,” said Ham, after a pause. “And I can taste the police hopper inside my own juices, and you’re too much of a chickenshit to look under the hat. I mean, I wanna know ‘least as bad as you do. Besides, I haven’t said a word.” Gus took the last quarter mile with a lead foot, winding the onramp and threading onto the highway. As he crested that last rise to wide road, his heart leapt, fluttered, and cratered. Gus saw the blockade, the reds and blues flashing in the rain, the men in uniform half-in and half-out of their squad cars. He pulled the Dakota to a stop. With a last glance at the line of law, he pushed the hat to the floormat and beheld the dead man, his face a mess of gore and eyes already going chalky, but reflecting just the barest hint of light. “So?” asked Ham. “Whaddya think?”
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Dec 14, 2023 01:45
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Don't worry about it. 999 Words. My buddy up in Canada - the current head of the Alberta Aspen Owners Association - buys Japanese eWaste and flips it for a tidy side income. He knows that I am of similar proclivities and lets me know when he gets some really perverted poo poo. He called me last week, and for once, even he didn’t know what it was. “I dunno, it was in the back of the sea can, says NEC on the side, and looks nothing like a PC98 inside the case. You can have it for the cost of shipping.” Not one to ever say no to free vintage computer equipment, I PayPaled him fifty bucks and he shipped it down. A week later it was in my possession. It smelled like volatile organic compounds, ozone, and ancient nicotine. After verifying the battery was good, I plugged it in and let it charge. An hour or so later I turned it on, and was greeted with the LCD displaying Japanese and English characters. Before I could even start to type, there was a sound like fabric ripping, but reversed. I felt a presence behind me and turned to see… myself. It couldn’t be, but It was me for sure. Older, with more gray hair, and tattoos that were only slightly hidden by my shirt, but it was me. “Hi Joe! It’s Joe!” he said, waving brightly. I unconsciously took a step back. “Uh, Hello? What are you... Am I? Are you? Doing here?” Still smiling, he gestured to the computer. “That is a time machine. As near as I can tell, it really was made by NEC, but they never did anything with it. I’m here to show you how to use it and invite you to a party.” “Wait. You’re going to show me how to use the time machine? Won’t that set up a paradox?” The other me held up his hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it.” This was wild, but the thought of getting to use a time machine was tantalizing. Fine, I’ll play along. “How do I know you’re me?” “Remember the time you stuck the candy thermometer in the flame on the stove because you wanted to see how high it got, and then took it out and it shattered and you lost all the mercury, but didn’t tell anyone, and nobody ever noticed the candy thermometer was gone?” Ugh. I did remember. “Okay fine.” He spent an hour showing me how to work the time machine. It was completely self contained, and charged off regular wall power. “Okay, now that you know how to use the thing, it’s time for the party. I’ll enter in the address this time, but you’re going to run it from here on out.” He bent over my machine and typed for a second. “There. Just activate it like I showed you. I’ll see you in a minute.” He straightened up and stretched his back. “I know me. You’re thinking a lot of stuff about time and paradoxes and stuff. Let me reiterate: Don’t worry about it.” He waved and there was that sound like ripping fabric and he was gone. I stared at the machine. The fact that he showed up means that I used the machine, so does that mean that I have no choice but to use it? I dithered a moment about just putting it away and never using it to see what would happen. But no, I'm too curious. I sighed and pressed the button. When I pressed it, I didn’t hear the fabric sound, but I saw something change in my peripheral vision. I was in a convention hall, full of people. Everyone was… me. Thousands of people, all me. They all looked, sounded and even dressed like me. Different ages, some different hairstyles, a few different styles of glasses, but all things I liked and could see myself choosing. Each one was wearing a badge with a number on it. The older me, the one with the tattoos waved and rushed over. “You made it! I knew you would. Here, take this.” He pressed a digital badge into my hands. Looking down, the eInk on the badge formed the number twenty three. “What’s the number?” “Your year. We’re all Joe, so names don’t work, so we just call each other the year we came from.” He showed his badge: 66. “Remember the most important thing: don’t worry about it.” He rushed off, waving. “Just mingle. You’ll figure it out!” I looked out at the crowds. I shouted after him, “There’s way more than one hundred something of me. Who is everyone else?” Another me walked over as 66 left. I looked at his badge: 30-5. “If more of us are here, then your number gets appended with a month.” He gestured at his badge. “I’m from May of 30. Glad you could make it 23! I’m 30 dash 5. I’ve been doing this for a few years, so I thought I’d show you around.” A me walked by carrying a tray of drinks. Their badge said 13-10. “Hey 23. Glad you could make it. Would you like a drink?” I took one. It was a gin and tonic. I took a sip and the sharpness of the lime combined with the pine essence of the gin perfectly. It was easily the best G&T I ever had. But of course it was, I made it, didn’t I? “13-10? But I didn’t know about the time machine then?” 13 winked. “Yeah, but 13 was a good year for me, so I moved back and have been living there for a while. You’ll see. We’re from all over. Don’t worry about it.” I looked over at myself. 30-5 was watching me, knowing full well the decision I was going to make. After all, he already did it. I would eventually figure it all out, wouldn’t I? After all, I had all the time in the world.
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Dec 15, 2023 17:40
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In
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Dec 16, 2023 02:57
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In
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Dec 16, 2023 03:17
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Week 593: The gift that keeps on giving One Week Getaway 561 words I’ll move into my undersea volcano lair the Monday after quitting my 9-5 because when you inherit a supervillain’s home, you also inherit their job. (What do you mean, who’s paying me? That’s very… personal.) Entrance will require a submarine because the roof is lava. The hallways will be tubes left behind by former flows. The cavernous, purposeless rooms will be lined with glass portholes so that guests can see sharks drifting by, waiting. All furniture will be oversized and incomprehensibly uncomfortable. There will be a washroom but I’ll cover every surface with my self portrait, judging you for using it. Tuesday will be for scheming. I’ll introduce myself to fellow shadowy cabals as Lava Lobster, Lady of Leduc. (Pronounced “le duke”—this is a Canadian joke.) I’ll wear Alexander McQueen armadillo shoes and a flaming red suit with a sequinned mask because no one will have the guts to utter the word “restraint” in my presence. The others will compliment me on my charming accent and I will entertain offers of alliance while cannily refusing to commit to anything too particular. It’s best to stay flexible and true to myself. Hump day sucks so I’ll spice it up by cruising around the North Pole in my nuclear submarine and melting ice with lava jets to spell out ominous riddles, causing an international incident with breathless media coverage. It will get people out of work for a bit and, more importantly, put me on the radar. Literally. I’ll hear word on Thursday that my ignominious predecessor cracked in confinement and revealed my location. The game will soon come to my hunting grounds. Friday I’ll install the lasers. Batman will arrive on Saturday. All his puns will be about hockey and I’ll despair at the disrespect shown to my theming. Nothing about Albertan seafood? For shame. (Quick geography lesson: it’s landlocked. Lava Lobster must necessarily be an eastern import and imposter.) But it will all make sense when Batman reveals that he already knows all about my plot to kidnap (NHL commissioner) Gary Bettman and hold him ransom in exchange for the early dissolution of Connor (generational hockey talent) McDavid’s contract with the Edmonton Oilers so that he can play for my team instead, because I’m not from Alberta at all! A dastardly plot emboldened by legalized sports betting! Then it will be my turn. What Batman won’t know is that I already have Bettman in hand, and the sharks are circling. (Here I’ll make a clever joke about betting and Bettman and possibly also Batman if I’m really on point. This is a supervillainy job duty.) Everyone has fallen into my trap—and I’ll activate the lasers that will entomb them in a watery grave unless my demands are met. But of course, I’ve underestimated my foe. Batman will have developed the Bat Bulwark, an armoured submersible capable of diving through lava to enter my secret lair through the roof against all odds—and I’ve forgotten about Robin! I’ll battle them both, using my height and ridiculous heels for high kicking opportunities, but ultimately I’m no match. Ii will turn out I really should have partnered with someone, after all… flexibility alone isn’t enough. By Sunday my reign of terror will be over. The lair, however, will remain until my return. There’s always next week—same bat time, same bat channel.
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Dec 16, 2023 05:42
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The best story, just an obvious win candidate right here, you're welcome 912 words One day when I was a kid, about nine or ten or so, I was walking the dog in the woods behind the house when I came across a glowing sword sticking out of an ornate pedestal. I did not know at the time that it was the Master Sword of Legend of Zelda fame; my mother ran a strict no-consoles-but-infinite-PC-games-for-some-reason household. Still, I thought swords were cool: it was either the summer after or the summer before Fellowship, and Sword Fever was in the air all across America. I picked it up and swished it around at fake goblins for half an hour then hid it from my safety-conscious mom behind a bunch of stuff no one ever used in the garage. In the coming years I would indeed play the Legend of Zelda games and learn what sword it was. My brother stole an N64 from his volunteer gig at the women’s shelter’s thrift store and I bought Ocarina with quarters from the GameStop across the street from the McDonalds and that was that: I was a Zelda Guy. I assumed the sword was a replica. Sure, it glowed when I drew it, and the ornate pedestal was gone when I revisited that part of the woods, but vagrants have done weirder stuff in that forest, all told. When I went to college I took the sword with me to hang on my dorm wall and it turns out by that point (either in the times or my age) that Sword Fever was super over. The sword was as much of a signifier of my personality as my fedora or the suit vests I liked to wear over my T-shirts, an item that radiated both virginity and a stubborn willingness to continue virginity. I thought it was neat. Well, you know where this is going. You've seen the news, maybe even lost some people in the war. That devastating day in 2014, October the First, when the world changed forever as the bokoblins invaded. Miyamoto had tried to warn us when he made a video game to reflect his boyhood experience battling octoroks in the Japanese woodlands, but we didn't listen. Millions of people were lost when they approached the bokoblins because they looked like such cute little guys. I had just been on a pretty mid date with a girl, Adrienne, a couple nights before. Despite the relative mediocrity of the date, I was pretty desperate to keep things going. Getting laid is supposed to be easy in college, and that stereotype was accurate for seemingly everyone but me and the pre-med students. I kept texting her and getting a little bit of “yeah” and a lot of “not really” in response. Quickly after the invasion, while we were in lockdown in our dorm rooms, my friend Trevor texted me to let me know Adrienne had been taken by bokoblins to the Regenstein Library, which was under Ganon’s control. Of course the forces of evil would use that perfect example of brutalism as their base of operations. It would seem obvious in hindsight that I shouldn’t go on a dangerous rescue mission for a girl I didn't really like. But god drat it, I was a still a virgin in my senior year of college and not for lack of trying and it's not like I was ugly so every day of my continued virginity was proof that I just sucked. And I didn't think that saving Adrienne would mean that she'd gently caress me in gratitude or whatever but I was kinda hoping for a second date. So I picked the sword off the wall and made the familiar walk to that gently caress-ugly library. When I pulled up to the Reg, Ganon was on the roof in classic pig-dude-with-tridents form. “So the Hero of Legend has come to challenge me at last,” he cackled. Sure, I guess. I walked through the revolving doors, and let me tell you, I absolutely mowed through those blins of mo- and boko-. It was fuckin rad. The sword glowed in the presence of Ganon and did sixty damage against the bokos’ thirteen HP. They didn't stand a fuckin chance. The puzzles were harder. In order to unlock the door to the staircase, I had to use the library’s electronic system to locate a certain book. I was more of “cite the sources listed on Wikipedia” sort of researcher, and had never actually checked out a book from the school library before. I did it, but it took like forty-five minutes. Then came an easy boss rush. Yeah, I get it, I have to slash the conspicuously placed eye. Not a whole lot to say about the Ganon fight. You've seen it on the news or YouTube, I'm sure. He kept throwing orbs of magic at me and I tennised the poo poo out of it until he was dead or sealed by ancient magic or something. All across the world, everyone cheered my name and many people actually said my suit vest actually looked good over my T-shirt actually, which is a correct opinion imo. Adrienne gave me a polite hug. I asked her if she wanted to go on a second date and she said no. And I mean, it's not like the main problem with our first date was that I hadn’t killed enough bokoblins, was it? It was for the best.
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Dec 17, 2023 04:09
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Week 593 Submission Sides of the Same 996 words “Alright, One-Eyed Jack, reach for the stars.” Flashback: poker table. Sweat rolls a clean streak down Jack’s cheek, drips into a dusty shot a rye. Stitched up a string a banks in Callyforny, bearer bonds strapped to his chest like a banker’s waistcoat. Enough maybe, that the planned reservoir would be diverted around the town, give the locomotive king a run, for once. With a million simoleons, we’d speak the same language. J. Piermont didn’t care about Meadow Springs, he was writing his own apocrypha, the Book of Midas, taking great pains to see that Midas emerged an unscathed prophet. A little tithe would be right up his nave. Folks dump pocketwatches, rings, lockets. When I plop the town treasure on pitted oak, Jack curls in curiosity at the rough stones, the size and color of healthy raspberries. “You’re right, not rubies. Never seen anything like it, huh? That’s red beryl, Jack. Twenty times rarer than gold. Maybe the only place to get em is right here.” “Everything I got,” he says. Except those dusty aces and eights are marked, and there’s nothin an entire community’s willpower can do. But we bargain. The express route to easy street is a little skim. He derails the wheels of progress, and we devein the bones of the world. So Jack agrees to a fiefdom. The haze of montage. Waters rush in, but Meadow Springs is an oasis primed on the route that becomes 66. Forty-niners funnel through. Cobblestone streets, the general store becomes a coast-to-coast trading post. A casino, a brothel. The priest crosses himself and shakes his head. Jack sits in the spire, flipping tables when he doesn’t like the numbers. Punching a saloon girl when he really doesn’t like them. There’s worse. Jack’s patronage is soon abusive paternalism. He drunkenly roams the streets, pistol careening across the purple horizon. None of us like the new way, but some outlaws simply can’t adjust. Little Nell comes out of the hotel, clutching a cornhusk doll and says the simple, “Mister?” He grabs her by the ponytail and flings her across the fresh stones. That’s enough. “Alright, you sunuvabitch. Sober up. Tomorrow you die.” Tolerance is a funny thing, and you never know when your breaking point will be. But you reach it, eventually. Jack smiles, as crooked as his soul. “Finally.” I said reach for the stars way back in the present. He did the opposite, going for the holstered Colt, and I popped him square in his good eye. The camera 180s around the epicenter of villainy. Through the gape from the .45 slug I saw my own consternated face. Killing wasn’t pretty, and I couldn’t help but feel this was a sequence that could have been avoided if I hadn’t been so clever to start, and so chickenshit after. Little Nell pulled the eyepatch off, and dug The Glory Beryl from his lifeless socket. The town was saved, not from the hot press of progress, but at least from one petit tyrant, today. It’s time to wrap. I step through the door. The camera floats above the ceiling fan, trickery of the impossibly high ceiling fisheyeing the couple in bed, as far apart as they can be in a California King, as the slow blades strobe black frames. The ambient hum of the motor is the only sound, until the shuffling of starched sheets as she turns over and looks at his open-mouthed profile. She mouths the words. “I don’t love you anymore.” Clanking of morning pans in the stainless sink, and the shuffling of eggs onto square plates. The ambience is so loud. The kid comes down the hallway, bunny-backpack bouncing with each hopscotch step and Nell spends a cute moment struggling onto the tall barstool to have her breakfast. She pours a shot of amaretto syrup into Nell’s milk, and a drip into his black coffee. She swaps bottles and pours the proof kind into her own mug. He stares and she doesn’t break the contact. His breath is louder than Nell crunching strips of toast. “I’ll be late tonight,” he says. “Mmm.” Non-committal. A response that isn’t a response, and barely an acknowledgement. It’s already fuzzy when she watches Nell gets the bus through the screen door. He’s been gone for a few. She cranks the stereo, her favorite song, and dances with the vacuum, shag rug draped across laminate wood. The Macbook is as sterile on her lap as the rest of the house. Chapter Five, but all she can focus on is the blinking cursor. There is/was a start. She doubts she’ll finish it as she slams the screen shut and flips the laptop onto a glass table. Out. She sees her own face through a window as solid and clean as the table. The clerk waves, excitedly. Her last book is still on the bestsellers. It’s just a sideshow on the way to the main event. There’s doubt Pap has ever read a book that wasn’t about the guns of doubleyew doubleyew two. The bar is old wood, lined with a flaking vinyl cushion around the edge for elbows and spills. Most parts are just that grid of lining underneath, like windowscreen over a foam. He lines them up. Two shots of bourbon, a diet Coke, then another shot. Her eggs were scraped into the sink an hour ago. She wakes just before Nell arrives. Cereal for dinner. When he returns, there’s lipstick on his collar. She drags Nell out to the cul-de-sac and collapses on the pavement. “Mum?” “Pack your backpack. You want to stay in a hotel tonight?” “Will we come back home?” “It’s home where you are, baby.” It’s time to wrap. I step through the door. “Pretty dark. How’s the second one end?” “There’s no clear resolution, it’s Oscar bait. Get a nomination for sure. Pretty juicy role.” “It’s your studio. Greenlight both? Who are you thinking?” “Thinking me for both roles. Don’t want to get pigeonholed.”
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Dec 17, 2023 19:23
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several wishes 900 w If I had one Christmas wish it would be that Justice existed and was immediate, and that I was its executor, and the wages of sin would be death, and I would collect those wages with a sledgehammer. I would fly down from the sky like Thor and with a single swing I’d crush the skulls of charlatans and scammers, of soldiers and rapists, of landlords and leaders, I’d crush and pop them open like a blueberry pressed on the roof of my mouth, and I would never stop, and I would never tire of crushing, immediately, instantly after their sick deed is done crushing the vile skulls of drug pushers and human traffickers, of dictators and their sycophants, of racist cops and their enablers, and I would never grow tired, just the reverse, each blood spatter swing would energize like a hot pepper to the brain, like a needle full of espresso, swing splat swing splatter and the heads of sex pests and presidents, the heads of every leader who turns a blind eye to genocide, of every wielder of power gleefully watching the world die around them would SPLATTER and no longer would the funders and endorsers of mass murder live to ripe old ages and no longer would poisoners and pillagers be rewarded for their evil and vile and revolting lives with more and more life and more comfort and more pleasure but instead they would ALL have their SKULLS CRUSHED by my HAMMER INSTANTLY and - I found a mystical gem in an ancient grave and I asked for the power of teleportation, like in that book Jumper or in many other movies and shows, the ultimate freedom, the ultimate dream of anyone who has ever been trapped or felt the desperate need to get away, that was my wish. When the gem crumbled to dust in my hands I felt the simmering power within, and I knew I could go anywhere. I closed my eyes and thought of the clearest memory of a certain beach in sunny Mexico, white sand, warm greenblue waters lapping my feet, and suddenly I’m there, with the slightest gust of displaced air I’m on the beach, my shoes are getting wet and so I kick them off and stroll out into the surf, waves soak me, sunlight warms, then realization grips me--anywhere! anywhere! anywhere! and I’m gone and appearing, drenched in seawater that dribbles around my bare feet as I stare into the placid face of the Mona Lisa for three seconds then gone, to the Altitude1 rooftop bar in Singapore, music blasting 64 stories high, dancing for thirty seconds hip to hip in the crowd, water indistinguishable from sweat, then sprint to the guardrail and vault over, plummet straight down thirty stories, forty, forty five stories of rushing hot air and then gone, appearing at the top of Everest, seawater freezing on my skin, pain searing through my lungs, gasping on the icy oxygen-thin air for five seconds then gone, back to the beach, warm waves for a few seconds to clear the chill, then gone, gone, gone, gone - I wished for the power of reading because there are too many books, but what if I could read as fast as I could turn the pages, and with no loss of comprehension or delicious appreciation? I wished, and it was so, and I opened a book from my shelf, turning the pages with luxurious ease, as if looking at a picture book of the finest art, and each beautiful display of black squigglies was fully absorbed and consumed and subsumed and integrated into my soul within seconds, and I could read 30 pages in a minute, multiple books per hour, and my shelves were consumed in days and whole library shelves eaten per visit and I could not and would not stop. Then by chance I found one day that my new power included the ability to read any book in this way, even in languages I could not speak, no matter the shape of the words I could read and understand them all, everything, everywhere, cuneiform tablets, the Voynich manuscript, ancient symbols carved on cave walls, all text was mine to eat, mine forever, - And when the light faded, I knew my wish had been granted, my fingers and mind were more limber than ever before, I sat at the keyboard and - flow! The power to write at 100 words per minute, not just type, you see, but write, fully realized prose, no backspacing, no editing, lush descriptions and perfect word choices poured out as fast as I knew how to type. A pure mind-to-page pipeline, no filter, no translating and manipulating and massaging and sanding down and polishing, it all came out perfect, and I did not tire, I did not wane, only when my fingers physically cramped did I have to stop. 6000 words per hour, full novels in a matter of days, all exactly how I envisioned them, pouring out for the rest of my life - I wished that I was happy, that I was content with my life, with what I had and what I did, that I could simply be without worrying or wanting, that I could love and be loved without conditions or confusions. And my wish came true, and I live, I laugh, I love, and everything is wonderful, so wonderful that I don’t feel the need to write anymore.
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Dec 17, 2023 19:41
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https://thunderdome.cc/?story=11562&title=Dragon+Kin
curlingiron fucked around with this message at 01:55 on Jan 2, 2024 |
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Dec 18, 2023 06:52
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Engineered Away 669 words “The optimist proclaims that we live in the best of all possible worlds; and the pessimist fears this is true.” -James Branch Cabell The first thing anyone sensible is going to do once they've gotten a time machine is to head straight for the future, a nice part of the future where they have universal healthcare and medicine that makes ours look medieval, or even worse, Victorian by comparison. Get yourself a twenty-three year old body, set your brain up to where it was at thirty-five or so but with the linguistic neuroplasticity of a teenager. Tweak your metabolism to close match your diet, accounting for your nanomechanical immune supplement and healing coordinators. A couple of problems, though. The future is ever in flux, and most of the time when you pop a thousand years forward you end up in some neocretatious hellscape with jungles full of meter-wingspan insects enjoying the thick, hot, damp climate. Or just plain old apocalyptic wastelands. This is why a proper time machine needs a well-shielded core and plenty of sensors and viewscreens to consult before opening the door. The other problem is that when you do find a decent future, well, when you show up at the free rejuvenation clinic with an internal biome full of extinct pathogens, a gut full of animal products, and you've been paying for incidentals by the finders fee on equally antique media thought lost to bitrot long ago, well, you tend to attract the attention of certain people. And by certain people I mean other time travelers. And by attract the attention of I mean get drafted by. “Don't you know there's a war on, son?” The meat thing is why I don't live in the future. People there tie themselves in knots over you. They want to be horrified but they also are ashamed of themselves for not understanding your cultural traditions, which they also mostly hate but don't think they should be allowed to hate now that they're mostly extinct. It's a whole package of mess. When people ask you how you got your time machine, the best answer is always “My future self gave it to me, along with the plans, before dying or fading into nothingness.” It's simple, possible, and not easy to disprove. Less trouble than the truth, most of the time. You don't want to try explaining to them about wishes or Christmas magic. They might think you're crazy, or worse, they might believe you. So you get drafted. You're a battleground native, see. This is the Third Time War. The first one was around the World Wars, and after that wrapped up nothing that far back could be changed anymore. You can visit the past, but the only way you'll affect anything is if you were already part of that, already in a predestination paradox before you were even born. The Second Time War was over the cold War. Anything weird about the Kennedy Assasinatiob you've heard about? Time travelers. That secretary Lincoln was one of ours being lazy with their cover identity. You've noticed it, right? Things getting weird a few years ago and not letting up? That's when these years, 2016 to 2029 became the front of the newest time wars. There's about four major future histories that have time travelers who like the kind of world they're in, plus some minor factions like the pure nihilists, the colonize-the-year-million crowd, and a gang of actual Time Nazis who fled to a post-apocalypse and set up shop. Messing with everything, reifying the post-facts nature of the world. It's a better war than most. You know who the good guys are, mostly. You sure as hell know who the bad guys are. Violence isn't often part of it. “We don't shoot babies,” said my Sergeant, “When we can just cockblock their daddies.” And every time you take leave up in the future, you know what you're fighting for, you know there's hope, you know this better time is still possible.
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Dec 18, 2023 08:13
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The Dome is Closed!
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Dec 18, 2023 16:38
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Congrats to all who participated in this week’s dome! I don’t remember how to format a winner’s post or any of that poo poo, and I’m too lazy to look it up, so I’ll just say the winner is: curlingiron! curling’s story satisfied the prompt and functioned as its own story, which was not something everybody could handle this week. That’s fine with me, since this is a no loss/no dm week, but I still gotta reward the good stuff and my co-judge agrees. To that end, we’re also handing out an HM to derp for ‘several wishes,’ but FYI derp, next time I judge, if I see you do stream of consciousness again, I’ll come to your house and DM you by force. Crits: chili: Hey. I remember these things! This story followed the prompt on a week when some struggled and I genuinely felt the excitement and fun. The singing section didn't quite land for me, since it felt like a reference to something I wasn't getting. Still, all in all, I'd have to say this story made me want to blurp. Carl Killer Miller: This satisfied the gift portion of the prompt, but it really lost the elements of fun I was looking for. Prose was decent, though, and I enjoyed some of the imagery. Beep-Beep: A fun concept and a useful gift! It felt like the story was just getting started when things ended. I would have enjoyed it a lot more if the whole thing had been condensed to the opening third or so, and the rest of the time explored the convention of selves. Kaom: This is how I expected a lot of the entries to read: more like laundry lists than narratives, but with heart and excitement that shows the author's enthusiasm for the gift. This doesn't function that well as a story, but for satisfying the prompt, I feel like I got my money's worth. Albatrossy Rodent: It satisfies the prompt and also has a decent enough narrative arc, but it could’ve used another round of editing for pacing and general tightness. I am a big Zelda fan (hence the avatar), though, so you get some serious points with me personally for that. As for the title, I once submitted a paper for english class called 'A Paper For All Seasons', so I'm clearly into for that kind of bullshit. The Cut of Your Jib: One of the many TD stories I've read where my first thought is 'I'm too dumb to understand it', and that dumbess gives way to relief when I realizes no one else can understand it, either. Was it a movie being filmed? What was going on? derp: I think the beginning is a little too off-tone for what I was looking for, though I guess we all have different definitions of 'fun.' And honestly, I can't say I disagree with the sentiments expressed. The rest of the story is interesting enough and relatable enough that it elevates the piece beyond the questionable intro, but on a week when other people hit the prompt better, I can't give this piece the win. curlingiron: The clear winner for me. Solid tone, solid structure, fits the prompt, and was genuinely a joy to read. It made me want to hatch a baby dragon in a little nursery (and to buy nutrient-rich gold coins, which is my favorite story detail of the week). Thranguy: Cool concept, but pretty dry compared to some of the other entries. It feels like a chunk of exposition you'd get as part of a larger scene, rather than a story that stands on its own.
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Dec 18, 2023 20:46
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Week 594: Fun Things With Magic Hi Thunderdome! I didn’t mean to win this week and any prompt ideas I might have had flew out of my brain immediately, so instead I’m just going to ask you to write what I’d like to read, which is fun things with magic. That’s it, that’s the prompt. Because it is so broad, however, I will allow you to request up to three flash rules, in three different categories: -A problem -A kind of magic -A Vibe The first two are self-explanatory, and are there mainly to help you if you want additional guidance. The third will be in the form of a song that I like. If you choose to request a Vibe, you do not need to take the song’s lyrics into account. In fact, I would really prefer that you did NOT incorporate the lyrics directly, although of course I can’t stop you. Just try to listen to the music and see how it makes you feel. Because it’s very close to Christmas (so there are likely to be fewer entries) and because I’m very dumb, there is no word limit this week, but please keep in mind that I am very likely to become exponentially crankier the longer I read. I also don’t mind if you just write a vignette, so don’t worry too much about making a complete story (although doing so might earn you extra points, who knows; I am a capricious creature). No signup deadline, but no flash rules after Friday December 22nd, 11:59 PM PST. Submission deadline is Sunday December 24th, 11:59 PM PST. Also maybe don’t expect judgment until the 26th, because, y’know. Judges: curlingiron Rodentia Chili-Billi Magickers: beeper -- Vibe: Kenshi Yonezu: Kickback; Magic: Alchemy Thrangles -- Vibe: TWRP: Starlight Brigade; Magic: space and dimensional magic The People's (Chernobyl) Princess -- Problem: a rampaging creature; Vibe: The Faint: Southern Belles in London Sing Jibblets -- Problem: A Missing Mentor; Magic: the ability to create and modify living things; Vibe: Yoko Kanno: Yogensha Prophet rohandsome -- Problem: Lake Kuiperior -- Vibe: Susumu Hirasawa: The Girl In Byakkoya; Problem: Something vital has broken kurona bologna -- Problem: unstuck in time; Magic: dream magic ??? curlingiron fucked around with this message at 16:15 on Dec 19, 2023 |
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Dec 18, 2023 21:18
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I’m in. Gimmie a vibe and a kind of magic please.
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Dec 18, 2023 21:26
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beep-beep car is go posted:I’m in. Gimmie a vibe and a kind of magic please. Vibe: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M2cckDmNLMI Magic: alchemy
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Dec 18, 2023 21:30
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In, vibe and kind of magic
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Dec 18, 2023 21:34
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In give me a problem and a vibe please
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Dec 18, 2023 21:39
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thunderdome winner
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inbominable all the rules please 
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Dec 18, 2023 21:41
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Thranguy posted:In, vibe and kind of magic Vibe: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j6hAqPdz5lE Magic: space and dimensional magic
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Dec 18, 2023 21:42
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Chernobyl Princess posted:In give me a problem and a vibe please Problem: A rampaging creature Vibe: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nSQFOJQYIZ4 The Cut of Your Jib posted:inbominable Problem: A missing mentor Magic: the ability to create and modify living things Vibe: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-e-Li1JezKA
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Dec 18, 2023 21:46
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I am a judge
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Dec 18, 2023 21:48
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in, problem and magic please
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Dec 18, 2023 22:03
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Week 593 - The Crits That Keep On Giving chili - The Ballad of Croaky Bugchuck: The story begins with a premise that seems like the story will be about obtaining the blup ball, but that’s easily obtained. Then, there seems a disconnect between the narrator and his family, but that isn’t explored either. Instead, the blub ball breaks into a duet (not a ballad, imo). The singing balls come out of nowhere. Despite the story saying “The promised magic from the commercial had faded,” promised magic is not actually referenced in the opening. If you’re relying on me to know any of the toys and pop culture of the 90s—sorry, I wasn’t allowed to watch TV as a kid, so if you want me to know something, it has to be in the story. The idea that the ball has prepared a long, moral-packed song and runs out of time is amusing, but whatever humor the piece attempts largely doesn’t land for me. This fits the prompt, in that it clearly fulfills a wish of sorts and the character has no regrets, but overall, the story doesn’t land that well for me. Carl Killer Miller - Ride: This story does not fit the prompt, which says “I want you to have fun… no guilt. Just an extremely good time….” There’s a gift. I don’t think the narrator has fun. Setting that aside, how does the story perform on its own merits? Well, the idea isn’t bad—it’s about a down-on-his-luck robber who shoots his friend, maybe on accident, and then is afraid to know if he killed him or not. It’s about him coming to terms with the consequences of his actions. The story starts with a mundane premise, but quickly has a bunch of inexplicable magic: A car that appears, and the corpse talking. The story explains nothing about this; the ‘corpse talking’ could just be Gus’s brain making up the conversation, but he clearly is driving a physical car. Another problem is the clarity of the story. While the intro puts us right in the action with the fatal shot, what the hell is going on and where it is and who is even present is unclear for quite some time. For a long time, the reader has no context. At first I thought Oliver was Ham’s real name, but that’s not the case. Then I thought it was an actual accident where Gus was twirling a gun, as hallucinatory Ham describes, only that’s not the case either. Only when you get to the paragraph that begins with “’Oh yeah,’ he said. ‘Two pals squabblin…’ do I actual know what went down, and that’s far too late in the story. The story ends with the revelation Ham is actually dead, but it seems the story should continue with how Gus feels about this and what he does next; I don’t know what the extended corpse-conversation does, and I don’t know why Oliver is a character. I think there’s potential in this story, but it needs some revisions to shine. beep-beep car is go - Don't worry about it.: Interesting choice to have a period in the title; I don’t know that it’s needed. A great deal of the story is explaining the time machine, where it came from, and how you definitely don’t need to know how time travel works or about paradoxes. I don’t know that it’s the interesting part. There’s a lot of Joe, but narrator Joe is our main Joe, and we don’t really learn much about his thoughts about all this, how he feels, and what he plans to do (except hold a party at some point). You can spend some time on the look and feel of the time machine, but the setup is about half the story and can easily have a lot cut. This fits the prompt in that it’s a gift to have fun with, and Joe is going to have fun in the future, but present Joe doesn’t actually get to that part, so the story feels a bit purposeless and incomplete in the end. kaom - One Week Getaway: This fits the prompt well: The main character gets a neat gift and clearly has fun with it. This piece attempts humor, but it falls flat for me. (Humor is hard.) There’s a bit too much of explaining jokes—that you need so many parentheticals means the humor is probably too niche. Maybe it would work in a local magazine. My nitpick is that some of the science doesn’t work here: radar doesn’t detect submarines or ice anomalies, and you would probably not be shooting lava out of a submarine because lava is liquid rock. (Yes, I know there's an underwater volcano base, but you establish suspension of disbelief through internal consistency, and if you have lava tubes they you clearly know how lava works.) The story has a beginning, middle, and ending, but so much of the piece hinges on humor that when the humor doesn’t land, the story falls flat too. There’s also a lot more room with the word-count to play. Would the story be better served with actual dialogue and scenes, rather than just explaining? Maybe the emotions and joy of the character would come across better if we were present with them as they joyously watch Batman grapple across their fortress to confront them. Humor is especially difficult to get across in writing, I think, so I don’t have much advice other than ‘read Dave Barry columns or the Onion and see what they do.’ Albatrossy_Rodent - The best story, just an obvious win candidate right here, you're welcome: I dislike the title, because it’s clearly a Thunderdome-only thing and I like to judge stories by how they stand on their own. This story does clearly fit the prompt. The first three paragraphs feel like they ramble on too long. Cutting into those and condensing that gives you more room to play with the part of the story that has more potential, which is someone using the master sword in a video game invasion of their city. Like the previous story, this one struggles with humor too, largely, because a lot of the jokes are so played out. Virgin nerds and fedoras? Seen it a million times, you need something new or fresh. A frustrated Miyamoto explaining how battling octorocks in a forest was not a metaphor is much funnier, and on a revision, I would focus on that style of humor. “Whoops I didn’t pay attention to how libraries actually work” is also a fine joke, and might be enhanced by bringing us into the scene as the protagonist yells over his cell phone that yeah he’s not stupid but just explain how the Dewey Decimal System works one more time just for clarity’s sake. The character growing a bit by realizing that his date just wasn’t going to work out is fine, and shows awareness of the subject matter being parodied. The premise is fine, the plot fine, this just feels like it needs some revisions to bring out and really land the comedy, which is on the cusp of being fine. The Cut of Your Jib - Sides of the Same: Gonna level with you: This is probably the most confusing thunderdome story I’ve ever read, and I’ve read some real doozies. At the core, the story is such a mess of dense references and constantly shifting images (and confounding ones at that) that it’s impossible to follow. Scenes rapidly shift with no transition or warning. I think the story is trying to convey a mood, but that mood, the characters, the setting, and any semblance of a plot, is utterly lost in confusion. To go into more detail, I feel like I’m getting machine-gunned-down by a barrage of references that are so tightly packed together it risks forming a singularity. Sentences like “Meadow Springs is an oasis primed on the route that becomes 66. Forty-niners funnel through. Cobblestone streets, the general store becomes a coast-to-coast trading post.” are trying to convey the transformation of a town (Las Vegas? San Francisco? Is it on Route 66, or is it on the coast?) but in such tiny and inconsistent fragments that there's no image or scene to hold on to, and it clashes with the setting previously described (poker table). Is there a plot? We have One-Eyed Jack, who robbed banks in California, facing off against a locomotive king, only then we have a man wandering the streets with a “pistol careening across the purple horizon.” Is the pistol careening? The imagery, devoid of any sort of transition, clashes constantly with previously established imagery. Then you have a second story that I first think involves a camera spying on a totally dysfunctional couple because the story transitions to a totally different story with no warning. Only at the end do we get even a hint of what’s going on (an actor/producer, pitching films he’s going to star in), but it’s far too late for that to clarify anything. Add poor grammar that attempts to establish voice (“string a banks in Callyforny…”) and it just gives me a headache. Was there any reason to hide that this was a film pitch? Why is that a twist at the end? derp - several wishes: This hits the prompt well, as it is clearly a wish-fulfillment fantasy, and the narrator has a blast with it. The stream-of-consciousness / voice helps convey this. In each wish, we get a quick portrait of the character’s feelings, the excitement, and quick paintings of images. It also is absolute bait for authors especially, tapping into wishes that are certainly held in common by many readers. I also like how there’s even a little arc, where the character goes from a traveler to a reader to a writer to not even needing to write. In that sense, the first wish seems more disconnected from the others, and is also far more brutal than the others, so in one sense, feels out of place in the rest of the story. If justice was also a theme in the subsequent sections, it might fit better. Overall, felt solid. curlingiron - Dragon Kin: A lotta FUCKIN IDIOTS this week are no doubt staring at their computer screens in a stupid torpor as their moronic decision not to include a PET DRAGON in their story comes crashing down on them like the Justice Hammer in derp’s story. This story was fun and sweet and absolutely deserves the win. I get a good sense of the anticipation of the couple as they await their dragon, shown through their over-preparedness, texts, and with the narrator telling stories to the dragon egg. I am also perfectly happy to just let the story dish out Cool Dragon Facts[tm], like their sex-flexibility, beautiful eggs, and how you take care of one in a heat-resistant sling. The love and affection just bursts out of the ending two paragraphs especially, and made me smile. Looking forward to the novelization. Thranguy - Engineered Away: This has some fun world building, and mostly hits the prompt. I don’t get a good sense of the protagonist having a rocking time or whatever, but it’s a fun premise and I’m always down for a Time War. This does need an editing pass; typos like “cold War” and “Assasinatiob” stand out. I am down to enjoy just exploring the world rules of this time machine, but there’s so much building of the premise that it precludes the story from having any depth to the narrator or clear imagery to hold on to. I sort of get a sense of this future the narrator is fighting for, but not in any depth. In this word count, the story is too broad. To work with this word count, it needs to narrow its focus. Alternatively, it needs more room to breathe. Given I like the premise, the world, and the hopeful ending, you have a solid core you’re working with, but to really shine, this needs some revisions.
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Dec 18, 2023 22:13
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