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rohan posted:in, problem and magic please Problem: A looming disaster Magic: Magic artifact creation
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Dec 18, 2023 22:13
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In, vibe and problem please.
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Dec 19, 2023 00:38
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Kuiperdolin posted:In, vibe and problem please. Vibe: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=21JuYIPHMF8 Problem: Something vital has broken
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Dec 19, 2023 01:27
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Also if anyone wants a reroll on anything, just let me know. Could get real weird, though, fair warning.
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Dec 19, 2023 01:33
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curlingiron posted:Also if anyone wants a reroll on anything, just let me know. Could get real weird, though, fair warning.
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Dec 19, 2023 01:35
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rohan posted:Can I please reroll my problem? Problem: everyone everywhere has forgotten who they are
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Dec 19, 2023 01:37
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In, problem + magic please
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Dec 19, 2023 01:43
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kurona_bright posted:In, problem + magic please Problem: unstuck in time Magic: dream magic
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Dec 19, 2023 01:53
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https://drive.google.com/file/d/1r4Y5uC02lvxsFzBwJ9rl-8bZEUsdt977/view?usp=drivesdk Derp's promised reading/crit. Had trouble with the file but it worked for me when I opened it with another app. Let me know if it doesn't work.
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Dec 22, 2023 05:59
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Albatrossy_Rodent posted:https://drive.google.com/file/d/1r4Y5uC02lvxsFzBwJ9rl-8bZEUsdt977/view?usp=drivesdk I got it to play  thank you for this, and for the kind words also  i'm impressed with how well you read my chaotic words, thank you
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Dec 22, 2023 07:46
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Submission for: Brawl #373 - The Cut of Your Chili Brawl: ....Honestly? Perfect Precision and Permitted Tolerances 1500 words Merritt Hawthorne knelt by knifepoint, head bowed, at the foot of the stairs to the throne room dias. The silver and steel barrettes that capped each of her many braids caught dapples from the stained-glass face of some long dead emperor but the blade Michael intended to whet across her strap of a neck shone brightest. Deliberate steps punctuated with the clack of hobnails on flagstone polished by the centuries’ drag of ermine trains echoed behind her, nothing compared to the reverberations of the voice: “It’s good to see you again, Merritt. It took Michael some time to find you after your daring escape. I’m quite impressed.” “Father . . . you’re alive?” Merritt shifted her head, a little too suddenly, and the blade drew a line. It tricked with the fast pulse of her heart, a little glimpse through the crack she was hastily bricking over once more. The first droplet spread like a river delta into her collar and disappeared amongst the road dirt and rust (some iron, some blood). Father walked past, to dias steps. He bowed his head too, but did not bend the knee. Never again. He marched up the stairs. At the top, he roamed, a cat meandering even though they knew precisely where they wanted to sit. Finally, he did—placing his hands on the arm rests, and slowly dropping into the throne. She didn’t know when he fell, but high atop the dias was the final resting place of his descent. but he used her as a crutch to prop himself up and a cudgel to bash his way to exactly where he wanted to be. Ten years past: Merritt worked the bellows of the forge, arms too soft to hammer. Dad pressed the steel ingot into the coals. “This is steel. We settled for bronze, or wait to be blessed with a starfall before now. I’ve cracked the formula, I’m changing everything. The Empress doesn’t hold the power, anymore.” “Dad!” She whispered. If someone overheard, he’d be dragged away in shackles of his own design. But there was no one else to hear. “Don’t worry, Mare. I’ll be around for a while. But this is a first step on a journey I want us to take together.” He hammered on the ingot, hammered, hammered, then hammered on blade. The sparks of the forge weren’t the sparks of insurrection; that had happened many times. It was the white-blue flame of revolution, and now there would be tools to see the job through. Merritt worked in secret. Her arms became halyard lines—strong as steel, flexible as hemp. By day, Michael the apprentice smith worked iron horseshoes poured silver into molds she machined with horological precision. What ever tchotchke a noble demanded or device a sage dreamed, she built. Soon, she designed her own. Wind-up soldiers, then spying devices, clockwork lockpicks, gadgets of all stripes. She learned to disguise them as canetops and pocketbooks, and finally to hide them in plain sight. Barrettes in her hair that snapped together in a matter of seconds to manage any number of tasks. Then a day when Dad asked her for these talents. So she built spiders that navigated rough ground, battlefield messengers, and she built many. Dad took them in a cart along with their steel armory and disappeared for weeks at a time. There were provincial skirmishes, nothing close, but the papers whispered of unrest. The merchants hushed a little louder, and the barons who thought nothing of the jewelry makers barely hid their tone. “Did you hear?” They’d say amongst themselves, “There are weapons in the fringes that cut through the Empress’s guard like butter?” Merritt would smile at caught conversations. When Dad returned, she told him of all the rumors and he’d pour enough beer from the growler for both of them. Dad would be off at first light. Then: “Poor Lady Calder, the Baron lost both legs, he’ll never dance again. They say a bomb suddenly appeared beneath him, burrowed up from the ground?” It was easy enough to stay silent, but hard to contain her rage when Father returned. They rowed through the night. “How could you? That’s not what you asked for, not what I designed.” “Eliminate enough of the aristocracy, and the rest will fall in line behind us.” “You’re working from the shadows like bandits. No one knows who you are.” “Instill fear, first, then we can declare ourselves and strike a blow on the capital.” “Swords are one thing, but I didn’t agree to that.” “You make lockpicks and mirrored spyglasses in your spare time. You fancy yourself a spymaster, this is just the next step. I’m not interested in being a pawn, and I don’t want that for you. When you die in service of the Empress, and you would, what will be on your dying breath? Thank you, Empress? Thank you for tossing me aside as a rogue agent when the Duke of Gorland caught me surveilling his war room? Would you die smiling, mouthing the name of that tyrant?” Merritt didn’t reply. She grabbed the tongs, flung a steel ingot into the hay where she and Michael sometimes sneaked kisses when Father was away, then stormed off to bed. Her head swam with maybe a little too much beer, but she was right. Father; Father dumped water until smoke became steam, and dumped platitudes until she was nearly asleep. When she roused in the morning, he was leaning against the jamb and said, “You’ll see,” before he disappeared again. When she really woke, it was to the sound of soldiers. She stumbled downstairs, and Michael was face down in the street. The captain held the half-formed ingot of steel, the one she callously tossed and neither of them hid from these very prying eyes. They dragged him away to jimmy answers from his empty lockbox. He knew nothing more than hammer and shape under her design, iron and tin; she made the weapons of war. She told them so. But they saw her braids and bosom and laughed. The captain said, “We found these in his room, milady.” He produced a pouch of gems and silver bits. Careful pickings, one link and perhaps a stone from each necklace or broach sculpted. Michael had a healthy stash. She didn’t care about that though, and Michael didn’t need to care about that. Through her father’s dealings and raiding, and her very own craftsmanship, she was probably the wealthiest untitled woman in a thousand miles. Maybe the world. It was hard to imagine what existed outside the empire. It was all for more steel. She knew Michael would be beaten to death, tortured. She only hoped it would happen that day and not another. Once they left, she vomited, and not from too much beer. Father returned less frequently, but she still made swords. She knew her father was a poisoned dagger, but it was pointed in the right direction. The Empress sent a call to the finest craftspeople for silver jubilee gifts, tribute. Father built the music box. It was delicate and intricate, but Merritt built the clockwork grim reaper. When the crown asked her to deliver it (word had spread of her talents), Father said, ”Look her in the eye,” and Merritt agreed. She knelt where she knelt now and proffered, head bowed as the device shrapneled, piercing heart and lung, and head of state. It was the end of one journey and the start of hers. She ran. Back in the now: Father sat upon the throne. It was supposed to be destroyed, not usurped, and she chafed under stupid Michael’s grasp. She bowed her head again. Some might interpret it as supplication, but she dropped clockwork barrettes into hands’ reach. “Come down, Father,” she said. “We’ve won. The Empress is dead, her forces in tatters. Give the country to the people.” “Like who? Michael?” He laughed, but not the pleasant dad kind. “The people will still need a leader. The interregnum will be difficult.” She plucked components from her mane and when done, she looked up at his bared teeth and knew interregnum was exactly what he meant. He intended to install himself, replace the silver tiara with a steel crown. “Michael,” she whispered. “If I’m to die, would you give me one final kiss?” Merritt rose and turned and looked into those big eyes. He was handsome still, even with the pink rigging of scars. She put her hands behind her back and tipped up until their lips were close. “I love you, Michael.” She kissed him and held it for a moment. Just long enough for her hands finish their task. “But I will set you free.” The clockwork bird shot like a razor-beaked falcon from her palms and Father’s expression turned white as the flush of success drained from his throat. She sat on the floor of the empty throne room. Michael asked, “What happens now?” Merritt Hawthorne said, “Whatever you want.”
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Dec 22, 2023 08:54
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Entry Moved.
beep-beep car is go fucked around with this message at 20:36 on Jan 1, 2024 |
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Dec 22, 2023 15:08
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In the spirit of the season (and because I'm bored), here are some more flash rules for anyone who wants them. Feel free to ditch the ones you were assigned in favor of these, or just use one and write a last-minute story, I don't care. Anarchy! Problems: -Turned into a (whatever animal you think would be funniest) -Something improbably huge disappeared -Something improbably huge appeared -An extremely dumb argument -Haunted (whatever object you think would be funniest) -Help I forgot this is due tomorrow -Have to cook dinner, don't want to cook dinner -Too hot -Overcommitted to list-making -Greg Magics: -Necromancy -Technomancy -Shadow magic -Telekinesis -Holy magic -Blood magic -Weather manipulation -Animal magic -Time magic -poo poo wizard -Greg Vibes: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pJpFdFUg9tA https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bLvY6aH9QRw https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YlsKhAZqQf0 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8yzc8ULvKZo https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eW620xcBnVE https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=soBn7gONJOw https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cCAqoMT_mts https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6A91UB3QkdE https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cygu65ytwTc https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oXrbMDww9ss https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=92mP0t85GXA https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nkuv81zG8r0 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O97o4VmbcAA (  Click for Greg )ADDITIONAL GREG: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JwI2NrVYqIE curlingiron fucked around with this message at 02:58 on Dec 23, 2023 |
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Dec 23, 2023 01:50
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Rohan! In the discord, you posted this: "I do need to finish _my_ crits for that week (592) though! I’ll get them done before starting on my story." Later, you posted this: "1600 words so far and there’s no actual magic in my fun with magic story." Since it appeared that you had started on your story, I would assume that meant you had finished your crits. However, your crits are nowhere to be found. You are a liar and a scoundrel. If these words injure your honor, then defend it on the fields of *brawl.*
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Dec 23, 2023 17:21
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… no, that’s actually a fair and accurate assessment of my character, and I appreciate being held to account. I’ll still brawl over it though before I’m inevitably visited by the ghosts of weeks 550 and 555 who I also owe crits for  
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Dec 24, 2023 00:57
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Crits for Week #592 Part 1 of 2 beep-beep car is go - Pushing Paper, Counting Beans: I’ll write the bad stuff first, and then end more positively. This story has some problems with its ending, that go back to sour the rest of the piece. First, while “I did it half an hour ago!” might feel like a satisfying twist, when said events are set in place before the story even starts, it robs every character of their agency. It’s not satisfying to finish a story where none of the character’s actions actually led to the conclusion. Second, when you say “had a problem” in the first line, it rings a bit hollow once we discover the ship had a plan for the auditor already in motion and was at no point actually in any danger. Honestly, you could likely cut the first two lines here — they set up a somewhat jokey sci-fi tone that doesn’t really follow through, and “Major John Kellerman, Fleet Auditor, sat at the center of a conference table etc etc” works fine as an opening line. Yes, you lose the “ha ha, the problem is they’re being audited” rug-pull, but you also gain some interest by temporarily obscuring the fact he’s interviewing the ship. Also: I’m a bit disappointed we never discover what Big Stick was printing. They have time and reason to gloat about what they’re getting away with, but both the auditor and the audience remain ignorant. From a more technical standpoint, your tenses are also a bit inconsistent. eg: quote:A piercing alarm sounded in the conference room. The overhead lights started to alternate orange and white. The dahlia on the table flutters as the air rushes out of the room. This all sounds like I hated the story. I didn’t! It’s a fun idea and the characters are well fleshed-out (err, or not, as the case may be). They clearly have motivations and the dialogue flows well (minor formatting issues notwithstanding — some missing closing quotes in there). It’s just, as I said earlier, the ending. Without wanting to rewrite the piece, I think it’d be really fun to explore a story where the auditor did have some agency, and uncovered something during the story that led to a different outcome than Big Stick had organised. Maybe the auditor’s OCD let him notice something was untoward before the meeting had even started, neutralising Big Stick’s “I already did it!” line and forcing the story’s events to have actual consequence. Albatrossy_Rodent - Chainsaw Hollow: The entire time I was reading this, I was waiting for the reveal of what “chainsawed hollow and filled with crows” would be some code for, and then … nope, it’s just getting chainsawed hollow and filled with crows! I really enjoyed reading this. If I had to criticise anything, I’m not completely sold on the parents’ reactions. I don’t feel a teenager would otherwise be saying they’re going to make out / have sex / smoke pot to their parents, so her telling them she’s getting chainsawed hollow and filled with crows doesn’t ring true to me, in the sense that they’re the kind of rituals getting chainsawed hollow and filled with crows is meant to evoke. But maybe this is just me being prudish. I wasn’t very cool growing up and I certainly never got chainsawed hollow and filled with crows, so what would I know? 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: It kinda felt like you were holding back a little with this story? I mean, not with the style. That’s all very intentional and works for the character voice, and while I don’t think this is the best example of your stream-of-consciousness style, there’s no doubt it works for this particular story. The problem, though, for me at least, is that you spend the entire time building momentum and anticipation through this manic and slightly unhinged narration, and the missing tissues and bandages are providing solid foreshadowing even if we ignore the flash rule (which, tbh, I typically do on a first read) … but then the actual climax of the story fell flat for me. I think, overall, the style overshadowed the events of the conclusion, and I was expecting the denouement to go up a few notches to match the style’s swagger. Nae - If You Don’t Know What Italian Ice Is, You Should Probably Google It Before Reading This Story: This won by a comfortable margin, which is kind of fascinating because on the surface it’s literally just a story about someone driving to the shops for ice-cream. (Okay, italian ice.) But there’s honest tension here, and there are recognisable stakes — from potentially ruining his husband’s expensive car, to looking like an idiot on the road, to not getting the icecream he wants. There’s never anything wrong with writing a story about someone who wants something, and is prevented from getting it. Shamefully, I didn’t twig that the ending would be so obvious, but I think that’s largely because I was just so invested in the moment-to-moment tension of someone driving stick that I wasn’t really thinking further ahead. Which is telling. When the ending landed, I was delighted, and in hindsight, that’s really the only place you could have finished it.
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Dec 24, 2023 00:59
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rohan posted:… no, that’s actually a fair and accurate assessment of my character, and I appreciate being held to account.
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Dec 24, 2023 01:11
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BRAWL #374(ish) "It's not the Mountin' we Conquer, but Ourselves" rohan rodent brawl Albatrossy_Rodent- voles, chinchillas, capybaras, big fuckn birds; rohan- Horses, miniature ponies, maybe a camelops, a pegasus; I would like a tale about a legendary mount and a rider (if the creature will not be tamed, then that sort of thing is fine, too; riders can be notorious instead of heroic, etc.). I'm not going to constrain you on prompt species, but I found it amusing to follow your own screen names as guidance. Genre up to you, too, but I watched Rebel Moon and it was dumb as hell, so don't use that for inspiration. no fanfic, erotica expressly forbidden (as if I needed to say it). Deadline: February 1st, 11:59PM, so's I can read on Groundhog's Day. If you both get them in before that, I'll render the glue soon after e: word count 1500, doesn't have to be precise, just get close The Cut of Your Jib fucked around with this message at 02:39 on Dec 24, 2023 |
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Dec 24, 2023 01:58
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TD 594 - losing yourself in a good book Problem: Everyone, everywhere, has forgotten who they are Magic: Magical artifact creation 2800 words removed rohan fucked around with this message at 12:23 on Jan 6, 2024 |
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Dec 24, 2023 03:39
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[u]Crits for Week #592 part 2 of 2/u] The Cut of Your Jib - frustum occlusion: Notes from the crit sheet: “Some really nice anecdotal storytelling, characters feel real, but not enough connective tissue overall. Ending feels unearned.” This feels like the start of a much longer piece, which requires a bit more space to properly flesh out the characters and the dynamics that are introduced and promptly glossed over. Important plot- and character points such as the father’s gambling problem are left as frustrating subtext, whereas the more overt moments such as the report card are summed up too quickly and don’t have any lasting impact in the story as a whole. Chernobyl Princess - Expectations: Judge notes: “Solid idea but feels unfocused. Not sure what happened at the end at all.” In the time since I wrote that, I’ve since worked out that I guess the bear was turned into the rabbit? But that was not at all clear on a first read, which turned a quite tense ending scene into a very confusing moment. Without being too twee, I had high expectations for this story, since wizards and family drama seem a perfect complement … but this story does seem to be split in two, and I enjoy the first half a lot more than the second. Also, the dialogue in the second half is probably true to life, but I just found it fairly grating. kaom - Flash Fry: Judgechat: “Short but fun. Two diagnoses! And they play off each other nicely. Ending is solid.” I loved this story. It’s short and simple, but there are two characters who each want something and their individual problems put them at odds, which is all you honestly need in a story this short. I also love the moxy of taking two flash rules, which is always a pro-tier move IMO. If I’d add anything, it’s that the ending would probably land a bit stronger if the line about phones at the table was a callback to something earlier — right now it feels like it should have more resonance than it actually does. (Also, until the line about credit cards, I wasn’t sure what time period / setting the story was taking place in … which isn’t necessarily a problem to solve, but potentially jarring.) Thranguy - Ricochet Vector: Judgethoughts: “Readable enough, but the ending comes out of nowhere — who are the Saints? Too much setup for a payoff that isn't properly supported.” On a re-read I’ll stand by these original comments. It’s technically sound and I enjoy the voice, I want to find out more about this world — it’s just the right level of ridiculous superhero nonsense, which is fun without being obnoxious — but it’s pretty clear this piece isn’t long enough for the story, and the temporal flashback shenanigans and backstory confuse matters.
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Dec 24, 2023 11:22
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Problem: a rampaging creature; Vibe: The Faint: Southern Belles in London Sing Sausage Heist 950 words It was a beautiful night at the Sorcerous Academy and Mikki was a Bad Dog. She was the leader of a team of bad dogs, in fact: The Dire Pups. Some of them were werewolves, like herself, some of them were regular dogs, and at least one of them was Greg. And tonight was the night they’d been waiting for: sausage delivery day. The delivery truck was right on time. Puffball, true to her word, slipped inside and started playing her patented “sad, lost puppy” act. It worked, just like it always did. The delivery team was charmed as well, leaving the door open for Mikki, Sophie, and Greg to sneak through. Esther’s map was good, drawn in heavy wax crayon that could resist even Sophie’s slobber. Mikki approved. She and Esther hadn’t always seen eye to eye, but it was nice to know that you could trust littermates, even if they had left to study witchcraft. It didn’t take them long to find the kitchens. Unfortunately, the door was shut, and with the moon being full tonight there was no hope of Mikki shifting up to use her thumbs. “Whffss Ehsshtaahf?” Sophie asked. Then she spit out the map. “Where’s Esther? She should be here by now, right?” “Don’t worry,” Mikki said, though her tail had stopped wagging some time ago. “The truck showed up early in its window. She’ll be here.” “Greg,” said Greg. “Yeaaaah,” Sophie rumbled. “Sorry Mikki, I might be with Greg on this one. Esther hasn’t been the same since she went off to school.” Mikki shook her head, her hackles raising. “No. Esther gave us the map, that’s the kitchen door right there, we just need a place to hide.” Doubt was etched all over Sophie’s broad face, her orange eyebrows knit together in confusion and concern. “Look, I know it’s different now, but Esther’s still my sister, even if she is taking funny spells to not be wolf-shape anymore. We can trust her. You trust me, right?” “Right,” Sophie said, slowly. “And I trust her.” Greg blinked one froglike eye, then the other. “Greg,” he said, firmly. Then he hop-shuffled underneath an ornate table that adorned the wide hallway up to the kitchens. Sophie and Mikki followed suit, the packrat nature of wizards at least made this part of the plan easy. But then there was the waiting. They heard footsteps, heard students talking. Most of them were talking about the adorable pomeranian puppy out by the loading docks. Others were talking about things that didn’t matter to the Dire Pups, and none of them were going into the kitchens. Mikki distracted herself with thoughts of the sausages. Big, thick, smoked sausages, with meat that came from happy pigs, flavored with exotic and expensive spices. The kind of thing that tempted dogs of all kinds to beg at tables, and inspired werewolves to do things like “wear pants” and “get human jobs” or even “apply to magic school and become a were-wizard.” Hell! Where was Esther? Mikki wasn’t worried about Puffball, she could keep up that act for hours. But she and Sophie were big animals, not designed to squeeze into tight spaces and hold still for long. She could hear the nervous panting coming from her rottweiler friend, and the occasional, discomfited “Greg” coming from Greg. She heard barking and her heart plummeted. Puffball flew down the hall, yapping her tiny head off. “Guys! Run! We’re made!” “What?!” Sophie crashed out of the suit of armor she’d hidden in, creating an unholy clatter. “What happened?!” “My owner,” Puffball panted, zipping back and forth in a frenzy of motion. “Turns out he’s dating the headmaster and he came over here and he saw me in the lobby and now he’s chasing me and oh poo poo wizards!” “Greg!” Gasped Greg. Mikki was pretty sure it was appropriate to use a Naughty Word in this situation, though. Sophie took off running, an antique helmet still on her head. Mikki grabbed Greg by the scruff of his (she hoped) neck, and followed. The long rug tripped her up, accordioning beneath her scrabbling paws until she hit hardwood and finally got purchase. Puffball ran beside her, tiny little legs blurring. Behind them they heard shouts, people yelling things like stop those dogs! or how did she even get out of your house? or, worryingly, is that a freaking wolf?! A student blocked her way, wand outstretched. Mikki bowled him over before he opened his mouth. A pair of teachers tried to grab Sophie, but the helmet she was wearing had started spitting out purple sparks and their hands slid off of her as if she’d become frictionless. They darted down the hallways, left. Then right. Then right again. Oh, no, should they have turned right at the beginning? They’d lost the map. They’d lost the plan. They’d lost the sausages… An old wizard in a very large hat with a very long, white beard stepped out in front of them and waved a hand in a curt, commanding gesture. Gravity went away. Momentum carried them a few feet, but it was like the air had turned to thick gel around Mikki’s limbs. Greg struggled out of her mouth and kicked away, swimming through the magic that bound them like it was his native environment. Maybe it was. He turned around and looked at them. “Greg,” he said. He sounded sad. Then he disappeared. Puffball’s owner caught up with them, gasping for breath, leaning against the wall. “Oh, thank heavens, Alastair. I’m so glad you caught them.” Puffball said another Naughty Word.
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Dec 25, 2023 03:22
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Chasing Lightning 1437 words It was a mistake to have become so dependent on the Ruby of Seeing and Tracking in the first place. Jaxthorn, my former teacher, had always warned me against reliance on any focus. “A proper wizard needs no wand but his fingers, no staff but his spine, no rod nor orbs but the ones between his legs.” Jaxthorn was one of the old school, of course, the sort that thought wizardry and witchcraft were two utterly different things with no intersection between. But he was right about that. It was a mistake, and when it was stolen I realized that, realized that the powers vested in the Ruby were just those that would make recovering it easy. I sighed. The hard way, then. In my defense–inadequately, to be sure–she was staggeringly beautiful. Long hair white as moonlight, deep violet eyes, dressed in light white furs that somehow brought out the hint of blue in her skin. She begged a demonstration of my powers and so I took her to the House of Fallen Titans and back, to those ancient cyclopean ruins that are the only part of the moon that would not kill you five different ways in the first second. She pretended to be impressed, unconvincing. “What goddess are you, then?” I asked. She laughed. “What makes you think that I am a goddess?” “No mortal could be as beautiful as you without being struck down by jealous Shanna or envious Hask,” I said. She laughed louder. “I bet you say that to all the girls.” She asked to hold it, and fool I let her. It was mystical attuned to me, could not be stolen and used without long effort by a wizard at my level. But she held it, stared deep into the red crystal, and then turned and bolted faster than thought. I followed after, chased her through a blind corner where she vanished, and I felt that attunement fade from an assuring touch to a smoky breeze. She had crossed dimensions. She could cross dimensions. I had not sincerely believed she was a goddess until then. With the Ruby of Seeking and Tracking I could have magicked myself straight to wherever she stood, reached her destination a footstep ahead of her. Without it, I had to trace circular runes for near to an hour just to duplicate her portal, to cross dimensions where she had crossed. I girded my powers in anticipation of a trap, and snapped fingers twice to activate the runes. --- I followed her trail through a world of brightly colored flowers, vines running up ancient Iron trellises, their bright blossoms forming clever trompes that fooled the eye, made walls seem like passages and gaping pits like solid floors. I knew where I had to go next, where her next dimensional hop was made, but the path through was not obvious, not with the resources I had. The pollen and nectar made the air heavy, heady, intoxicating. I could not entirely trust my own senses, at least not sight and smell. Sound did not fail me though. I could hear the buzzing of the bees as they waggle-danced about, and their paths gave me the shape of this garden. There was no path to where I needed to go, not abiding by the walls, and I could not do teleport magic without losing the trail to the next dimension, but there was a way. Where the vines had sealed in a gap in the trellicework. No doubt she had the trick to make the plants part. I had to force my way through, suffering thornbites on my arms and legs, turning new-made robes to little better than rags. I pushed through. I made the next leap. --- I was next in the Great Library of Astapol, face to face with the librarian. I was wary. Librarians are often puissant wizards, after all. “You would be Iason?” he said. I nodded. It wasn't my true nane,but it was a name of mine, not precisely false either. “You are expected. Allow me to be your guide.” He showed me the five wings of his library. “Here we have the Stacks of Pleasant Untruths.” I saw the guidebooks and histories there, the utopian architectures, the maps of paradise. “And next clockwise we have the Shelves of Fallacy.” I saw forests worth of arguments from mathematics to dramaturgy, from economics to the gnostics, all flawed beyond redemption. “The Propaganda Section,” where rested the calls to war and greatness. “Fictions,” which included autobiographies, of course, and finally, “Collected Misunderstandings”, which was a hodgepodge. “Where do you shelve the books of truth?” I asked. “True lies?” said the librarian. “No,” I said. “Simple truth.” He looked down. “There may be such books present,” he said. “Misfiled, lost among the others. I doubt there are many here, though.” It was a simple spell. Transmutation. The tomes were all bound in leather, which helped. Not my specialty, but I had a wide enough education for it. I cast it, and nearly every book transformed, each into a five-winged bat: two pairs to flap and fly with, one atop the other, and one above, like a mast. They flew and fought and roosted in the ceiling. And there were three books untouched, those books of truths. I read them, a book of names, a book of myth, and a book of constellations. The last was where she had left this dimension, where I followed. “My books-” said the librarian. “They will be as they were, when I am gone.” --- I followed her through the great labyrinth beneath London. I met a hero there, Tyne of Six Cities. He had fought a great beast there, a man with a dragon's head, with arms that struck like steam drills. He had slain the monster but had not escaped the maze. He had a string, that he had tied to a post outside the maze, the other end tied to the beast's throne. We followed it together for a while. “Wait,” I said. “Look.” I pointed at the string, where it was tied in a tight knot. “It's just a tangle,” he said. “I've seen them before.” I tried to argue with him, but ther was no convincing him, so I set off on my own. There was a pattern, I could tell. I had visualized much of the maze. The true path formed a sigil on that map, and that made the last few turns obvious. --- I followed her through a cave filled with fungi, where size and scale varied with every turn. I followed her from star to star on a wooden ship crewed by mammoths. I followed her through a book of poetry, from marginal comments through a cycle of sonnets that were forests and jungles and swamps, to an exit at the bottom of a chain of footnotes. I followed her through a desert where the ghosts of two great armies wandered, each seeking the other’s home cities. --- “This is the Godshome,” she said, when I finally caught up to her. “Beyond these doors you cannot follow, as you are still mortal despite all your power.” I smiled. “But we are still outside those doors,” I said. “You have something that belongs to me.” She pulled out the Ruby. “This?” she said. “Take it, if you dare.” She dropped it down her shirt, letting it fall through her cleavage down to where her furs were tucked. We were so close that I could feel each touch as it fell. I dared. She laughed. She flashed electric as we first kissed, as we made love in front of the titan-forged doors of the Godshome. I had never been with a Goddess before, nor since. After, the Ruby safe in my pockets: “Have I earned your husband's wrath?” “I have no husband,” said Alana, who was the lightning. “Gorth ever chases me, but never has and never will catch me. He may be wroth, but he is no real threat. Loud but harmless, like an angry puppy.” I made my way home. I stopped to free Tyne from the maze, cutting his string ahead of him and tying it to one that truly lead out of the labyrinth. I took a piece of that string, a flower, a page, a letter, a part of a star, a mushroom and a grain of sand. I keep them in a locked chest in the highest room of my tower, and take them out to remember her when the weather runs calm and there is are too many days to wait between storms.
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Dec 25, 2023 05:24
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Vibe: Susumu Hirasawa: The Girl In Byakkoya; Problem: Something vital has broken The Confession of Someone Who Is not a Glamoured Heroic Repugnant Alien Monster 2545 words Last month I put up our house for sale. It had been my parents’ before, and I grew up in it, but now I sought the comparative anonymity of the big city. I told the realtor to screen unserious customers, but many came to visit with no intention to buy, just to gawk at where I lived. Some opened our drawers to look at my folded underwear. I told my wife we could get separate apartments in the city, if she preferred. “It’s your decision,” she answered. She was repelled by me but too grateful to do anything about it, like all the other islanders. Doing the right thing is a drag, and in my case the right thing was not even much, it was in fact the least I could do, and yet enough to scramble my life. Imagine if I was an actual hero. The tempest hit us with little warning, in the middle of the night. By dawn both bridges to the mainland had been swept away, the woods were strewn with fallen trees and two houses had collapsed. Dr Ferrat, tending to the seven wounded with the island veterinarian for a nurse, was soon overwhelmed. And then water stopped pouring from the faucets : the water plant was kaput too. Unceasing wind swept the island, so strong it was a struggle to walk from house to house. Radios still worked; the alderman called for help. We had no water, scarcely any food, several dying, no medical equipment to speak of, no surgeon. Shortly after noon supplies reached the other side, but no further. The bridges were gone. The tempest had not abated, and the much-vaunted aircraft could not so much as take off. One coast guard cutter made a courageous attempt to cross, and almost capsized before it even left the harbor. There was nothing to do but wait. The supplies remained on the jetty, under a tarpaulin, ready to load immediately. But the forecast now said the tempest might last days, or even more. In the afternoon the sky was almost as black as at night, roaring and wailing. We painstakingly dragged tubs and barrels outside, weighed down with stones lest the winds blew them away, so that if it rained we would have fresh water at least. We inventoried food, telling ourselves there would be enough, and candles. We shared them with neighbors. Dusk came almost unnoticed. Not so the first death. When Dr Ferrat lost his second patient he shook and stopped talking. He walked from bed to bed, hunched, haggard, fidgeted with the charts, wrote whole pages of useless notes, took pulses and temperatures again and again and again and again. The veterinarian failed to convince him to get to bed himself. There was nothing to do but wait, and pray, and sleep. Then a pounding on our door woke us into a nightmare. Another house nearby had collapsed, and people were looking through the rubble in hope of finding people alive. I took a heavy coat and joined them. As I trudged through the darkness and the gale, hunched, I noticed it still wasn’t raining, and the ground was dry. We hardly had enough water for tomorrow. Soon the alderman rejoined us, with more volunteers. Someone told him we should gather people in the most sturdy houses. “I don’t know, he said… I would have thought this one was the most sturdy of all.” Just at the moment we dug out the woman under the rubble, unconscious. Some carried her to the doctor, the rest of us kept searching. And then the monster appeared. When we noticed it it was already above us, in the intermittent glow of lightning, a large, knotted mass of flesh and cartilage, dripping with oily humors that befouled us and the ground. It rose on heavy flapping wings, edged with sickly fire, and dragged under itself ropy limbs and huge deformed hands. When he reached the exposed shore, winds buffeted him so hard it started to sway like a ship in peril, but it flew on over the foaming sound. From time to time the tempest tore away one of its hideous wings, and another grew in some strange unpredictable place. Fear at first had frozen us in place, rather than scattered us, and then when it moved away we kept watching, fascinated. By the time it reached the harbor on the opposite shore we could barely make out the appalling glow that limned its gross manifold flesh. What happened there we found out only later. In front of the gasping coastguard it seized in its unearthly limbs the crates on the jetty, and then extended a grotesque, immense, dirty hand forward, palm up. It was big enough for a man. In America maybe the seamen would have shot at the creature in panic. But our sailors have a more sturdy mettle. The military surgeon, a brave among braves, stepped forward and lay on the hand, which closed. He later recounted that the slimy fingers coiled around him with precise firmness, holding him tight but unhurt. Then the monster took flight again, and by now everyone could guess at its purpose. It crossed the sound in the opposite direction, and deposited the supplies and the surgeon on our shore, then he rose and made for the woods and disappeared behind the trees. All that time he had not made a sound, at least not one that could be heard over the howling winds. The supplies turned out to be adequate, and the surgeon, still pale from his experience, took over our improvised medical pots. All the patients made it through the night. Among the supplies were military rations and several barrels of water. We could consider ourselves saved. That afternoon the alderman called for a council, and of course everyone was there. He gave a brief accounting of the events and the current situation. It was no longer, he concluded, as desperate as it had been only twenty-four hours before, thanks to the supplies brought during the night. He did not elaborate on that passive voice, but looked at each of us, one by one, as he added that the government had brought more supplies on the opposite shore, and that hopefully they would reach us soon. In the meantime, he would keep on heading the relief efforts. If someone needed anything, he could speak then at the assembly or come to him later. He would also need volunteers to help with the many tasks at hand. Even people with no particular qualifications could contribute. I appreciated the alderman’s sensible, allusive talk. He was clearly a level-headed man, who handled the situation as well as could be expected. There was a time of collective hesitation, and I thought the meeting could end without undue agitation. But then everyone started talking at once : who or what was that mysterious creature? People with only two meals in their cupboard, people who had lost family members the night before, suddenly could talk of nothing except of the monster, which some called more prudently “the creature”. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that one of the islander had somehow become or conjured that repugnant, and they looked all around with suspicion. But nobody came forward, and the alderman, with great difficulty, brought the conversation back to the subject of volunteers. I joined the team that distributed the foodstuff, house by house, pushing a heavy wheelbarrow on the wind-swept roads. The storm was going on, as fierce as before, and so it was tiresome work, and I quickly fell asleep in my wife’s arms that night. In the morning I learnt the creature had appeared again and, as the alderman had probably hoped, carried the second round of supplies across the strait. This time the people gathered without even being summoned, wanting answers. “It’s about thanking him,” said a loud man from the opposite end of the island, “or her,” my wife added, but they both agreed that it was capital to learn the monster’s provenance. New descriptions of it were more lurid, but consistent with what I had seen. “Please,” I said. People asked the surgeon if he had any clue that could help them. “No,” he said, and when our gazes met I could tell he was in agreement with me not to seek that particular truth. “Please,” I said again. Now everyone was asking everyone else who they had been with, at both times the creature had been sighted. Had someone acted strangely then? That behavior disappointed me. So far the islanders had acted very well, with great civic-mindedness, coming together in the catastrophe, sharing work and resources. This wasn’t America, where everyone behaved selfishly and tried to solve problems by shooting at each other. But now the people were united, not in fruitful work, but in idle talk and unserious speculation. Finally I managed to get most people’s attention. “Please! I am sure that whoever did this, assuming he or she is even one of us, would have already come forward if he or he did not prefer not to. So we ought to respect that wish, both as a matter of gratitude and as a practical matter. Otherwise he, or she, might feel that they cannot help us anymore. And do you want that?” Many protested that it was not at all about disturbing our mysterious benefactor, it was just about making the situation clear, or even thanking the creature for its service. But another change had come across the crowd. People were looking at me with renewed attention and a kind of knowing expression. Evidently my mere suggestion that we respect the creature’s privacy had made me suspicious. “But I understand your curiosity, I added. I did not see it last night, I was in bed with my wife. But I was there the first night when it appeared, and I wondered about it too.” “Yes,” the alderman said with a wry smile. “You were there.” The next few days did not dissipate the public feeling that I was somehow the creature, shapeshifted or glamoured into a human, or at the very least associated with it. Strangers and neighbors followed me, visited me on inane pretexts, gathered despite the winds to try and peer through my windows. The alderman made sure to visit and keep me apprised of every time the government brought more supplies. “Of course, of course,” he answered wryly when I said the whole population should be informed. Even my wife had doubts. That second night, she had dozed almost as soon as I had, and was a heavy sleeper. I thought, a little angrily, of confronting the other islanders, of spending my whole days in the public square until the monster reappeared, but then I second-guessed myself. If, as I had argued, we ought to respect the creature’s discretion, did I not help it by attracting the crowd’s attention? My neighbor’s curiosity was unseemly, but if I directed it on the right person, would I not be just as responsible for its consequences? Reluctantly I suffered the islanders’ gaze. During the two weeks that the storm lasted, the monster, horrid and benevolent, made three more trips to the mainland, all successful, all at night. People always mentioned to me, with no subtlety at all, that it was doing a great service to the community, that they would keep its secret if they happened to chance on it, and that misplaced, prying gratitude chafed me more than their suspicion. With my wife things were even worse. After the third flight she had asked if I wanted to sleep in the guest room, which irritated me, but I had already decided not to do anything that might take suspicion away from me, in service of our benefactor’s anonymity. So I said yes, and it confirmed her intuition. From then on he looked at me with frightful disgust. It was one thing to have a kind but repugnant monster for a neighbor. It was quite another to have shared her bed unwittingly with a disgusting, alien creature glamoured into human form, or stuffed somehow into human skin like rotten alien meat into a sausage casing. I suffered that too. By the time the wind calmed down at last life on the island had become quite untenable for me. Strangers and erstwhile friends harassed me with a contradictory mix of prurient curiosity, gratitude and fear. Once the bridges would be repaired, I decided, I would sell my house and leave for the mainland. The house sold yesterday. Before leaving the island forever, I took a last solitary stroll through the woods where I passed many good times in the decades before. It was a saddening spectacle to see all the trees felled by the tempest, strewn about, rotting already. The sickly smell of damp wood permeated the air, and I found myself in the throes of a maybe excessive melancholy. It was in this disposition that I came across a short, balding man, whom I had already seen around the island. He lived on the opposite side, I thought. As I approached he looked at me with sorry eyes, not at all filled with the disgusted and disgusting suspicion of the other islanders. I immediately guessed it was him. “Hi,” he said first. “Hi.” It was, obviously, an awkward situation. “I heard you’re leaving the island.” “That’s right.” “I know what you’ve done,” he said softly, “and I’m grateful for it. You know who I am, right? Yes, you do. Well, as I said, I am grateful. I wish I could do something for you.” “Could you fix my marriage?” “What’s wrong with it?” “My wife is disgusted by the thought I might be you. No offense meant.” “Oh.” He touched his chin pensively. “No. I can’t fix that.” “Could you give me a new home?” He flinched and studied me. “Yes… But you can never come back. I cannot bring you back. Is it really, truly, what you want?” I was surprised by how fast I decided. “Yes.” “And your wife?” “She’ll be happier that way.” “Well, then.” No more words were exchanged. He transformed. Like the surgeon had, I lay in his deformed hand, suppurating with noisome humors that quickly drenched my clothes. Ropy lings hung around me, like diseased willow branches, and above me a repugnant, manifold knot of flesh floated in the air, raised by many strange-shaped cartilaginous wings that glowed and festered. We rose and rose, and I understood that this last flight, taken in the daylight just as I disappeared, would perfect the creature’s alibi. All, decidedly, was well, I decided while it dragged me as a horrid corpselike monster dragged me beyond the atmosphere and then beyond comprehensible space, though strange times and distances, into dying universes and the confused dreams of unborn races. We crossed incomprehensible immensities until I sensed confusingly that our destination was near. He deposed me at the top of a short colorless tower, on an overgrown island on a vertical sea, and I felt peace and gratitude again. I was home.
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Dec 25, 2023 06:25
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Submission for brawl #373 - The Cut of Your Chili Brawl: ....Honestly? Burn N' Turn 1440 Words Call me crazy but at least a small part of me comes to Mitch’s because it’s one of the last places a fella can chomp on a stogy and not be bothered. But if you’re asking what gets me here, the hundred thousand and change I pull in each year taking stacks of chips off of flounders might be the main reason. It’s nice work if you can get it. The game is Texas Hold ‘Em because nowadays that’s where the fat money is. It could be anything; Razz, Omaha, 5 Card, it doesn’t matter as long as you know the mechanic’s grip and have discipline. I look down at my hole cards, seven six, offsuit. Larry, to my left, is running deep with over ten thousand dollars in chips sitting behind his cards. Those chips are mine, he just doesn’t know it yet. But with hole cards that don’t mean business, now isn’t the time… Unless you’re me. Action folds to me and now it’s just Larry. I could limp here, complete my small blind, and match his big blind. But, I know Larry. And I also know that when his brow crinkles, he’s sitting on something. I look back down at my cards. And hey, what do you know? Ace King, suited. The rogue cards that sat on the felt moments ago are now nicely adhered to my sweaty wrests, waiting to be snuck back into the mix after I beat poor Larry up real nice. Why now? Simple. The decision to deploy these cards is a calculated risk. The hope is I never have to show them. I’ll raise here, he’ll likely raise back and then I can come back over the top by going all in and push him away. Switching the cards out is an insurance policy. If he calls, I have a chance. If your brain is wired like mine, though, you know that leaves me vulnerable in several ways. Let’s go through them, hope you find this interesting, cos I sure do. What if Larry has either of the cards I hold? Well, if that’s the case I’m screwed. My reputation isn’t that of a saint and Larry? Doctors Without Borders Larry? Yeah, I’m screwed. But, he doesn’t have either, I’m nearly sure of it. I’m putting him on a low pocket pair, based solely on history and reading his body. He wants me to limp here, I can tell. If I limp he can check and hope to find a third card to match with his two. So, if he has the stones to call me it would mean we’re looking at a coin toss on who takes down the pot. I can live with those odds. What about the other 6 at the table? Say any one of them had a card I ultimately have to turn over and show? The thing is: this is a table full of soft doctors and lawyers. They come here for fun, to stop paying attention. If they threw those cards away, they’ve long since forgotten them. But, they probably wouldn’t have thrown them away at all. At a weak table like this, if any of these guys catch even one premium card they’ll at least pay to see the flop. So whichever way you slice it, a showdown doesn’t hurt me. Last, the move I’m making now is inherently risky. My skills are sharp and if you’ve been paying attention so far, you’ll know that’s exactly the opposite of what my tablemates are doing. Still, I’ll need to steal the Ace and the King back up my sleeve and replace them with the lightly moist cards hugging either of my sweaty wrists. All while I’m hopefully raking a nice pile of chips towards me. But, I like me. I can pull it off. I raise, he raises, I shove all in, he folds. Preparing for disasters doesn’t make me rich, it keeps me rich. A quick assessment of my chips tells me I’ve made rent for the month. Not bad for 30 minutes of work. But a scan of the chips at the table tells me there’s a downpayment for a Bugatti hanging out there for the taking. Frank, to my right, had the dealer button on the last hand so he slides it over to me. poo poo, I forgot all about that. The opportunity to play back at Larry felt too strong but now I’m in no position to make a move. I just took down a high-profile pot and though I can count on the ignorance of my peers, I know better than to push it. Skill makes you rich, judgment keeps you rich. So there won’t be anything colorful, at least not until another orbit when some time has passed and I’ve cooled off a little. I deal the cards straight, including to myself. I don’t need to look down at my cards. I’m not playing this hand. But, nobody just blindly throws away their hole cards, especially when they’re on the button. I peek down to see rockets, two aces. Three players have folded and only one has gone in. Worst case scenario, if this ends up four-handed, I’m calculating my odds of winning at 46%. The potential return on investment is good but I’d be going in straight, with limited information, as I didn’t check anyone’s eyes when they were looking at their cards because the plan was to fold. I haven’t played a straight hand of poker in years. But, rockets? On the button? I just can’t help myself. I raise, hoping to end it quickly and have the blinds behind me fold and the lone limper bail shortly after. But the limper sticks around, he calls my raise. The pot pushes up to a thousand preflop and sweat coats my palms. Larry, to my left, has to nudge me to deal the flop, I’ve forgotten that I’m supposed to do that part. I pick up the deck with a basic grip burn one card and lay down the flop: Ace of diamonds, 4 of hearts, King of spades. My hand has gone from prime, to about as sure a bet as possible. Fortunately, I have position on Frank and he has to act first. I’m praying that he bets out. I’ll stall and ‘Really Think About’ what I should do before I call and give him another chance to bet more money into me. He does exactly that. He overbets the pot, a classic rookie mistake, and suddenly I’m calling away the month’s rent I just earned. I deal the nine of diamonds on the turn. Same deal, he bets, I call. We’ve got the pot up to nearly five thousand now. Frank is poking his tongue through his teeth and doing everything he can to avoid eye contact with me. He nervously sips from his water bottle as I deal out the river. I’m hoping for a ten or a jack, something that might connect with his hole cards. I deal out a five of diamonds. Not great, but it’ll do. He checks, leaving it to me to decide our fate. Now we’re in an interesting situation: I have to decide how much I can convince him to lose. I need to bet enough so that he’s tempted to call just in case he feels he has the winner. I also have my image to consider though. Winning a crooked pot right before this and then holding Aces when I’m dealing? The optics aren’t great. But, if I can take down a 20k pot… I’ll weather the hit. So really, I can’t lose if I bet big. He either calls and pays me off, or he folds and I get to toss my suspicious cards into the muck. I bet the pot. There were about 10,000 out there so I put another 10,000 in. Frank drums his fingers atop his cards and as he peeks back down at them and he considers the board, I realize I made a mistake. His eyes dart from the Ace to the four, to the five. He made a straight on the river. He’s holding four three, and I’m about to lose my loving lunch. But, god bless Frank. He takes both of his cards, flips them over, and folds his hand. He had a straight alright. “I just know you got that flush, Billy. You really run hot, don’t you?” He tosses away the winner as I scoop up the chips and a valuable life lesson. If you’ve got the goods, use ‘em.
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Dec 25, 2023 08:19
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Week 594 (Non)Submission A Non-Story wherein a couple fun dudes fall asleep early on Christmas Morning whilst Dreaming of Santa 650 words? Greg shot a man in the face. It was messy; some got on the wall, and he wondered if the devin would ever wash clean. After a quick shower, Devin did, in fact, wash clean. It was a bit of a relief, really—Devin looked like a fuggin cupcake when he got home, dazzled up in gold shimmer, but the Rocky makeup smelled like the way a rancid crayon would smell. That stage stuff was not made for up close sniffing. And Greg was maybe a little resentful, he thought he nailed Frank, but Michelle called him a little chunky for the role, and even worse, said his voice was emotional, but not clean enough. She said, “I’m delighted to offer you a role in the chorus.” That meant she thought he sucked. Devin slid back under the divan and he was still Randy. Oiled cheeks on oiled sheets. I mean, they weren’t literally oily, but a high thread count silk is bananas. It wasn’t really Greg’s feeling of home. Greg was a dude from a less complicated place—and by that he meant it was a place where gay didn’t exist. You farm, you wear knock-off Carhartts, and you make enough to get by. Thing was, it wasn’t too hard to get by. A dollar a bushel picking tomatoes or green peppers, five for a bushel of asparagus if you could stand the early morning cold. And when they think you’re cranky for developing a tomato allergy from all the rust, they throw you in the kitchen with the women to cut strawberries for the pies and they’re all like, “Oh, we thought you didn’t want to work. Our bad.” Cuz a little efficient fusspot lipped the top of more strawberries in a day than the pie makers could use. Yeah, Greg had a golden god (freshly scrubbed) beside him, but he always thought about the top five shittiest things that happened. He wondered if those people thought about the same moments ever. He doubted it. Devin was under the divan, hands locked behind his head. He didn’t need to indicate towards K2, but he wasn’t a great actor. And if you know you know. Greg put all that poo poo in the back drawer and played Twin Peaks. A little hip thrust and who can make the biggest tent under the blanket. It wasn’t true that Greg had that surgery where they snip a dick tendon to make it longer, but he had a pretty long one, and it always felt a little soft. Like a corn dog, where it gets the job done but it isn’t something you’d serve to your mother-in-law. Devin, by contrast, had a little bullet. It wasn’t really little, average as toast, but it was hard as granite. They played Twin Peaks, running the clothesline, K2 and Everest; where Dev rapeled one leg off his side and Greg did the opposite and they tried to get the divan as level as a bookshelf while their hands were tucked safely behind their heads.It was mostly a rousing success. Devin rolled over, bum to the wind, and asked, “You remember Deeq?” “‘Course I do. Who could forget him?” Ole beardy boy himself. What made you think of him?” “I dunno.” Devin slid closer, guiding the meat bullet into Greg’s hand. “I guess he peaked my interest just now.” “Mmm, climbing Everest is a pique of my interest.“ Mmmkay indeed. You know what that means. Or maybe you don’t so what happened was a couple hornballs were lamenting their mentor who looked like Santa Claus, and they Yeah, just going to condense this since I don’t have the willpower to post a Santa loving story, but his magic dick cures hemorrhoids, (which he calls the cherry on the tart) and he goes around the world. . . .
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Dec 25, 2023 11:50
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The Cut of You’re Chili Brawl: Jubment and Croits Jib - Perfect Precision and Permitted Tolerances This piece has some good descriptions, but also some clarity problems. First, lets address the clarity problems. You seem to like to start your shorts in the middle of the action. This can be an effective hook, but it backfires if the scene is devoid of context or requires too much of the rest of the story to make sense. Your first scene suffers from too little information for it to make sense. I understand Merritt is under threat of execution, but why is she under threat from her dad who she didn’t even know was alive? That isn’t the kind of question that makes me want to keep reading, by the way. I love a good mystery to draw me into the story, but “what the heck is going on?” is not that. Another thing that impacts clarity is the overabundance of metaphors. Like a chicken strutting around laying eggs, the metaphors are plopped down everywhere and make a mess as the reader blunders into these white landmines. Next, despite having a third person that is clearly not limited (Dad’s inner thought of “never again” about kneeling mixes with the focus that is usually on Merritt), we don’t get a clear understanding of who the characters are and their motivations. Dad, random-rear end blacksmith, has cracked the political formula and is plotting glorious revolution. Why? How? Making fancy mechanical constructs is a part of this, but how did he get involved in politics? Why is he brazenly defying the empress (whose ideology must be deep rooted in the society if Merritt is faithful to them)? Why is Merritt more loyal to the empress than her Dad? There is no moment that reflects on this or it is discussed. The story is far too focused on the clever clockwork creations of both of them, and misses giving these characters any depth. Merritt has a relationship with Michael, but this is touched on so briefly I don’t understand anything about it, nor about who Michael is as a person. Why is finding jewels a death sentence for Michael, but not Merritt, who admits her sin? (The ‘they’re sexist’ doesn’t quite work for me when the highest power is an empress.) Why does Michael later hold a knife threatening to kill Merritt, who he seemed to have loved? (By the way, when Michael is dragged off to die, the reader doesn’t worry because we already know he’s fine and ends up in the throne room, so the intro is defusing any tension from that scene.) Why does Dad not have an army of automatons protecting him, rather than one unreliable guy who either he or the empress tortured because ?????. She willingly assassinates the empress, then runs, and no one stops her? This joins a number of stories I have read where assassinating an emperor/ess is quite easily done. Then she also kills her own dad (who wants to kill her, even though she helped him with her devices and even assassinated the empress because ??) because she’d rather do that then let him rule because ??? and now Michael is okay with this, and in fact, Merritt is so unconcerned with the outcome she tells Michael he gets to decide what happens next. Michael, whose politics and character we know nothing about. Therefore, we have an unfocused story, but also a confusing story, and at the heart of that confusion is not understanding the characters. The central core of the story seems to me to be about a daughter and dad disagreeing about politics. The story, then, should start at the beginning of this schism, and either the characters through dialogue or the omniscient narrator (Dune style? ) should explain why. Given the length of the story, this might be done in two main scenes, but three at most. The clockwork creations can, as they have started doing, act as symbolic representations of the characters, but there is no time for a slow progression of Merritt’s talents at this length. The second section has a more clear progression, and dialogue that illuminates the plot. I would start the story there, rather than in the throne room, if you cannot find a better starting point. Most importantly, the characters need characterization. Motivations. Important events that changed them. Arguments. Feelings. Over and over, I found myself wondering: Why? And the story has no answer. It needs one. Despite me whining about the metaphors, the language is the greatest strength of the story. I like “flagstone polished by the centuries’ drag of ermine trains” for example, it just needs to be given room to breathe, not placed between hobnails echoing and before a knife is whetted on a skinny throat while braids catch stained glass dapples. The individual image is nice: Stain glass dappling Merritt is nice. Smashed together with so many other descriptions, the reader is overwhelmed (which is compounded by the confusion of the scene in general as mentioned earlier). Her dad using her as a crutch and cudgel is nice, but that needs to be properly brought out in the story. Finally, you also have symbolic development, with Merritt being the spider (as she makes spiders), and her father bombs and vague weapons–more can be done to make their inventions representative of their character. I can see the ambition of this story–I think I see her dad secretly selling out Micahel so dad has leverage over daughter to continue his vague plan, which leads to the schism later (though this still doesn’t help us fully understand the end)–but it needs a lot of work to actually land. Finally, while this story probably technically adheres to the prompt, thematically, I didn’t feel it. The only deceptive character I heard about was her dad, and I didn’t get the sense that this girl willing to make mechanical spies and music-box bombs was honest of character. Now, for your arbitrary numerical score, the part you should really focus on: 3.5/10 Chili - Burn N' Turn This story certainly gets one part of the prompt right: it is indeed a liar amidst honest men. A strength of the story is that it takes one moment and is able to delve into it, including the tension and thoughts of a character there. Poker is a good choice of game, because there’s inherent tension in the reveal of who won, and the story builds this up nicely. Billy is clearly a scoundrel. Most of the story focuses on this, delving deep into his methods of deception and contingencies. Like a Dune character, we get to see his inside thoughts, which reveals his nature. Some work is done to establish the others as honest, with lines like “Doctors Without Borders Larry?” Some lines are nice, like “taking stacks of chips off of flounders” The story can certainly be improved. One wonders–are we supposed to feel sympathy, pity, or contempt for Billy? I land towards contempt, because while he says ‘I just earned rent’, the pots he’s taking in are much bigger than rent, and six figures yearly means he’s perfectly well off. If the story is attempting to win sympathy for a parasite, it fails. If it’s just an exploration of that type, it does fine. More could be done to delve into the other characters at the table. The protagonist clearly knows his quarry, and more time could be spent on who they are and how they think (and what the protagonist feels about that), rather than the detailed poker strategy. Obviously, if you have a reader who doesn’t like poker, this story is absolutely dead. I also don’t know how it comes across to someone not already familiar with poker, though it seems to me to do a decent job setting up even an ignorant reader with what they need to know. Still, so much exposition on the game comes at a cost of other possible developments. More could also be done to give sentences double-duty: developing the plot / strategy while also solidifying the narrator’s voice or themes or build another character. The story could also be taken in a different direction. I liked the development of Billy so caught up on folding the next hand he sabotaged himself. What if the moment got to him, and he just got caught up in the emotions of the moment, with no plan at all, even to the point where he was the one praying for the right card on the river? Would that change how he thinks about his marks? Might he change as well? Another way to develop it would be for Billy to actually have to put his contingencies into play, while tension and suspicion at the table builds. What if he had needed to deploy those cards, and maybe Frank raised an eyebrow, and said, ‘wait, didn’t I have that king?’ to himself. What if Billy had to really pull out all the stops of slight of hand and smooth talking? As it is, the story defuses its own tension because Billy is never truly threatened by change or by losing it all (and either one could work). The story has everything reverting to the status quo. (It claims he learns a lesson, but I doubt ‘play your pocket aces if you got ‘em’ is a new lesson to our expert poker player). Obviously, an editing pass is needed too. Cards stuck to his sweaty wrests, a few places where commas ought to be, and a few other typos popped out as I read. There’s also one critical part of the prompt I don’t see: Where is your bird? Where is your damned bird!?? This story certainly doesn’t reach its full potential, but it mostly gets the prompt and I get more of a sense of character and tension than from its competitor. And now, for your arbitrary numbers: 4.5/10 ***** So if the crits didn’t make it clear, here’s the last card on the river, or tiny mechanical assassin-bird, if that’s your thing: Chili wins. Chili’s story had more characterized characters, a clearer story, and more tension. Jib’s story had some nicer language, and perhaps more potential, but didn’t quite hit the mark. However, metaphorical bonus points to the gracious Jib, who could have simply taken the victory by default but allowed Chili to turn in a late yarn.
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Dec 25, 2023 16:10
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Submissions are closed! Merry Christmas, Thunderdome. 
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Dec 25, 2023 19:49
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It's a Christmas miracle! The Our winner is rohan, for a story that perfectly captured what I wanted out of the prompt, with a breezy fun mystery and magic school adventures. Honorable mention goes to Thranguy, for a lovely chase with lots of lush detail. Would absolutely play this adventure game. And in keeping with the spirit of the holiday, there are no negative mentions this week! Thank you all very much for participating this week, and I'll get crits posted soon. Welcome back to the throne, rohan!
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Dec 26, 2023 06:17
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Coffee Run - beep beep There's a solid-enough foundation here, but I can't help but think that this was the wrong story to tell with these characters. There's a distinct lack of conflict, and it's not like I need every story to have constant fighting, but there really aren't that many obstacles between the characters and their goal here. That is, the characters aren't put in a situation where they need to make interesting decisions, and it's in interesting decisions that characters really shine, not in aesthetics. On that front, I think Eastern and Sunny are over-described physically and I would have come out knowing more about them had those words been spent on their approaches to problem-solving. I don't think the ambiguity of the heist works in your favor here. Sometimes the best answer for “why are they robbing this place, and what are they stealing?” is “who cares?” but since there is nothing in the story other than the heist, I think it should mean something. I think you were trying to let this carry itself on whimsy and cool here, and don't get me wrong, there is indeed whimsy and cool, but what there isn't much of is actual story and next time i’d like to see a story with more meaning and weight. Losing yourself in a good book - rohan Writing these crits before judgechat, this is what I'm going to argue as the winner to curling. There's a good mystery here. I solved it in the middle of my reading, because you both bothered to put the necessary clues into the story and wrote well enough to make me care to notice them. Mystery is hard to pull off in such short stories, and you constructed this excellently. I think I would have preferred a version of this where Claire/Gloria/Natalie was in some form an actual villain and our crew of heroes had to actually take her down instead of everyone just sort of agreeing to resolve things once the mystery is solved, but I can see how that would run counter to your themes. Anyways, this was fun and I had a good time unraveling the puzzle. Sausage Heist - Chernobyl Princess From the beginning, I was all in. Dogs who are also wizards? Check. Dogs who are also wizards doing an elaborate heist? Check. Greg? Greg. This is a slam-dunk, hell-yeah setup, but then we get to your ending and it's really disappointing. There's a reason heist stories usually end with the thieves victorious. It's fun to watch the elements of the heist fall into place, to see what skill each member was hiding. In those heist stories where the heist is unsuccessful, there's usually drama over why and how it failed, ala Reservoir Dogs (pun not intended). Here though, the heist fails, and then the story ends, and I'm left with a mouth full of saliva with nothing to eat. Let those wizard dogs eat tasty sausages, drat it! Chasing Lightning - Thranguy Not much story here, all told. A guy journeys through some gnarly psychedelic environments, and then is rewarded for doing so by getting to bang an exceptionally hot babe. But I got to give you points for cool. The gnarly psychedelic environments are vivid and awesome, which made this Heavy Metal*-rear end vignette a delightful breeze to read. Beep beep, if you want to write stories that focus on being cool over traditional story poo poo like character arcs and themes, give this one a read. It suffers from the same lack of conflict as your story, but at the end of the day is cool enough to get a pass. *The movie, haven't read the magazine Alien monster - Kuiperdolin I must admit, I think there are some allegorical or cultural element that's beyond me. It's referenced that this is not America, but also never specifies where we are exactly. I have a hard time understanding why the whole island thinks the protagonist is the monster, especially since he isn't the monster and the monster is just like, some other guy. I don't understand the ending, I don't know why this would be a satisfying end to the story. The first half is good, you did an excellent job conveying the despair while moving things along at a brisk pace. But there are too many logical gaps that might be more on me as a reader than you as a writer. Jib’s Non-story Look man, I know this is an in-joky shitpost, but it exemplifies an issue I’ve had with a bunch of your recent stories, and from judgechat/other crits, I know I’m not the only one. Calling this hard to follow would be an understatement. This is hard to understand on a basic synopsis level. I don't know where your characters are, I don't know what they're doing, without even getting to things like how or why. It feels like a random sequence of words. It feels like the kind of story one would get by hitting the center word of your predictive text over and over again. I caught some references to the discord chat, without any connective tissue making it a complete story. I really think you should dial it back next time. You can write cool sentences, neat twists of phrase, but that doesn't mean anything if they don't cohere into a meaningful story. Go back to basics. Over-describe a location or a character, at least that way the reader will know the basics of what's happening at the plot. Obnoxiously block out a scene, at least that way we’ll know where your characters are in physical space. We’re in the post-negative mention era of TD, but I still think you should consider this one a loss. Even if it’s not technically a DM, it certainly gets mentioned dishonorably.
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Dec 26, 2023 07:06
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Week 594 Crits! The Confession of Someone Who Is not a Glamoured Heroic Repugnant Alien Monster The characters’ logic here is really weird. Imagine if you were watching Godzilla and suddenly everyone started accusing one another of secretly being Mothra, since she helps people. It just seems like a really weird leap to make, especially when you’ve established that people are dying. Idk, sorta feel like people would have other things to worry about. This could use a proofing pass or two, and I think maybe the lack of word count requirement hurt you here as well, since it feels like you probably would have edited more if you had to go back and tighten things up. Also please, please, for the love of god, put lines between ALL of your paragraphs. You’re clearly doing it sometimes, I don’t understand why you wouldn’t do it for all of them.  The more I think about it, I’m not really sure we needed to see the disaster at all, especially since you start the story after the island believes our unnamed MC is the monster. I guess what it really comes down to is asking what the story is about : is it about this huge catastrophic event, or is it about the social ramifications of an entire community turning on its supposed monstrous benefactor? I suspect the latter, so the former really clogs up the point you’re trying to make. I mean, does it really matter HOW the community turned on him? Not really, no, just that it did. I assume you put that description in there to fulfill the “something vital has broken” rule, but you just as easily could have said that the broken thing was the sense of trust between the MC and the islanders/his wife. Ah well. (Side note, and I get that this is my own bias speaking, but it would have been hilarious if the wife was into the whole monster thing.) A Non-Story wherein a couple fun dudes fall asleep early on Christmas Morning whilst Dreaming of Santa Pre-judging notes: Lmao, the juxtaposition of the title and the opening line. You got me, good job. I… is this what being gangstalked feels like? Did you really make your story include a bunch of references to things that I’ve said in Discord over the last 48 hours, or am I having some kind of paranoid delusion? Well, I guess there’s kind of a reference to magic at the end, but I’m not sure I’d call this fun. I can’t really tell if this is supposed to be a “gently caress you” to me personally, but um. Okay? Not really sure how to crit this either, other than the usual “this is sometimes hard to understand,” but I figured it out enough (or did I????). Oh, and you spelled “rappelled” wrong. Also were you using “devin” like the French for soothsayer? Is there a secret message I’m missing? Thank you for not posting Santa porn, I guess; I didn’t remember to specify no erotica but that would probably have made me feel even weirder about this. I dunno, man. I’m just kinda sad now.  Post-judging notes: Okay so I talked it over with the other judges, and there was some speculation that the references were an attempt to judgepander/do in-jokes, which I can see. I dunno, I guess I probably took things a little too personally on first read, which I’m not sure was fair to you, especially given that I eventually went back and saw that you’d labeled this a “(non)submission,” which obviously didn’t show up in the archives. I think you were just riffing and attempting not to fail, which I appreciate and respect, so I apologize for my initial reaction. I will also say that the judges agreed that it would be cool to see you pull back like, maybe 10% on the wild language in favor of comprehensibility, and it would probably put you in the higher ranks of Coolweird ‘dome writers should you do so. You write neat words, I just really wish it wasn’t such a fight to parse what you were trying to say. Alternatively, if you’re going to insist on obfuscating your meaning so much, just go whole hog and make it a cipher or something, idk. Chasing Lightning Thank you for writing something that was fun and had magic. There were a few typos here that I won’t hold against you, and I would have liked to see a touch more personality from your MC, but overall really enjoyable. The whole thing reminded me of a video game, a neat one with clever puzzles, something by Sierra. I loved the environments that you came up with, particularly the garden and the book bats. Oh, and the footnotes. And the maze. I liked it all, this is what I’m saying. losing yourself in a good book Okay I love this already. Perfect light tone, perfect use of a bizarre flash rule. Yep, just lovely. Thank you. There are bits you probably could have tightened up, and I think I saw a typo or two, but this was exactly what I wanted out of this week. I appreciate that you took what could have quite easily been a serious high-stakes situation and found a way to make it fun and enjoyable. Gives good Diana Wynne Jones vibes. Honestly, I think I may go back and read it again when I’m done with crits, I liked it that much.Sausage Heist GREAT first line. Lol Greg. I love unofficial Greg week. I desperately want to know what kind of dog Greg is. I’m imagining a pug mix of some kind. Peki-malti-pug. I don’t know. Hahahaha, poo poo wizards. I really liked this, but the ending feels very abrupt. I suspect you know that, though. It would have been nice to have some resolution to the plot threads you set up, particularly with Esther and (maybe) the True Nature of Greg. I hope that you come back and finish this at some point, because it was good and I think it could be great with an ending attached. Coffee Run I think your second paragraph changes tenses? I’m not sure I caught it the first time, but my brain’s a little out of it at the moment, so idk. This was fun and had a lot of cool details that I liked, but it would have been really cool to see more out of your setup. Everything worked out too smoothly, and went too easily, so it was hard to feel satisfied at the end. A bit of a “so what?” moment. I know I said that I wouldn’t hold writing a vignette against you this week, but given that your competition included two really solid complete stories, it definitely took you out of the running. I liked the relationships between the characters, and I liked how their personalities shone through in their actions and how they dealt with one another. The “real woman” bit from Sunny put me off a bit (I don’t know that I’ve EVER heard one woman say that to another, although of course just because someone has actually said something doesn’t mean it’s good dialogue, either), but other than that I thought it was pretty solid. Honestly if you decided to do more with these characters and this world, I would be interested in reading it. Good work!
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Dec 26, 2023 07:24
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Thunderdome DXCV - … for the biscuit Hello, Thunderdome! This can be a busy and stressful time for everybody, so let’s keep things short and simple this week: I would like to read stories about characters taking risks. These can be huge, death-defying stunts, or fragile moments of emotional honesty; anything that takes your character out of their comfort zone and forces them to take some action that could change everything. That said, I don’t want anybody to feel like they’re taking risks writing a story, so this is another negative-mention-free week. Flashes on request. In the spirit of risk-taking, I’ll also offer Hellrules for a Base word-count is 800 words. For those of you who haven’t entered recently, I’ll offer an extra 25 words for each week since you last entered TD, to a max 2100 (or a year’s worth of no-shows). If you haven’t entered TD before, feel free to take 2100 words, though I’d suggest aiming for 1200 words max for your first story. Finally, I’ll take a risk of my own — I’ll allow erotica and fan-fiction, but not concurrently. Poetry and politics are still off the table. No sign-up deadlines, but I’ll stop giving flashes or Hellrules after Friday 11:59PM PST. Submission deadline is Sunday 11:59PM PST, or thereabouts. judges me you? daredevils you?
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Dec 26, 2023 12:37
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Hellrule
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Dec 26, 2023 13:21
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Kuiperdolin posted:Hellrule
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Dec 26, 2023 13:40
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In, hellrule
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Dec 26, 2023 14:18
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In. Give hell.
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Dec 26, 2023 22:27
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In with a flash, please.
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Dec 26, 2023 22:50
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beep-beep car is go posted:In, hellrule Albatrossy_Rodent posted:In. Give hell. Beezus posted:In with a flash, please.
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Dec 27, 2023 00:12
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Week #595 submission I didn't pick up nothin till I got these humbuckers 762 words This is not poetry. Is it a bunch of sentences That have line breaks in arbitrary places? This is not poetry. Maybe there’s a repeated phrase that has a purpose, so let me say: This is not poetry. It might have a hidden message like if you decode it, it will be critical of a world leader; this is not that, because This is not poetry. Does a story have to have a main character, a protagonist, a villain? Some would argue for that, or that things like pacing are important, or they just want a story to start where the action is rollicking and never stop. Treaing words and language like disconnected limbs to be reunited in a big surprise at the end.I don’t claim to have mastery over all my marionette strings, and my head strings might be a little frayed. At the very least, the brain to fingers connection is definitely wonky. And see—I’ve included a long paragraph here just to prove that This is not poetry. Well, then, you might say, is it a story? There’s not really a beginning middle end, but that’s deliberate. The things I’m most proud of, and I consider some that I got lossed on things I got lost in, and to me, they were words in their best order. But this is not that. This is not poetry. Here’s a rime. A pun in the cold light of careful calculation, and I won’t stop doing that. We’re all playing with words, and if no one else finds it amusing, that’s fine. Critics may, in fact, hate it. This is not poetry. So what is a story then? All I want is a little insight into the author. Plot is an arbitrary constraint. Even if it’s about horny space elves, there should be a little you in there. Am I a horny space elf? Prolly. That’s not a word, but you knew I meant ‘probably.’ This is not poetry. Did I copy and paste ‘This is not poetry.’ every time or type it out? It’s something to think about. I did the dishes and the cats are still alive, what more do you you need? This is not poetry. Some sort of form, rhythm to the verse, some metre? This ain’t poetry. I been telling you. Maybe you just want it free from tpypos? I been telling you. This ain’t poetry. Aw gently caress, I wrote a poem. One big curse to top it off. Just saying gently caress to drew attention, no little curses along the way to build suspense, no poop-hell-drat-poo poo-bridge, just going straight to the big guns. gently caress gently caress gently caress gently caress. Lest you forget- This ain’t poetry. The stop sign on my block must be sixty years old, it’s untouched by graffiti, and is rough cut. It’s not a perfect octagon. The fraternity boys have dragged the sign that says Maple St. down the sidewalk every year for the past ten, but that stop sign persists. No one listens to it though, it must be the most accident filled intersection in town. Paramedics drag corpses off my front lawn once a year. This ain’t poetry. The mezzo gets a part in a Broadway show and you drive halfway across the country to see her. Her kids are 14 and 12, which are the same age as your sister’s kids so it’s weird. Her husband is cool, but you bone in secret a couple times before you have to get back home. You play the new Coldplay album in your 2006 Beetle and say the gap in her front teeth doesn’t look so wide as it did when you were kids. And you say ‘You want to just wing it, see where it goes?” And she laughs and says, “No. I have a good thing going here.” There is no poetry. You and I, who cares? What do you want? The same thing I want: let’s just trade places for a minute. Step into my story for a minute, but more than anything, I want to be in your shoes. It doesn’t matter what I write so long as I can imagine that I’m you for a moment, reading me. I want to be you, not you being me. I started with a ridiculous meta about writing and told a few ridiculous truths at the end. I don’t want to be me. None of this poo poo might be good, but I can look back and say I was always honest. Sure, faking it is hard, but there’s only one real struggle in the world, and that’s being yourself. If that’s corny, well, I’m from Iowa (a lie). Dear Reader, I love you. and that’s why I don’t write poetry
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Dec 27, 2023 00:57
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In, hell rule
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Dec 27, 2023 09:52
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Thranguy posted:In, hell rule
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Dec 27, 2023 10:53
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