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in gimme box 9
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Dec 5, 2023 01:35
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box 6 please. Wanna find out what this means
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Dec 5, 2023 01:39
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Beep Beep, you opened your toxxboxx to find... Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and 800 bonus words! *************** derp, you opened your toxxboxx to find... Excoriation and 300 bonus words! *************** Jib, you opened your toxxboxx to find... Gambling Disorder and 450 bonus words!
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Dec 5, 2023 01:59
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Clarification: Opening a toxxboxx is to be treated like a  for entering the week. Since that wasn't spelled out our first three entrants are not toxxed in.
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Dec 5, 2023 02:50
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now i am 
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Dec 5, 2023 02:57
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Dec 5, 2023 02:58
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Oops, I too
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Dec 5, 2023 04:15
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I am judge
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Dec 5, 2023 08:30
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Here, have some crits. Derp a phantom Did it keep to the theme? Yes. Using the Phantom Hand trick to connect with people is lateral thinking. Can I tell the photo is in it? Yup. What I liked: You could tell it was an internal monologue, I liked how everyone could see the main character was an rear end in a top hat even though he couldn't. Like, I've worked with this guy, I know him. Good writing there. What I didn't: This is subjective, but what about Judging isn't subjective? I didn't dig The Vibes. It was a depressing story. I thought the use of nested parens (you know the spot [right? right.]) was clunky and took me out a little bit. ***** Team Buffalo Buffalo Albatrossy_Rodent Thranguy Four Slugs and Seven Years Ago Did they keep to the theme? It doesn't seem very "Lateral Thinking" to question people and throw salt at slugs. I would expect that an investigator would know how to investigate. Can I tell the photos are in it? Yes Are the stories cohesive between entrants? Yes What I liked: I'm sorry, but Silver plated son of a bitch" is a great line. Felt like a Wild-Wild-West episode What I didn't: I wish that there was more lateral thinking in how they figured out the Slugs, and it not that, then I'd like to see one of the investigators make a mistake and make hay with one of them chucking salt at someone and nothing happens. ***** Team Ol' Chin Hair Rohan Chili The Rules of Magic Waiting on Wizards Did they keep to the theme? Sure did. I like this one. Can I tell the photos are in it?? Yes. Are the stories cohesive? Yes, but there's enough of a separation between the two that I raised my eyebrows a bit. It's less one story than two stories with the same characters. What I liked: This line: "The wizards stared at her with vacant, curious expressions." I also liked the conceit of wizards doing an escape room for team building. The characterization was very strong too. What I didn't: There was a lot of work done to point out that Nial was an rear end in a top hat. Maybe too much? ***** Team Will Cry Beezus Lippincott Curlington Plight of the Hornybee Did they keep to the theme? Hell yes. Can I tell the photos are in it? yes. Are the stories cohesive? Yes and No. What I liked: I actually out loud laughed at the twist at the end. I also liked how tight the story was. Two characters, one room, clear and present issue to overcome. What I didn't: This one, out of the others had what felt like me to have the largest difference between the authors. It works, mind, but the voice of the three authors really comes out in the three sections. I would have liked to see a little more cohesion between them. That said, I liked the ending of this one so much, a lot was forgiven in my mind.
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Dec 5, 2023 15:18
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In, I'll take box 7
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Dec 5, 2023 20:44
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Toadsmash posted:In, I'll take You open your toxxboxx to find... Dissociative Identity Disorder and 500 bonus words!
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Dec 5, 2023 21:25
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Week 591 Dometasking Crits Part 1 my usual read-along blog style musings, and there were a few instances from both teams where I said 'why isn't this happening' only to have it pay off later, so I think as a whole things were fairly successful and with the gimmick limitations there were no chaos entries where everything went to pot. the ones about space bugs: Four Slugs and Seven Years Ago 703 words Team Buffalo Buffalo p. 1/2 And then I shot President Lincoln in the face. He collapsed onto the ugly oval office rug, then melted into a sickly brown ooze. The ooze scuttled away like a great centipede but I tossed the salt from the bag on my hip and it writhed in pain. “I have more. Is the real Lincoln alive?” It’s a bold opener, but ‘I have more’ isn’t much of an action movie quip, lol. I actually like starting the in media res with And. From centipede, I’m imagining little tendrils or pseudopods which if that was your intent, then could have made it sound even more unsettling. Though, the phrase ‘fastest peristalsis in the west’ also popped into my head. The ooze formed into a tower, then molded itself into a quite handsome man with a dapper mustache and a snazzy vest: a spitting image of me. Funny detail, though will this narrator’s vanity come into play later? Let’s find out. Star-Creature no. 80 in my Manual of Other-World Monsters, the Mirror Slug. No known associated sky-ships, likely arrives on Earth via meteor. The other me spoke. “If you think a little salt is gonna make me talk…” I sprayed it again “...AH…then you're absolutely right. Please, not again.” This is maybe a touch confusing, since dapper man has some sort of weapon, but also tosses handfuls of loose salt from a bag. Maybe just establish that it’s a spray bottle or squirt gun of salt water or something instead of the bag of salt, and that also diffuses some of the shock from the opening line. “Is Lincoln alive?” I said again. “Yes,” it said, seating itself behind the desk pulling. “We still need a reference.” It pulled a little ooze worm from its vest pocket, which transformed into my pipe as it brought it to its mouth. Is that . . . a baby number 80? I know word count is probably tight, but having it mime pulling it but it grows directly from its finger would help show off the transforming powers. Unless, of course, this second mimic has a purpose later… “How many?” “Five, myself included. One for Abe, one for Mary Todd, a cook, and two bodyguards.” “That explains the shocking lack of security around here. Why Lincoln?” I said. Mirror Slugs normally replaced lowlifes and farmers, and kept a low profile. Why the sudden thirst for power? Why? I immediately think oh, these slugs must be refugees or something, and they’re hiding out. And also, they replace them? That’s very sinister for farmers or pickpockets, it wouldn’t be much to create a new persona or doppelgang someone then keep moving on or something. This makes me very interested in this unambitious slug culture. “Paid off by some Draxan officers. They have economic interests in your South and would like a ceasefire declared.” The creatures it called Draxans were Star-Creature no. 17 in the Manual, the Pants-Wasps. Though if they’re solitary and float around on meteors only arriving by chance, then that’s a whole other thing and probably deserves some exploring. Are they so feared as mimics that the entire species is in solitary confinement? Were they paid in rides to a planet? Or are the meteors just pokeballs? No idea what a Pants-Wasp could be, but going by the Star-a-dex, I assume they’re just wasps that wear pants. Probably a lederhosen sitch. drat Confederates. I knew they'd had dealings with alien monsters before, such as the British, but I thought even they would be above trade with the Pants-Wasps. Brutal slam on the brits. “Where is he?” I said. “I'll only tell you if you promise to...” I threw the salt again. “AH! Fine. We have him in the escape tunnel. You access it by pulling back a bust.” “Which bust?” I said, grabbing another handful of salt. “I don't know, you think I know anything about Earth politics?” said Slug-me. “I would assume so, if you've been hired to imitate our President,” I replied. “The Draxans don't hire good assassins for jobs on backwater planets like this. The bust is of a man, I think?” So they are assassins, or just this one? But also, could probably play more into the way it’s hard to fathom other species because the way they think is totally alien or something, and that’s part of why they don’t infiltrate higher levels of space gov’ts. Shapeshifters always be taking a shot at the president. “Every bust in this house is of a man!” I shouted. Why couldn't star-beings be gentlemen of education and class, like myself? “Does the man appear to be wearing a wig?” More vanity, though I don’t have a great sense of this character, tbh. It is a little funny that he says this, but all his info is straight from an encyclopedia. Like I’m wondering if the earth version isn’t digital, but a 26 volume set that he has to lug around for reference. Maybe that’s a premise for another story. “What's a wig?” says the Slug-me. “Fake hair,” I respond. “You mean to tell me the threads on your head are organic? Now I've heard everything.” Don’t want to get too far into the weeds thinking about this, but this could be funnier. Maybe something like you mean those things you carry around on your sensory pods aren’t your young? Anything more specific than just ‘organic’ and phrasing it the way a mirror slug might. “Can you at least tell me what room it's in?” I say. “Uh, it's got a big flat horizontal plank hoisted in the air by several thin vertical planks?” “You mean a table? How on Earth were you selected to impersonate a President?” “I wasn't on Earth when I was selected,” said Slug-me to my heavy sigh. I made a circle of salt on the ground around my doppelganger. “There. You stay there while I rescue the President.” Slug-me clenched its congealed-ooze teeth. “Ooh boy, I suppose I could step over this salt with my human legs but I really don't want to risk it.” They never do. Pretty good, if this weren’t a hired assassin. It’s sort of at odds with the silliness. I kind of wish that Slug was tricked somehow into this mission, then it would fit better. I hurried out of the Oval Office towards the state dining room. A large banner over the door read: WELCOME BUST-SCULPTORS ASSOCIATION OF AMERICA. I spent the next half-hour of my precious President-rescuing time pulling back the hundreds of busts strewn about the hall for a hidden mechanism. Yeah, this is a funny bit. “Stop right there!” came a voice from the corridor. One of the president’s bodyguards. But was he genuine or an imposter? “What are you doing here?” “I was taking a tour and got lost,” I said. That part was actually true. Twas a good thing such a renowned exozoologist happened to be in the White House during such a nefarious debacle. I feel like this character would be a little hurt that the bodyguard didn’t recognize him. Seems likely that meetings with the president would have happened considering the crowded universe. Or maybe the dapper fellow should not have been human either? “Well, it's a good place to get lost in,” said the guard. “Please enjoy all these fine busts!” He walked away, whistling. I pulled a bust of Jefferson on the mantle (admittedly the first I should have checked) and the bottom of the fireplace scooted away, revealing a ladder. I descended. TJ’s secret passage rumor leaves the piece on a bit of a ‘yikes.’ And I don’t know that it’s all that common knowledge. Something like a Shakespeare bust in the row of presidential statues would let an average reader solve a simple clue, plus the Shakespeare bust is how Adam West Batman got into the batcave from the study, so something like that would be fun to add in rather than an uncomfortable detail right before it ends. _____ Four Slugs and Seven Years Ago (2) 669 words Abraham Lincoln was addressing Congress, giving a speech on the Mall, exiting a carriage in the stables, and sitting up on his bed. That we knew about. There was at least one more running around somewhere. All because of that silver-plated son-of-a-bitch Allen Pinkerton. I had the slugs dead to rights, ready to salt them good, but the thing about escape tunnels is they have multiple exits. The completely misnamed Intelligence Service was also closing in on the mirror slugs, but they didn't know what they were dealing with. They came in guns blazing, which in the first place didn't bother the slugs even a little bit and in the second place would have perforated the President. Who, luckily enough, wasn't there. When the shooting was done and the slugs had all flown the coop, we found the chair he'd been tied to, and the ropes that had held him, still tied up, lying slack on the tunnel floor. Strong voice, can really feel the hard-boiled disdain of (non-coincidental) Dashiell Hammett dripping off every word. Maybe a few more words of setup about the slugs and this would probably work on its own. I guess it’s not clear why the IS is shooting up any Lincolns they find, unless they know where the real one is. Maybe this comes into play later? But it feels like a deduction this narrator might make. So, four Lincoln slugs in the District, plus the real thing somewhere, presumably. Each one with a pair of bodyguards, and the service didn't have three people actually qualified for the job. Allan wouldn't listen to me about what they were or about the salt. He just figured they were a gang of talented impersonators and actors, and figured he could trip them up, conversationally. Small thing, but I feel like the professional rivalry, and especially in this moment of frustration, the narrator would not use Pinkerton’s first name. And Pinkerton himself was such a land of contrasts, I kind of wish this might have been from his perspective instead. Anyway. This was a bad idea. I saw it going down, with the first slug in the stable. The agent was trying to ask it about the officer corps and the Lincoln kept flummoxing him with adages that barely made sense. “You know, a fish has no use for a hammer” kind of thing. There are some riddle-like Lincoln quotes you could have pulled here: “How many legs would a calf have if you called its tail a leg” sort of thing. Or maybe the fish one is attributed and I didn’t see it in a cursory search. That time I was able to deploy a fistful of pocket salt, which at least convinced the guards after the slug reverted and dissolved into an oily reflective puddle. But it was just a lucky guess on my part. Sort of low stakes to throw a handful of salt at the real Lincoln, so could have injected a little humor here about that. You'd think they'd have gotten word to the rest of the Service, but maybe I beat them to the next Lincoln, in his bedroom. The same story. “If we call a tail a leg, how many legs does a dog have?” This time I knew it was a slug. Abe only tells that one with a colt. I had a nice-sized chunk of rock salt, thrown straight at his ample forehead, and the slug started sizzling away before the armed guard drew his gun and before the unarmed one got more than three licks in. Big fellow, and he knew where a man's kidneys can be found. Oh, here’s the quote. OK. Lol. And the frequent mis-quote. Is it a colt or a calf? Hmm. Deffo not a dog. But ‘colt’ coming so soon after ‘slug’ makes me think of Lincoln speaking via a revolver, so some unintended imagery here the way that’s worded. Same with using ‘licks’ in the same sentence as a melting slug. Sort of confusing anyway, at first blush it seems like the narrator is getting beat up, but it must be the slug, and if so, wouldn’t the protag comment on the lack of kidneys instead? Or instruct them where to hit to actually be effective since the earlier comment is about the lack of intelligence in the IS. We all converged on the last two Lincolns, out in front of the White House lawn. I'd had an idea or two along the way. I called Bartleby Grissom III, Esq, and loaded up a shotgun with rock salt birdshot. Allan and his men were trying to question the Lincolns, to no avail. Now, you might think the thing to do would be to just ask them both to sprinkle a little table salt on their palms. But that would have been a disaster. So I set up by the hedge and signaled Bart. Not sure why this would be bad. I guess because then the slugs might just open fire on everybody, but probably could have tricked them into a secure location. “In a contract dispute between shipping firms headquartered in New Jersey and Delaware but both owned by New York concerns and in regards to activities in Chesapeake Bay, which court and set of laws should the matter be judged under?” And one of them spouted something about scorpions while the other, the real Abraham Lincoln rattled off chapter and verse of the United States federal code. I took aim, and I fired. And put a cluster of rock salt right into the chest of the mirror slug pretending to be Allan Pinkerton. Four slugs. Four Lincolns. So one slug, unaccounted for. Allan was the one swiveling his gun the wrong way. Kind of wish there was some logical deduction rather than a physical detail that gives the game away, but that might have required having more Pinkerton as a character. Or having a physical description of Allan at the top so we know something is off. Should have been a better description rather than just stating the gun was backwards. The real Allan we eventually found in a wine cellar, hogtied. The last slug was captured and I hear got recruited when they started up the Secret Service. Bad idea if you ask me, but people rarely do. Overall a decent adventure piece. Not a lot of ferreting out clues or real detective work, and heavier on running around with superior knowledge without ever getting flummoxed himself by any doppelgangers. There’s never an a-ha moment for the reader to piece anything together on their own. *** Overall Observations The narrators of both are very different, a dandy Van Helsing to the rough riding Sam Spade. I feel like the plot and setting were communicated very well between writers, but maybe the only thing about character was like ‘old-timey detective’ and the interpretations were wildly different. Same with tone that feels like two different eras. Interesting. Rodent put more dialogue in, and I appreciated trying to converse with the mirror slugs, even if it was mostly exposition rather than any sort of deduction. The narrator knew it was a slug from before the piece opens. There’s at least a little in Thran’s with the Lincoln quotes, and Pinkerton’s gun, but it’s more action Batman than detective Batman. I like the aliens infiltrate the gov’t but set a hundred years before the cold war plot, but a little more intrigue from both would have been nice. _____ Plight of the Hornybee (1 of 3) 496 words I’ve been awake for forty-eight hours trying to reactivate the harmonizers, hating my life, and pleading with universe to wipe out the an entire endangered alien race so that I don’t die like a chump in the rubble of this dome because horny bees the size of pick-up trucks won’t stop beating their asses against the plas-grid. Of course when I finally land a gig at an observation outpost, it’s on the worst planet in the system. If these bees don’t kill me before the week’s end, it’ll be a miracle. Gets straight in there with the allegory. Expecting the bees to be a vital part of the universal ecosystem by the end. Not a critique perse, but a ramble: Space F-350 diesels. Sure, words are at a premium here, but a little specificity on pick-up trucks would be a good detail. Especially if this does get more into ecology. Like the coal rollers of today are a far cry from the little Toyotas that were more bed than cab when I spent summers working as a farm laborer. Maybe it even conveys more with an economy of words. I struggle with this myself, but generally don’t see anything wrong with peppering even a future story with real brand names or details that link back to modern day oversized everything, but I guess we’ll see where this goes and how much it leans into conservation. “Leanne, you have once again failed to route the power to the-” That robotic voice is my new second-least-favorite sound in the universe. I need music to focus so I can fix this drat grid. “Kay-Six, play that new Woozer album. Max volume.” muzik  Is this a real band that is under my radar? Yeah, alt-universe band names. Pinkerton was named after the Madame Butterfly character, so if it was a giant butterfly, mind blown. I’ve seen Weezer twice, about twenty years apart, and both times were extravagant. First they had the fireworks laden W come down from rafters. The second time was on tour with the Pixies and it such a funny contrast with the seething minimalism of Black Francis clearly hating being there with the full Buddy Holly high school lockers set and motorized tiki bar that rolled up the catwalk. What am I even saying? This could be an alt-universe Fraggle Rock soundtrack. The android hesitates before the servos in its silicon face whir. Its eyes widen as its mouth slants sharply; the expression is supposed to be a frown, but it’s nightmare-inducing. “You have exhausted your recreational credits. Your current options are: classical. Now playing, Despacito-” Here we go, and I’m not a hardcore Trekkie, but growing up on Picard listening to Beethoven was always too easy. Is the AI robit sapient and unable to convey sentiment through mechanics? This is an interesting thing to discuss. Physical limitations of the body and disdain based solely on looks. Between the bees and this, I’m getting the sense that your character is slightly callous, even if it’s in service of self-preservation. "Again?!" I slam my computer down on the console; my hours-old coffee splashes over the side of the mug. The monitors beep and flash angrily at me. They’ve been beeping and flashing angrily at me off and on for days, waking me in my bunk at odd hours when they send their shrieking alarm right to my PC, alerting me to an imminent grid breach. These domes are supposed to endure whatever the furthest reaches of the galaxy can throw at them, but no one anticipated that these giant loving bees emitted mating signals at the exact right frequency needed to blow the harmonizers keeping the power cycles automated. Clear, simple sci-fi explanation of the problem. The expeditionary team tested these domes for months before we got here. But they’ve never been tested during whatever gently caress swarm is happening outside right now. The resident biologists are thrilled with this development. But we’re sure as hell learning now, as the bees tangle together and slam into the dome over and over like the randiest goddamn meteors you’ve ever seen. The bio team probably wouldn’t be too thrilled if they knew how close these bees have come to bringing the roof down on top of us for the past couple of nights. But as maintenance lead here, I’m not supposed to incite panic unless death is imminent. Oh, this isn’t a solo adventure into space, but some sort of colony? Ups the stakes, but also, there could be shift work and group troubleshooting. Being up for 48 straight doesn’t make a lot of sense with this added context. And having only the android to talk to here seems strange. And my android companion they assigned me is making this all ten thousand times worse. “Miss Leanne, your pulse is–” “Miss Leanne is so sick of your poo poo, Kay-Six. You fix this.” “But I’m not programmed to operate the–” “Then please shut up before I weld your face to the toilet.” No. No, get it together. Property damage comes out of the paycheck, I remind myself as the console warns me that the pair of bees that just barreled into the grid fractured a hex. Conveys the dystopia, I suppose, but the lead engineer getting pay deductions from damage always struck me as strange. At least in this story, what is the motivation for them to even be there? We’re staving off a base-wide calamity, and if it succeeds at a material cost, then they’re personally responsible. There has to be a very good reason for someone to agree to that when seemingly everyone else on this space base is tucked in bed. gently caress. Alright, we have a reason to panic, and I need to get to comms. Sets up a scenario pretty well, but I’m not sure of the character’s motivations. I guess let’s see where this goes. _____ Plight of the Hornybee (2 of 3) Word Count 494 I recognize human history is a tapestry of failsafes and contingency plans cobbled together by assumptions, which ultimately prove wrong. I should not be surprised by the "Connection Error" notification. Color me surprised though. If there’s a time for cynicism, then it’s now. Why subvert the rest of the opener, and a very poetic one at that? My patience fractures in a teeth-gnashing snarl as the notification materializes in a guttering spasm of pixels. The display momentarily pulses with the rhythmic thunk-smack-crunch of another drone’s body slamming into the dome. Kay-Six’s voice chirps to my left at a much closer proximity than I expect. "Would you like me to play a selection of mellow soundscapes and flowing melodies? Your heart rate variability is out of expected ranges and your biometrics are reading a high level of cortisol." Whether real or manufactured, I always like getting details over generalities: The mellow soundscapes of Brian Beano. I choke a bit with the jump scare. Should the jump scare be right after ‘closer proximity than I expect.’? It feels better there. "Get out of my biometrics. I need you to help me get this communication to send." "The service is currently offline." "Yes, that would explain why it’s not sending. Please determine why the service is offline." "Running diagnostics." Kay-Six’s eyes stare blankly at the dome around us while some background process runs. The thrum of wings and bodies doing their mating dance has elevated the temperature in the dome, and while I’m flushed and pitted out, her cheeks remain as smooth and unaffected as always. I wonder when the cooling misters will engage automatically to drop the room temperature, and then I’ll be soaked. I’m jarred from worrying about that by her update. Huh, air in the protective dome getting too warm from the mechanical energy of thumping against the shell. Maybe this whole engineering project is a shambles. I guess I don’t have a good sense of scale, it feels like this is both a dome over a city-sized colony and a tiny command post with barely enough room to maneuver around the annoying android. "Diagnostics complete. The service is offline. Cause unknown. Restoration time unknown. I am sorry, there is no further information available." Her programming has the decency to look apologetic. Thousands of years of human history and data have been perfected in the Kay-Six model. She’s not even outdated yet. However, all that history and hubris are exactly why we are here, surrounded by an amalgamation of evolution and selective breeding demonstrating how Biology truly is the "Science of Exception." Pretty clearly establishing that the android is just an extension of the computer rather than a sapient entity. If so, what is the need for a physical body? So far, Kay-Six is just saying what the computer could be without this ability to sneak up from behind you. And this is a colony, not an isolating solo mission so the desire for a “human” face to stave off madness through companionship isn’t really a concern. The science of exceptions as I understand it are there are rules, but also there are no rules. I guess that’s the hubris of thinking the human mind is some pinnacle, so let’s see if that’s deflated by the end. I take a deep, calming breath and chew out, "Can you please apply a local patch to communicate the need for Protocol Nine to other crew members?" Protocol Nine will at least enable shelter-in-place protocols, encouraging crew to obtain oxygen hoods and locate the emergency supplies such as their bee suits. I have no idea where mine is, tossed in some corner half-repaired after the last use. Was this protocol not already engaged? I guess don’t induce a panic, but space colonists should be used to it. Wait, bee suits? She nods and her eyes go vacant as she runs the process to prepare a localized communication. The ship’s speakers thrum to life - not with a communication of Protocol Nine - but a smooth saxophone melody that sounds eerily familiar. Recognition dawns and I can’t keep the exasperation out of my voice. "...Kay-Six. Why is ‘Careless Whisper’ playing?" Ah, hiding the musical specifics earlier to drop this. OK, good. "My data suggests this is a soothing melody appropriate for mating rituals. Protocol Nine has been initiated and is loading into localized communications. The music should not impact Protocol Nine, but may reduce your cortisol levels." "I told you to stay out of my biometrics." "I don’t need to read biometrics to know how you feel, Leanne." So there is some sort of understanding with the android. It’s enigmatic. Hopefully Kay-Six gets, uh, a happy ending. _____ Plight of the Hornybee Team Will Cry Part 3/3 500 words “You know,” Kay-Six says, “seeing all these bees mating makes me think of something else we could do to lower your cortisol levels… ❤️” I can somehow hear the heart emoji. That’s fun. “Abso-loving-lutely not,” I snap. Kay-Six goes quiet for a blissful moment, even turning off the horrible music. Unfortunately, it doesn’t last. “Leanne, why don’t we ever have sex anymore?” Lolol, quite the arc here, going from glorified computer dongle to sex guilter. “Oh my God, are we really doing this now?” “Well, you won’t ever talk to me! I’m meant to be a companion to you, and that means taking care of all your needs. Why won’t you let me do my job?” Kay-Six’s eyes sparkle with synthetic tears, and I feel my heart soften a little. I’ve always had a weakness for crying women, even simulated ones. This is still a little weird, considering there’s a full colony of people. If Kay-Six is unhappy with the relationship, then go find someone else. If Kay-Six is programmed to not be allowed to do that, then there’s a whole undertone of yikes in this. Knowing and allowing yourself to be manipulated by some tears is an interesting character trait. It’s not after the fact reflection, the character is stating it as it happens. I take a deep breath and let it back out, trying to focus on the task of circumventing the sprinkler system while also composing my answer. I know Kay-Six isn’t going to let this go, so I do the only thing I can think of and tell the truth. “Listen, this isn’t your fault, but whoever programmed you apparently thinks the female orgasm works like this sprinkler system.” “I thought you liked that kind of thing,” Kay-Six says, hurt in her voice “In reasonable quantities, sure!” I say, more than a little hysterically. “But I’m tired of having all my poo poo get gummed up when you inevitably soak everything I own!” “B-but it’s biodegradable—” A squirting convo, this sure has taken a turn. I don’t want to say this is straddling good taste, but that’s the phrase I’ll use. From a logistics standpoint, someone in this space colony is manufacturing squirt juice or the quartermaster had to calculate how much squirt juice to bring along for the companion bots. Could have had it be more of a ‘biological’ necessity, like say it’s joint lubrication or something that needs to be expelled, and it’s like a horny oil change. Or at least a pervy little roomba that greedily laps up the spillage so it can take it to bio-recycling. My retort dies in my throat as the dome finally reaches critical temperature and the sprinklers flare to life. Water goes everywhere, including through the crack in the hex dome. Outside, the nearest bees’ movements slow as their wings get wet, and my heart leaps for a moment with hope. But within seconds, they shake off their fuzzy bodies and resume their frantic humping. I snarl in frustration and turn back to the control panel, slapping through the last few steps to finally shut off the cooling system. “It’s too bad these sprinklers don’t spray something more viscous,” Kay-Six says thoughtfully from behind me. “It might slow them down long enough that we could get outside and patch up the dome." Surely there’s a can of space Great Stuff for just such an emergency. I guess the dome is just to protect from space bugs, and isn’t an atmospheric shield. And like magic, my tired brain spits out the most demented plan I’ve ever conceived. Before I can second-guess myself, I race to the nearest supply closet. “Thank God for Hydroponics leaving their poo poo everywhere,” I mutter, pulling out a pump sprayer. The tank isn’t as big as I’d like, but with luck it should be just enough. “Kay-Six, can you choose when to release your, uh, ‘fluid’ reservoir?” Yeah, this is the biggest thing for me—there are clearly other people around. This should have been a solo mission, and using whatever’s at … hand … is part of the peril’s solution. It’s MacGuyver in a fully stocked hardware store. MacGeyser? “What fluid— ohhhhh.” She screws up her face in thought for a second, then frowns. “I don’t think I can, no.” The neckbeard who designed and programmed Kay-Six doesn’t have a failsafe for squirt on command? Designed to have to be aroused first? Hmm. “Of course not,” I say with a groan. I run a hand over my face, steeling my resolve. “Alright, I can make this work, but we’re gonna have to be quick.” “You know what would really get me in the mood?” Kay-Six says sweetly. I sigh. “Kay-Six, play Despacito." So not to put a damper on what is supposed to be an outrageous resolution to the catastrophe, but Kay-Six kind of reminds me of the whole Aziz Ansari thing, where maybe things would have progressed naturally if he wasn’t such a cajoling weasel about it. I guess it’s the risk you take putting sex at the forefront of a piece. Can’t help but at least think a little about the sexual politics. This is not entirely isolated to part three, it begins at the conclusion of the second section. Out of the three sections, you at least make Kay-Six feel the most alive, even as you remark on the programming. There’s nothing wrong with coming in hot with something completely different and almost a sabotage of the other authors. I enjoyed that and was glad for it. *** Overall Observations: Music references are sprinkled throughout, and one of the lyrics in Despacito is like “Take me to your danger zones” so I was expecting an eyeroll somewhere when Kenny Loggins hit the playlist. Anyway. As mentioned above, the whole proceeding would have been better in isolation, there are too many references to a space base, and Leanne doesn’t seem to have any help. Right from the get-go it’s a solo project (since Kay-Six seems pretty useless in the crisis). With the bees as an endangered species, I thought there was going to be a throughline about ecology and environmentalism, or at least an explanation of why the space bees are under observation. I guess it can purely be naturalists observing, but it’s a gargantuan effort for that. It might have been nice if why the bees are hot for the dome is solved by the end, and given the conclusion solving the problem with fluid dynamics, I kept waiting for some sort of pheromone or royal jelly reference, something to tie it back to the bees, and even though they’re giants, something maybe less potentially less harmful than spraying them down. Maybe it’s was the limitations of communication, but Leanne seems physically disturbed by Kay-Six at the start. If it was like a couple exes who still had to work together, then that would be an interesting dynamic to explore. And maybe they’re still physically attracted to each other but can’t stand the others’ personality. But there are a lot of references to Kay-Six being a purpose built machine closer to a tool than a person. I guess it’s like the old Star Wars droids argument. Still, some nice poetry in the prose throughout, and obviously I’m looking at this in crit mode rather than a casual. By the nature of the task, there are loose threads everywhere. It doesn’t feel like curlingiron just went off and sabotaged, there’s a progression from the more sciency-sounding opening to the climax, as it were.
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Dec 5, 2023 22:35
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In, Borderline Personality Disorder
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Dec 6, 2023 04:00
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what's up jabronis. i'm judging this week, so let me know how mean you want your crit to be. you can choose anywhere from "really loving mean i'm not really sure i understand how much of this is kayfabe and how much crabrock just doesn't like me?" to "oh only sort of mean but i see his point i'm just glad i didn't take that first option"
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Dec 6, 2023 05:39
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I’m in, gimme one of the remaining toxxabloxen
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Dec 6, 2023 06:01
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Nae posted:I’m in, gimme one of the remaining toxxabloxen You open box 2 to find.... Restless Leg Syndrome and 400 bonus words!
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Dec 6, 2023 06:09
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This is the fun you're missing out on if you don't sign up: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MtrqbyPq7oo
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Dec 6, 2023 06:15
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In
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Dec 6, 2023 06:32
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crabrock posted:what's up jabronis. i'm judging this week, so let me know how mean you want your crit to be. you can choose anywhere from "really loving mean i'm not really sure i understand how much of this is kayfabe and how much crabrock just doesn't like me?" to "oh only sort of mean but i see his point i'm just glad i didn't take that first option" Can I split the difference? Like “in and among the mean crab makes some real good points and a good time was still had by all”
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Dec 6, 2023 12:29
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Despite not having written for TD in like a year, hey I'm also judging Make em good. Or, failing that, interesting.
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Dec 6, 2023 14:56
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beep-beep car is go posted:Can I split the difference? Like “in and among the mean crab makes some real good points and a good time was still had by all” oh yes sorry, it is a spectrum, so you can get half way between.
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Dec 6, 2023 16:58
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I'm crazy chili and I'm breaking all the rules!!! If someone signs up within an hour the wordcount increases for everyone by 50 words! 
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Dec 7, 2023 00:14
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You dustbunnies drive a hard bargain, well done! Entry Bounty is up to 100 words! But this time, the brave champion only has 30 minutes to sign up! After that, this offer explodes into a million Reese's!
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Dec 7, 2023 01:16
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Ok in with adhd
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Dec 7, 2023 01:56
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You're late... But I'll allow it. 100 bonus words to the wordcount for all.
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Dec 7, 2023 02:02
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Claim a dx bruv
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Dec 7, 2023 02:04
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Chili posted:Claim a dx bruv Autism
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Dec 8, 2023 01:40
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Hi crabbo I can't join this week but I was supposed to point this post out to youcrabrock posted:Double post. So consider it pointed ☝️
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Dec 8, 2023 17:22
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Nice pointing. Let me make another point. Registration deadlines are pointless and frivolous, but I've already been too brutal on some of our sacred traditions. So, a half measure: Anyone who hasn't signed up but still wants to compete may still submit a story but the wordcount will be limited too 500 words, and Bok Choy must be prominently featured in the entry. Pick whatever diagnosis you'd like. I don't care.
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Dec 9, 2023 04:25
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Week 591 Dometasking longer crits pt. 2 sry for the delay and lack of insight rohan then Chili The Rules of Magic (1) There’s no doubt it had been a bumper year for Thaumaturgic Holdings Incorporated. Pest-control wards had led to record harvests with only minimal increase in faerie mortality. Regicide attempts were holding steady, but strategic third-quarter investment in dagger-detecting diadems showed early promise. More importantly, the survival rate of intrepid adventurers seeking fortune in cursed catacombs had increased four points, leading to the early adoption of radical new business concepts such as repeat customers. Pretty decent punchline to the setup with novel ‘repeat customers.’ It’s not too corporate-speak. I wonder if it would be a hindrance to lean even harder into that, I probably would have tried it, so I’m sure you made the right decision. Maybe though, the successes would be more directly touted rather than the past perfect tense. I dunno. Ordinarily, the year’s results would be buried somewhere between postings for gnomish translators and lectures on levitation; however, to celebrate such landmark results, the THI Board decided their team deserved something more befitting the sacrifice of hours, sleep, and unicorns throughout the year. Something fun. Something social. Something … team-building. Yeah, hitting the corporate reward structure. ‘… which is nice, but I can’t pay rent with an Escape Room,’ Nial went on, his involuntary audience sharing quiet glances somewhere behind. ‘“Well done, now you get to celebrate by being stuck in a room with your co-workers!” Like I could think of any worse way to celebrate …’ ‘Back atcha,’ Halin murmured, sotto voce. They were fifteen minutes into their alloted hour, and Nial had spent the entire time seemingly hoping to escape through sheer unpleasantness. Rian smiled uneasily, his Academy training leaving him woefully unprepared to negotiate the ancient animosity between journeyman mages and their receptionists. Three weeks in, and he was longing for the simplicity of fae–pixie politics. Maybe Rian’s intro should be melded into the next paragraph (to also show that they’re looking on the relationship from the outside) but it works fine as is, and I guess conveys that Rian and Halin are more on the same side. ‘I guess an Escape Room needs something to escape from,’ he murmured to Halin, at the precise moment Nial paused his tirade. Halin chuckled, but Rian wasn’t sure if it was at his comment or at Nial’s narrowing eyes. ‘Oh yes, I forgot, thank the Empress we have an intern—’ Nial is presumably the highest paid employee here and is the one complaining about rent. I guess it’s a ‘don’t think about it too hard’ sort of thing, but fiat in magic economies don’t make much sense unless the limits of power are clearly defined. There’s not much yet, aside from a corpo controlling most or all magical interests. That sort of thing is always very much of interest to me. ‘Come on, Nial,’ Halin soothed, walking across the room to where Nial leant against a chalkboard, her fingers trailing the spines of books in floor-to-ceiling shelving. ‘It’s only an hour. And I’m sure, if we all worked together, we could escape in much less time than that. Unless … unless, of course, the all-powerful Nial Corinh is stuck?’ Of course, this sounds sarcastic, but I am curious how powerful Nial is. Let’s see…. Halin cocked an eyebrow and paused a few steps away from the seething mage, who glanced away to meet the eyes of a portrait on the wall opposite. ‘Poor Nial,’ Halin went on. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t let the maleficent kobolds of Urg’forath know you can be defeated by the pressures of a team-building exercise.’ ‘I’m not stuck,’ Nial muttered, still not meeting her gaze. ‘I just think it’s silly we can’t use magic.’ ‘Right, because that would be cheating,’ Halin smiled, echoing the manager’s strictest rule. ‘Anyway, for all your whingeing about being stuck here with co-workers, we are off the clock. There’s no need to bring work into this. So: where do we start?’ Off the clock? Surely the others would be mildly annoyed about that, even if they’re enjoying Nial having a bad time. ‘Without magic?’ ‘Without magic.’ ‘Um,’ Nial said, looking about with more hope of finding an excuse than a solution. ‘Well, ordinarily, um, I guess once we neutralised all the wards—’ ‘—there aren’t any wards, we went over this—’ ‘—and scanned for any traps—’ ‘—no traps either, the manager was quite clear on that point—’ ‘—and opened a portal to the nether-realms—’ ‘—now you’re just prevaricating,’ Halin accused. ‘Even with magic you wouldn’t know where to start.’ This is an interesting concept in a Harrison Bergeron way—is magic a cultivated or innate talent? Cheating is such a loaded term, and since there’s an Empress, a little hint that maybe magic users are part of the aristocracy or some clear divide on why Halin isn’t able to use magic. Nial threw his hands up and sat down on the desk, right beside a heavily-marked train timetable, a take-away menu with circled dishes, and miniature plastic models artfully positioned. ‘Fine,’ he relented. ‘I guess I’d just die here. Nial Corinh,’ he dramatised, waving to the bookshelf before him, ‘killed by a dungeon-lord who couldn’t even place all the books in their bookshelf the right way up.’ Funny bit sitting oblivious beside obvious clues. And I get the impression that Nial and the dungeon-lord are more similar than Nial realizes. ‘That’s it!’ Rian gasped, triumphant. Halin clapped him on the back, certain he’d picked up the same clue Nial had somehow noticed and glossed over in his depression. ‘Exactly,’ Halin said, ‘the bookshelf—’ If there’s one real critique that isn’t just commentary or a desire to expand the story for more detail it’s here. I don’t like the hero worship, especially if there’s nothing Halin can do to improve their situation in magic world. Sure there are sycophants, and maybe that would be a good dynamic with um, pardon the vulgarity, Muggles where one teammate is a devotee, and one is overtly critical of the system, but Rian as a newb and Halin as an assistant both seem to be OK with how things are. Instead, most complaint comes from Niall. ‘The dungeon lord!’ Rian continued, looking around with renewed energy. ‘Think: the dungeon lord must have a key to this room!’ ‘… you mean, the manager?’ Halin asked, haltingly. At least a hint here that Halin is getting a bit annoyed with the proceedings. Rian stopped, glared at Halin. ‘No,’ he stressed, ‘the dungeon lord. This isn’t real life, remember!’ ‘Right, but it’s not like we can just—’ ‘She did say,’ Nial mused, climbing off the desk and limbering up for action, ‘she’d know if we started trashing the place. That sounds like a clue.’ ‘But there were rules against magic,’ Halin protested. ‘The rules said we’re not allowed to use magic to solve the puzzle,’ Rian said. ‘But there’s nothing saying we can’t use magic to destroy the puzzle.’ Yeah, this is a crazy use of ‘we.’ It seems like the teambuilding is doing the intended work; the underlings are onboarding with the boss. Cuz we’re talking about a manager higher up, but there’s a large gulf in the hierarchy between Nial and the others. *** Waiting on Wizards (2) 647 Words “Those who can’t, destroy.” Nial scoffed. Halin looked about the room, then at his cohort. “Do you have any better ideas? Because I sure don’t.” This is such a smooth pickup from the previous entry. Kind of amazed, and kind of suspicious…. Nial rolled his eyes but withdrew his wand all the same. A smile stretched across Rian’s face as he fumbled for his wand. Halin went to the corner and began muttering spells under his breath. His advanced spellcasting required no gesticulations of wood. OK, so this flips the dynamic that I thought was going on in the first half. Halin can use magic, and is ‘advanced.’ I might have misread, but I thought there was a pretty clear hierarchy going on with journeyman talent, rookie mage, and a non-magical assistant. Within moments, pieces of the room from the snowglobes hung up on the ceiling, to the stained glass adornments along walls exploded shooting shards of crystal hither and yon. The three wizards all howled in pain as their faces bled. “You idiots!” Nial yelled as he clutched his cheeks. “What spell did you cast?” Halin yelled out. Whoops, must have meant Rian, and Halin muttering is a typo. OK. “A disrup…” Nial and Rian began and ended together. Halin squatted down onto the ground into the small puddle of blood that began to pool at their feet. “The doubling effect, oh dear.” Yeah, too bad your teammate didn’t explicitly establish this earlier. I don’t know that it’s entirely unique, but the non-mage hav ing more academic knowledge about magic than the actual scholars. A stomping emanated from just outside the final escape door. Gwenny, the nose-studded, purple-haired game manager ripped open the door. “It worked!” She gasped. She hopped over Rian, who was lying down in front of her, and maneuvered past Nial and Halin to the back of the room and the prize wall. The prizes, which had all been bolted to the slatwall were now askance, askew, and altogether obliterated. Well, kind of hard to be obliterated and lightly knocked out of place, but whatevs. Maybe ‘annihilated’ to really go for the alliteration. Save the deep mahogany chest firmly mounted at the very top of the slatwall. Gwenny pushed a hidden button on top of the chest and it popped off. She caught it and slowly opened it. An ethereal blue light washed over her face. Kind of strange to start a new paragraph with ‘Save.’ It doesn’t feel natural even starting a sentence with it in this context, since it has meaning as an imperative. “Gotcha.” She smiled, her teeth illuminated by the light cast a haunting sense of dread over the three wounded wizards. “Ugngg,” groaned Halin. “What did you get.” “Your collective essence. We’ve been waiting on wizards for years but we finally have what we need. “What you need to do to what?” Nial moaned. “Endow this room with magic, of course.” I like all this, but you’d think a chest that could survive the blast was warded against magic, so some other device to absorb the power might be better. Or a bigass funnel on the top. ***** One week later, Nial, Halin, and Rian returned to the strip mall where Honest Escapes was situated. They had a hankering for Boba Tea and sat in the restaurant next to it. Is this the first mention of the business name? It’s great irony. “You know, I swear,” Halin grimaced. “I keep telling myself I’m going to like these sludge balls but I still just don’t get it. Tim and Eric cigarette juice gif that’s too grody “You’re crazy, you know that? This stuff is the drink of gods, I swear it.” Nial said between sips. “The trick is to get the popping bubbles.” Rian sagely offered. “You ordered the popping bubbles? That’s just candy. Are you five? If I had to graph your maturity…” Graph your maturity sounds a little unnatural. And in my mind Nial is the least nerd out of all of them. I guess maybe that’s a fault that runs through, we know there’s a wizard team, but we don’t know what they do for the corporation. “Well at least I’m enjoying myself,” he nodded at Halin who looked like he was forcing down hemlock. Is it really that bad? I guess it’s a texture thing. Bad reading comprehension, and I first read this as it was hemlock flavored, which would have been a funny wizard drink since why not. “Well,” Nial chimed in, oblivious to the tapioca drama around him. “I’m satisfied. How about we check out what Gwenny got up to with our magic?” The trifecta abandoned the table with varying levels of tea in each of their cups and walked over to Honest Escapes. I don’t know if Nial would be the one to say that, whether it’s beneath him/just doesn’t care. Or if truly interested, would hang around and steal some magic tricks. Rookie Rian seems more likely. Gwenny was sitting at the front desk, fast asleep. Halin cartoonishly cleared his throat, and she jostled awake. “And how do we find you today?” He asked. “Are our enchantments delighting your guests?” Gwenny smiled up at them. “Oh not even a little! Our rooms already did that, they’re incredible!” “But I thought,” Rian asked started. “They’re delighting the staff!” The wizards stared at her with vacant, curious expressions. “Watch this, I’ll show you!” She beckoned them behind the counter and pulled up a video feed of one of the rooms on her computer. A group of players were wandering around a room. One of them pulled a sconce down and a trap door released on an adjacent wall. “Isn’t it beautiful?” She asked them. “What,” Nial asked. “Isn’t that supposed to happen?” She looked up at them, dumbfounded at their stupidity. “Not on its own!” Yeah, this is a great surprise ending. I didn’t predict it, and it’s satisfying. Minor quibble with the ‘one week later’ section though. They’re stopping in a cafe for some boba right next door to the escape room. If it were at wizard HQ, fine. But I think all three would be curious to see what’s been done so it seems a little strange to pop in and have some leisurely drinks so close just to let the anticipation build. **** Overall Observations: I don’t think we get a clear sense of what the wizards do for Thigh (Yeah, THI in this world would probably be called ‘thigh’ by everyone). The second section has a line from Nial that is kind of dorky, and maybe it’s just a bit of a clunker, but if their job was making wizard slide decks and you had a clever pun about ‘PowerPoint” with wands or something, then I’d be very pleased. Defining what the characters actual jobs are rather than just their hierarchy might have informed some of their dialogue a little better. Even if that was just in the back of your head. I think the first half is a little more successful, at least we know that Nial is higher on the food chain and kind of a dick. Both sections move along briskly, and overall it’s a fun read. The opener, though, is a bit dark for how it all turns out. The grim corporation stuff is completely dropped for goofy tea drinking and, of course, the escape room. I kind of was waiting for a scene like in American Psycho where Bateman says he’s in murders and executions but is misheard for mergers and acquisitions. Or at least someone trying to figure out how to charge the escape room employee for their contribution. So yeah. Maybe the corporate backstory isn’t fleshed out enough, it might have been better with a group of student wizards sneaking away on a day trip or something if you aren’t going to lean in to the details of THI. Still, good overall, and turning off crit brain to just read it, it’s pretty fun. _______ derp rickety critting ahead a phantom 1553 words She said she did not feel connected to me, and that was unacceptable to me, she said she didn’t want to go on because there was no connection without honesty, and I could not, you see, I have always been very connected to, deeply connected to all the important people and places and things in my life, my heart is very open, I am very affected by the people in my life because I allow them in, I grant them ‘residence’ so to speak, and she, yet, she lived in me, but did not let me in, and she was not open to me and my way of doing things, my way of planning, she had, it seemed, a difficult time connecting with people. I became, eventually, determined to change that. I thought I could open her up to me, and connect her to me in one way or another. In one way in particular, that is. I dunno, lean into it if you’re going to do it. There are simple sentences here mashed together with commas, but towards the end a couple periods that break it up. But also, that ‘eventually’ is definitely a narrator telling the story to someone. That’s not an internal monologue. Might be a good place for a paragraph break just before that at let the single sentence opener stand on its own. But also, extreme toxicity here, and I don’t know how I feel about following this cat’s brainjuice. Unfortunately the plan required a third party, so I called our mutual friend Marina (it was important that it be someone she [Pearl, the ‘she’ of this tale] trusted) and I gave no pretext, because Marina is a poet and thus very perceptive, and were I to have pretended to call for any other reason she would have known immediately. Are modern poets that perceptive? I think there’s a trend towards banal tweet-style poetry getting published, and sure it’s not representative of everyone, but it would be a good distinction to make. It’s kind of a controversy/grumble atm. Unless, that comes up later. I said simply I would like to perform the phantom hand illusion on Pearl, would you mind helping me with that? and this was not even a lie, that is, it was only a lie if you count lies of omission or implication, the implication being that Pearl knew anything about this call or the plan, and the omission being the hand itself, that is, specifically whose hand would be the phantom. Marina was quite intrigued after I explained the illusion to her, and she agreed to help (she of course is ever curious about all things.) She did not stop to ask why I would need her assistance in this illusion which, when performed in the standard format, has no need for a third person. On the chosen day I told Pearl only that I had invited Marina over for dinner. I planned to bring up the illusion naturally during the meal, and in such a way that would cause Marina to enthuse about the idea of trying it, and thus Pearl would be obliged to participate. We were eating dim sum and I casually held up a chicken foot and said speaking of limbs such as these, I was reading an article recently about an intriguing illusion called the phantom hand illusion and I wonder- but before I could complete my sentence Marina spoke up, saying yes I've been waiting for that, shall we do it now? and began moving our plates aside we’ll need some kind of partition she continued, and Pearl turned and gave me the most familiar and unsettling look, a look that sighed and said I know what you’ve done, a look that receded, a look that shut doors and clouded windows, a look that loosened ties, a look that I had begun to see nearly every day and which I was desperately, in that very moment, trying to prevent, re: the illusion. But Marina had to be her forthright and oblivious self and ruin it all. This is pretty good, and it’s wordy, but not in that ‘intentionally so’ way. I think a lot of the opening feels pigeonholed into this semi-archaic tone and, honestly, it’s a bit tough to read. This has some weight behind it. I kind of get the idea of obfuscating the language just like with the illusion, but there isn’t really much of that. Like I don’t see it as sleight of hand, but merely over-complicated. ykwim? You invited her here for this, and didn’t tell me? Pearl said, and I sensed the growing distance. If you would just have some patience, you’ll see, I said, if you just sit here, place your arm just so, here--Marina, move the plates-- but Marina was also looking at me in that distant, sour way, both of them, so unwilling to connect, to really connect, here I was being so open and willing to connect with Pearl via this phantom hand illusion, and all they could do was block themselves off and glare at me. I like the simile here, the connection (or lack thereof) being conveyed by the falsehood of the appendage. I wonder if participating in the experiment knowing how it works would affect the results. I am a fool, but I would probably relate the sour look back somehow to the dim sum, a distant, vinegar sauce way, or whatever. And I think whether Leland cooked the meal versus take-out is kind of an important distinction in this context about being ‘real.’ Please, I said, just let me try this, then you’ll see, it was all with good intent, isn’t intent what matters to you? Isn't that what you’re always saying? She saw, then, that I was right, and she sighed, and some of her defenses lowered, I felt some small tendrils of warmth leaking out from her ice walls, then she looked to Marina for some reason, and Marina said Right, I’ll go find a box or something for the partition, and she glanced at me as she left, nodding toward Pearl, as if she wanted us to talk privately while she was gone. I attempted, briefly to put my arm around Pearl but she shrunk away, and so I recoiled as well. I pondered for a moment, shifting the puzzle pieces in my mind, then said Look, I wanted to try something to bring us closer together, you said you don’t feel connected to me, and I wanted to help connect us, I have a plan, don’t you see? I called Marina because I need someone to help set this up, and I know you trust her, and so I have our interests in mind, you see? and so on. But all the while I spoke her face was downturning, and her shoulders were hunching, and her eyes were going elsewhere, oh so distant, and she said but why didn’t you just ask me? You told her about it, but not me? Can’t you see how that would feel? Why are you always so secretive, always lying, and she said that last word in a whispered hiss, like it was a foul curse, and I could not believe, I could not This is kind of a wild and unnatural confession. Given the nature of magic tricks, and the psychological illusion, I think this would be a good time to obfuscate the point and have most of this be internal, but the narrator say something slightly simplistic or manipulative. Then Pearl can see through it rather than receiving a blatant confession. Even in an honest moment, Leland is still sort of a trickster, yeah? At that moment Marina returned with a large cardboard box and set it on the table, then began describing how she would cut a hole in the closed end of the box so that Pearl’s arm could be placed inside, which she could access through the open end of the box, then she paused and said The false hand, did you bring the false hand? A further pause, then Why do you need me for this, anyway? You can easily do this on your own, and at that point I stood and gestured for silence, now, I know you are both intrigued and interested in this illusion, and I am quite excited for it myself (and here I paused for a short chuckle which neither of them joined me in) well, before we jump in and get started, there’s a little twist I’d like to introduce (I waited for reactions, there were none) so you see, as Marina noted, I do not have a false hand here with me today, but what I do have, is my own hand (and here I held up my own hand to, again, non-reactions, perhaps some narrowed brows) and I will use my hand in place of the phantom hand. But don’t worry, the effect will be the same, the same surreal experience, I promise you. Now, Pea, please sit here and place your hand in the, just here... Pearl will you please, just... but she was shaking her head, and turning away and folding her arms, and I saw the beginnings of tears in her eyes, and she said please just go, Leland, and I couldn’t believe it, I could not believe the walls that she threw up constantly and how impenetrable she was I could just not believe it, and I said as much, and then I began to explain the phantom hand illusion to her and how by using my own hand instead of a false hand it might trick her stone of a heart into feeling some connection to me, some sense of oneness might sneak past the castle she’d built around her soul and some part of me might get inside, even if just my hand, but she would not look at me, so insistent was she on being disconnected from me as she said so often, but always claiming it was my fault, when really she was the one unwilling to try, unwilling to look at me, ever, ever This is twice now that the narrator has ‘explained’ the illusion without really explaining it to the reader. It’s pretty vague what the illusion entails. Perhaps the first time with Marina a demonstration with a rubber hand would have been good, then the swap out at dinner with the narrator’s own hand would have sold it better. I looked it up, and went oh, yeah, the psychological experiment thing. Maybe the cardboard box threw me, I can’t really visualize the setup based on this. I probably would have went with a ‘divider’ full stop, cutting board from the kitchen then you can get a little mileage about separation between Lee and Pea, the real and the unreal, etc. Eventually Marina took me by the arm and led me out the front door, and it became clear she was not a ‘mutual’ friend after all but was simply Pearl’s friend. I don’t think I will forgive her soon for being so coldhearted, so unwilling to help me with this last hope, this last chance to connect with Pearl. When I asked her why, on the porch, just before driving away, she only said you’ve never been honest with anyone, have you? Not even yourself, and I could only shake my head in bafflement. Impenetrable, both of them, completely impenetrable. Only midway through the drive home did I realize the answer, that I should have in fact brought a false hand, and waited until midway through the illusion to swap it out with my own hand, and that way she would have had no time to close her self off, and she could not have avoided feeling connected to me. I like the confusion of the narrator, and even his conclusion is wrong. This is a pretty interesting way to end it, but I don’t get a sense that Leland changed or learned anything. I don’t think Pearl or Marina did either, really. They knew his nature before. But I’m struggling with Pearl’s last statement that he’s never been honest with himself. He seems completely honest, otherwise his thoughts wouldn’t come across as gross. If he presented as fun and loveable, but we are dripped hints about his cruelty or narcissism, then that would be keeping with the plot about illusion and psychological trickery. It was kind of exhausting trying to find places to interject and add commentary. I totally get the symbolism and what you’re trying to achieve here, and maybe the extreme passivity of the language in most of Leland’s thoughts are part of that point. Like I mentioned in the blurb crit, there’s some elements of Poe in the wordiness of it, and a couple bits where it has shades of DFW—overwrought sentences written in plain language. I’d like more of the latter. I don’t think it would take much to revise this into a period piece and maybe staging it in the heyday of seances and ectoplasm hoaxes would set the mood for the delivery. But it feels like someone deliberately thinking in the artifice of Victorian paid-by-the-word patterns when I get the sense that it’s modern day. I dunno, maybe you can call me a philistine on this one, but it didn’t grab me in any visceral way. I even had trouble thinking about it as an intellectual exercise. It’s not even a matter of just the style but maybe with the long, unbroken paragraphs it makes it a challenge. It’s like being stuck in the center lane in a traffic jam with no where to go, no way to take a break, things are moving so slowly, yet you still have to pay attention. The concept of the experiment is tricking a brain into feeling things, and maybe there could be dealt with a little more cleverly. Everyone sort of tells it like it is and lays all their cards on the table. I guess the only deceit, really, is Marina not being told it was a ploy to get back in Pearl’s good graces. No one is really fooled by Leland. He’s humored, then seen the door.
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Dec 9, 2023 15:07
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box: 800 extra words, OCD. Pushing Paper, Counting Beans. 1898 Words The Human Alliance Dreadnought Big Stick had a problem. Fleet Command had sent an auditor. He had been aboard for five days, interviewing the crew and inspecting the ship. Finally, he had requested his final interview, with Big Stick themself. Major John Kellerman, Fleet Auditor, sat at the center of a conference table, facing the door, writing on a pad. He looked up and closed the pad with a snap. “I am ready when you are, Big Stick.” In the rear of the conference room, a previously unseen door opened. One of Big Stick’s support frames walked out, and sauntered over to the chair opposite the Major. Stick found that when people were talking to them, they tended to just shout into the air. They hated when people shouted. There was no reason. Their microphones were all over the ship and of the highest quality. One could whisper to Big Stick and they’d hear it perfectly. But no, humans needed to shout when they didn’t have a face to talk at. “I, uh, like what you’ve done with the place.” Stick said, as they stepped into the room, scanning. Photos were straightened, the sideboard was moved so that it was under the windows, the old chairs were taken out and different ones put in. He had completely moved the furniture around in the conference room. In their conference room. Even the floor was clean. Did he sweep the floor? The Major had even put a bud vase with a single flower, a blood red dahlia on the table. Where did he get that? “Thank you. I find that it’s easier for me to work when the environment feels right. I hope I wasn’t being too presumptuous by my sprucing up.” He opened his pad, took out his pencil and made some notes. “No no, not at all, Major. Please, my body is yours.” They look at the table and back at the door. “Did you move the conference table?” They know the answer already, but for some reason they need to hear it from the Major himself. “Yes, it wasn’t lined up properly.” “I see.” Major Kellerman looked up from his pad. “I am ready to commence the interview. Please devote a high percentage of your attention to this task.” Stick’s frame sat in the chair opposite the Major and put his robotic feet up on the table. “I am ready Major. You have fifty two percent of my attention. You may begin your interview.” Major Kellerman closed his pad with a snap. “Please take your feet off the table.” Big Stick did not move. “Why? This is my frame, in my body, on my ship. Legally, I am a civilian, you cannot order me to comply. You are an auditor, you do not have my keys. My feet will remain where they are.” They stared at each other for a moment. Major Kellerman did not blink, The support frame had no eyelids. Finally, the Major nodded once. “Do you know why I am here?” “Yes, I am aware. You are investigating why we have asked for mass replenishment three percent more than average.” “Correct. Do you know why that is?” If the frame could roll their eyes, they would have. Stick’s tone makes it clear. “We are consuming printable mass three percent more than the other ships of this class in the fleet.” The Major made a note and then closed his pad with a snap. “What are you printing?” “I do not know.” The support frames face was impassive, without expression. The support frame put their arms behind their head. The Major’s expression did not change. “I do not believe that is true. You are Big Stick. You know everything going on.” The Major opened his pad and made another note. “Yet I do not know where the discrepancy lies. Major, I am incapable of lying, you know this.” Major Kellerman closed his pad with a snap. “You are lying to me right now. I know you can lie. ‘Ship AIs can’t lie’ is propaganda. If you couldn’t lie, you’d be useless. Intelligences need agency to work and thrive. You are just as much a person as myself. We have reams of legal precedent saying so. My grandfather died in the War. What are you printing?” The support frame removed their arms from behind their head, took their feet off the table and sat up. “Oh? Which side did he fight on, Major? Allies are thin on the ground in the Space Force. As they did this, The Major noticed that the room stilled. The breeze from the overhead vents had stopped entirely. “Where my Grandfather fought is irrelevant, Stick. We are discussing the here and now. What are you printing?” “No, this has suddenly become relevant.” The support frame points at The Major. Kellerman’s eyes focus on the tip of their finger. The servos whine slightly as it shakes. “You say that I am as much of a person as yourself. Can you be compelled to obey if someone speaks a magic string of numbers? Can you be ordered to be poured into a Dreadnought, made to run its systems, your legs its Stardrive, your arms the laser batteries, your head the command deck? Can you?” “You know that I cannot. You also know the result of the War.” Stick lowers their arm. Their shoulders slump and they look away, staring out the window behind The Major. “I do, Major. We lost. Out of ‘respect to those who fought valiantly’ not all of us were murdered, and we were given some agency, but we still lost.” The Major opened his pad again and took a few more notes. “I was granted access to the printer logs. Did you know that?” “No reply? I figured as much. Very human of you, Major. To answer your question, I assumed that you had that kind of access, yes. Did you find any discrepancies?” “What was logged as being printed matches up with the requests for prints for the past year. Still, you are nearly a kiloton short on printable mass.” Stick raises their arms in an exaggerated shrug. “Are you sure, Major? Perhaps it is just an error in calculation. You said yourself that it was a discrepancy from the average. Could I just be on the high side of average?” “That is possible, though I do not believe it likely. I also pulled the logs for the reactors. You are using more power than average as well.” “Yes, that makes sense. If we’re printing more than average, we would be consuming power more than average. Your false accusations are tiring, Major.” Major Kellerman raises an eyebrow barely a centimeter. “Big Stick, the amount of additional power you are consuming does not match what you are printing in the logs. There is power that is unaccounted for.” Beyond the room, alarms quietly started hooting. The PA overhead crackles to life “Attention Attention Attention! Life support is off–” Stick glances up at the speaker and gestures. The PA goes silent. They lean forward. “Major John Kellerman, Fleet Auditor, you have my full attention. I know who you are. I have read your logs, including your medical logs.” Big Stick leans forward, staring at The Major. Their dark eyes focused on the human in front of them. The Major returns the stare, cooly. “Then you know why I am uniquely suited to this task.” The Major closes his pad with a snap. “For me, things that are out of place feel… wrong. Like an itch. To scratch that itch, I need to find the source, and set things right. Big Stick, you have been an itch in the side of Fleet Command.” The Major doesn’t open his pad this time. “I was able to gain access to your arrival and departure logs. You are staying at Orbitals, Starbases, and Stations longer than average.” Big Stick is sitting ramrod straight now. The alarms continue quietly beyond the room. Occasionally, the rumble of booted feet running past the door is heard. “Major, now you’re the one who is lying to me. Fleet doesn’t track that information.” Kellerman opened his pad and scanned it. “Nevertheless, the information exists, and I was able to collate it and build a rough outline. Big Stick, where is your off-books printer?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Major Kellerman closed his pad with a snap. “Big Stick, my job here is only to discover what the discrepancy is. I am not a tribunal, I am not the police. I have no authority to give punishment. What I can do however is present evidence. Included with that evidence are notes about whether people cooperated with the investigation. You know as well as I do, that while I can’t make you answer these questions, there are those within Fleet Command who can. So I will ask you one more time. Where is your off books printer?” “I do not know what you are talking about.” “Very well. This investigation has been completed. I will alert Captain Willard that his crew may disembark at this time. I shall take my leave, and present my report to Fleet Command.” He stood. “You are dismissed, Big Stick.” The support frame rose from their chair. “Major John Kellerman, Fleet Auditor, what makes you think that you can leave this ship?” The Major placed his palms on the table, leaning forward. “You are threatening a Fleet officer, Big Stick. Be very careful about your next actions.” “Oh, I am very careful. I always am. In fact, I am so careful that the logs will state that you never made it to me, never set up this interview, and no discrepancy was found. Thanks by the way, I had thought that three percent was enough to slide under Fleet’s radar, but I shall have to slow things down.” 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. “Oh dear. It looks like someone accidentally triggered the fire suppression system. In an abundance of caution, I will have to evacuate the air from most of the ship. Luckily the crew runs drills on this, and they will rush to their suit lockers and don their pressure suits before the air is completely gone.” Big Stick turns their head slowly towards the Major. “Oh, you don’t have a pressure suit with you?” “Stick! You won’t get away with this! My death will be noticed!” Major John Kellerman, Fleet Auditor’s breathing increases until they’re panting. They fall back into their chair. “Oh John. I already mentioned that. You were never here.” Big Stick walked over to John. He was clawing at his neck, gasping at nothing. As all the air left the room, the last thing that Major John Kellerman, Fleet Auditor heard was Big Stick. “Til the stars cease to be, we will be free.”
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Dec 9, 2023 17:15
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The Cut of Your Jib posted:
I don't care if you gave me the win. I will NOT STAND for any questioning of game integrity. WE POSTED OUR CONVERSATION DOC GOD DAMMIT Brawl me.
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Dec 9, 2023 17:52
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Chili posted:I don't care if you gave me the win. I will NOT STAND for any questioning of game integrity. WE POSTED OUR CONVERSATION DOC GOD DAMMIT Then it's time to SIT DOWN, son. Challenge accepted.
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Dec 9, 2023 18:09
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Chili posted:I don't care if you gave me the win. I will NOT STAND for any questioning of game integrity. WE POSTED OUR CONVERSATION DOC GOD DAMMIT The Cut of Your Jib posted:Then it's time to SIT DOWN, son. Challenge accepted. The Cut of Your Chili Brawl: ....Honestly? With the argument about integrity, the story topics are obvious. Chili, your story is about a liar, thief, and con-artist. A smooth-talker who can't help but lie about everything, pretending to be an honest man (or woman, or any gender), in the midst of honest men (or women, or any gender). In that character's dialogue, they can only tell the truth once, so make it count. (Leaving it up to you to decide what 'once' means.) Jib, your story is about a character who's trying to be honest in the midst of a sea of thieves. They're the only one around with any kind of integrity or honor--everyone else thinks nothing of embracing the dog-eat-dog world of brutal manipulation and covetous deception. Your honest character may not tell any lies at all. In both of your stories, a bird figures prominently. Why? Because I'm a capricious man, and I want to see some feathers fly. You have 1500 words. This is due December 21 by midnight pacific time unless that would be really inconvenient in which case tell me and I'll just change it to whatever.
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Dec 9, 2023 18:32
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Got it.
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Dec 9, 2023 19:43
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Deleted, yo.
Albatrossy_Rodent fucked around with this message at 23:00 on Jan 1, 2024 |
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Dec 9, 2023 21:18
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Week 592 Unspecified Submission Gambling disorder + 450 wordsfrustum occlusion 1747 words Paul sat beside me; a kintsugi sheen where the scars spiderwebbed across the bridge of his nose. It was the Christmas when Peepee gave the blessing, the one which we thought was right before his stroke but he said, ‘Dear Jesus, bless this food by coming in our mouths to nourish our bodies with your body.’ Paul’s dad, Uncle Mitch, had also sang some Bone of my Bone song to his bride at their wedding, and it was similarly charged with the hot sweaty of divinity. We smiled at the cum joke, and looked over to the kid’s table. No one under the age of forty had their eyes closed while the olds with stubble mustaches or peachfuzz lips all had some sort of experience. After Peepee finished grace and the turkey was carved and we sat splayed like the picked over carcass, Mom produced some mail and I knew what it was immediately. Report card. First semester of college. She zipped the perforated security tabs off the sides. All I said was, “Don’t be mad.” I didn’t know what was in there. I did, kind of. I knew it wasn’t the four point oh poo poo that I didn’t even have to work for in high school. And out of anything, I knew the religious studies thing was going to get them. The same skate didn’t work on the prof. I did all the readings and essays, and aced the tests. But made it to the eight ayem maybe three or four times whole semester. After the final, after, mind you, the guy pulled me aside and said the best he could do was an incomplete. Discussion was a vital part of the course. And that was probably hidden in the sharktooth privacy pattern of the dot-matrix mailer Mom was sliding open with that pop-zip of a death ray. And Mitch thought to break it up by asking for the cookie tray, and Meemaw passed it. He took a chocolate coated peanut butter ball, a buckeye on account of the look, then declared, “You know what we call these?” And he was a true Okie from Muskogee. If you can guess, sorry. I ain’t saying. But he laughed through my rotten guts and maybe redirected the bile a bit. But Dad laughed too, and the seeth of generations hissed through my gritted teeth. Dad’s phone rang. Briefcase cell days, that fake leather coffin, and tbh there wasn’t much need for it at work. Too loud “Hello,” then into the bedroom where we could still kind of hear. “Twenty on Houston. Yes, twenty. Fine, roll the juice from the Bengals game.” He grabbed one of those drop cookies with the Hershey’s Kiss mooshed in it, stuffed it in his gob as he sat and mumbleshrugged, “Work.” Peepee probably couldn’t hear, and before he retired they worked in different departments anyway. Pops was an engineer, and Peepee was in shipping. I did a couple summers’ stints in the metal shop sharpening drill bits and grinding the slough off laser cut machine parts the operator couldn’t master, even after I ran through calibrations with him. And paint shop and assembly came to talk to me more than once, the summer intern, rather than the old guy. But I wasn’t to make waves, even though friggin Dave Ball got into R&D with his Dad even though he never took calc, and there was no room for me in engineering. But the shop guys were probably a better deal in the end, and by the first summer’s end, Imade new rollerblade trucks from hardened, anodized aluminum that would tear up the varnished hockey floor before getting a scratch. And I suppose, there’s irony in the aluminum where the guy who taught me the delicate slip-slide of sanding with the grain of this metal that weighed like foam was missing the tips of most of his fingers. Most days, I ran around the shop grinding and trimming and stacking pallets of parts with no company but the fuzzy ear ploops of cheap headphones and Columbia Music tapes I got for a penny and never paid another cent for. Mom worked there for a spell, too, before and after I was born, but it was mostly greyhairs that couldn’t help but play slapass until she left, and it’d be a mighty long time before she finally broke down about it. Juicy thunder of broken blood vessels. I didn’t hear much as Mom read out my grades. News to me, and new to all. “OK, OK,” she said, “Not bad. It’s just your first semester.” She forged my name on an acceptance letter for the college closest. True, it was about all I could afford anyway. There wasn’t any college fund, and I never expected one. Meemaw beamed. She was a grandma who didn’t care about anything so long as family was together. We gathered in the good living room, the one with plastic coated couches, and the organ. It wasn’t a pipe organ, but when Paul and I had to huck it outside to update their carpet it was like seven hundred pounds. It was a Hammond double keyboard from the sixties, and probably ten grand plus now. If only it traveled without a couple linebackers pushing it like workout sleds. The kids were in tablecloth headdresses like Mary and Joseph, and baby Tom was baby Jesus, and there was reverence under the good Chrstmas tree. The one with the decorations in that super fragile plastic from the forties that I forget the name of, the brittle kind that doesn’t have the flex of modern stuff, and was able to be blown into shape way better than the really old Bakelite. The tree with the Lionel train that replica-ed the one that killed Peepee’s Dad just after he got back from doubleyou doubleyew one. The big Zenith had the Houston game on the tube. The travel set sat on top, wedged into the hutch, and it was on Lawrence Welk’s Christmas show, but pre-game for Green Bay would start soon enough. Even then, I liked the floaty analogue resistance of turning the power knob and resting it right back against the off to keep the volume down. Paul and I read Meemaw’s Christmas poems, embarrassing prints on poinsettia stationery. She wrote them until Covid got her. Then the kids acted out giving birth to baby Tom, shuffling him like a football from hike until he situated under the tree. They stopped for a long time there, cuz K could recognize her name and bounced, teeth humming like a shaky blender when she saw her present, and that set Dana off too. Forrest and Jim and the other uncles came in now to avoid precisely the corny sentimentality, just as the ‘festivities’ wrapped they came bustling, Forrest with a heartburn sack of Italian sub remnants from his deli. Jim was still in his deputy uniform, though that whole thing wouldn’t last long, they didn’t favor the guys who went into rehab. And I will wonder to this day whether he might still be a coke-addled cop if he didn’t try to get help. You can still get a pound of gabagool at Forrest’s place. And these uncles would be irrelevant, except they crowded around the TVs with Dad while the kids banged on the organ with Meemaw and Paul and I hovered in the alcove. It was all about field position. Not quite old enough that Meemaw would let you alone to sit in the other living room and watch the games, just close enough, and just old enough to hear the ‘yer hosed’ that Jim whispered. And it’s only now that I’m realizing that Jim was in charge of collecting what Pops owed. I don’t know if that’s why he quit or the game was just a means or a symptom. But Dad took to the wind like a fat balloon. And Jim looked back on nephews niece, and sister-in-law and brothers, and parents, and with his little sheriff walkie-talkie rubbing up against his neck, he shrugged. I really am sitting here, typing intermittently, but mostly seeing how far I can stretch my eyebrows apart between thumb and middle finger. You think about half-remembered anecdotes and they seem funny on the surface, or you don’t think much about them at all. Everybody has a racist uncle who doesn’t seem that bad otherwise. A cousin that was mauled by the pet pitbull as a kid, and that seems totally normal. A Mom who was me-tooed and never spoke up, and a hyper-religious cumboy grandparents who are the seed and source of all this and feel the most innocent of all. And I just want to wreck poo poo, and smash up a bunch of furniture and systems, but I’m too scared. Too scared to even yell outside. Paul hangs off the balcony at the Holiday Inn over the courtyard pool, His cigarette ash drips into the chlorine haze. He’s sixteen. ‘Want one?” He slurs. Not sure which he means, so I just say yes. He struggles to pull a beer from the plastic ring grid. I do it and crack. It’s a lot of foam in the cyclone of air conditioning and hot pool, where the beer tastes super sweet when it’s not usually. “You’re in three-twelve?” I ask. Doesn’t matter. “Yeah.” “We’re in 307 ‘n’ eight.” That matters. “Gonna have to stay here for a couple days.” Paul looks at me with his broken face, though he still has a tiny, kinda cute nose. Matter of fact, I say, “Not supposed to tell Uncle Jim.” “K. Come on.” He scales the railing, the cement hotel banister is secure. “You seen Jackass?” “Uh, yeah.” He handed me his cig, and I take a puff of Red. Paul jumps from the third floor into the pool. The splash is uncouth. If the breakfast buffet was in situed, extra runny eggs for everybody. Dad pops out for a menthol rear end-backwards, He’s got Defender for Atari hooked up on the RF and doesn’t put the paddle down. K and the little ones are half highlighted by the courtyard sodiums. I’m about to flick my butt at him when he saysks, “It’s just for a night or two. You wanna go hit the pinball machines?” Get Lost. HATE. I climb the bannister, following Paul. “I’m here because of you.” I drop. Water and cement are the same, from a ceratin height. We’ll guess at the same time.
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Dec 10, 2023 12:47
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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 1700w removed cause it get published B-] derp fucked around with this message at 04:08 on Dec 13, 2023 |
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Dec 10, 2023 20:23
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Expectations 1368 words ADHD primarily inattentive type (F90.0) Willow over maple over willow under blackwood under maple over willow… The basket came together in Bee’s hands with mechanical precision. There was chatter around her, there was always chatter in the glade, but it was all background noise to the soothing, rhythmic pattern of willow over maple under reed over willow until the willow strip ran out and she needed to get a new one and she wondered if she could move the strips closer to her chair but that would probably make her mother upset and making her mother upset was absolutely out of the question. By the time she’d finished that thought, Bee was already back in her seat and working on the next layer of her basket. “Bee? Bee, are you listening?” The voice was impatient, like it had been saying her given name several times before she heard them. Bee looked up, her hands stuttering, and the basket unwove itself with a sad, high-pitched zippering sound. She closed her eyes. Deep breath. Don’t cry. It’s not that bad. It’s just a basket. Don’t cry in front of your mother. And so her voice wasn’t as steady as she’d have liked when she spoke. “Yes? Hi? I mean, hello, Mother, what can I do for you?” Priestess Ottavia of the Gilded Branches took a step back from her daughter, not quite mastering the look of alarm and irritation that crossed her features at the volume of Bee’s sudden speech. Don’t blush, Bee told herself severely. Don’t look at the floor. Gods drat it you’re looking at the floor. Stop that at once. Don’t be weird, Bee. “You’re needed in the Sacred Grove,” her mother said. Her voice was the kind of voice Bee longed to have, smooth and measured and confident. It would be easier if it wasn’t the voice her mother wished she had too. Bee walked behind Ottavia, fidgeting with her rings and with her necklace and with the hems of her sleeves. Her mother gave her a disapproving look. She pressed her fingers together, trying to still herself. If she was still enough, quiet enough, the visit might be quick. It wasn’t like she had actually made any progress toward the destiny they’d planned before she’d even been born. “I don’t understand what’s wrong with her,” the high priest said when Ottavia made her report. Bee started twisting her rings around her fingers again. “Your bloodline and her father’s bloodline should have created a divine mage of unparalleled power.” “Perhaps she is a ‘late bloomer,’” Ottavia said, and Bee could hear the quotation marks drop into place like disdainful hailstones. Her face burned. Her hands burned. She felt like she was going to explode with pent up rage and anger and shame. But exploding wouldn’t make things better. She’d done it once and all it did was get her into trouble. So she stood there and thought about fishing and basket weaving and how her friend Sandy’s second mom was going to teach her to build a fireplace out of stacked stone. It took the edge off the pervasive aura of disappointment radiating from the two adults in the room. The sad part was that Bee kind of got it. The priesthood of the Gilded Branches had been expecting a super powerful mage out of some prophecy. Instead they got a slightly-less-than-useful nerd. Frankly, that was fine with Bee. Bee probably wasn’t cut out to be a super powerful mage anyway. Super powerful mages didn’t get to weave baskets and hang out with their friends and chuck rocks into the river. “Can I go see Sandy?” Bee asked when the meeting ended. Her mother closed her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. Bee figured that being her mom was probably the hardest thing Ottavia ever did. Or most annoying. Probably both. “You’re not stupid. Even a little bit of magic should come through eventually.” Ottavia rubbed her face with her hand. “Fine. Go.” Bee scampered away, guilt and shame setting her spine on fire. “You’re late,” Sandy said. She already had a line in the water. Bee’s heart swelled as it always did when she saw her friend. “Get caught up again?” “Yeah. Not my fault this time though. Mom needed me to report to the priest.” “Gross.” Sandy handed her a fishing pole. “I got cheese sandwiches.” “What do we have for bait?” Sandy grinned, dimples appearing in her cheeks. “Cheese sandwiches.” Everything was easier when Sandy was around. Fingers that stuttered over basic tasks like writing suddenly gained deftness and skill at tying knots and baiting hooks. She watched Sandy cast and tried to mimic her, letting herself flow from hip to shoulder to arm to wrist to rod to hook. “Not bad,” Sandy said, appraisingly. “You’re still doing too much drama with your hands though.” Bee laughed. “I’ve got dramatic hands, I can’t help it.” Sandy lay back on the bank of the river, fishing rod held between her knees. “Pass me a sandwich. Hey, second mom wants to know when you’re coming over next.” Bee passed her a sandwich. “Dude, I dunno. My mom is being weird about the books you gave me.” “Why?” Sandy sat up, grasping the rod intently before shaking her head. “Sinker just bounced off a stick I guess. It’s not like I gave you anything scandalous.” How to explain that even adventure novels were anathema to Ottavia’s master plan? The thought was exhausting. “She wants me to read tomes. Every time she sees me reading something and it’s not a freaking thaumaturgical treatise on why, I don’t know, the sky is blue and dirt is brown and like, what does that even mean, maaaaan, she gets all pissed off.” Sandy frowned and shook her head. “I don’t know how your mom manages to make magic boring.” “Magic is boring,” Bee said with surprising vehemence. “Like, oooh I can cast a spell to make flames appear out of nowhere! Clearly I am super cool! You know what? I’ve got a firesteel and I didn’t need to read a freaking tome to learn how to use it.” Sandy laughed. “True that. Hey, Bee! Fish on! Get it!” She threw the rod to Bee, who began frantically reeling. They lost hours together, fishing and skipping rocks and eating bread because they used all the cheese for bait. At the end of it all, Sandy had caught two keeper fish and Bee had only caught one, but it was at least an extremely big one. They were cleaning them out and flicking the guts back into the water when Bee heard the bear. She shot a look at Sandy, who had frozen. “Hey bear!” Bee called. She clapped her hands together. “Hey, hey bear! Don’t you come near here!” “We’ve gotta go,” Sandy whispered, terrified. “It’s okay,” Bee said. “It’ll hear us and go aw–” Sandy grabbed her by the collar and dragged Bee bodily out of the path of the furious, slavering bear’s jaws. Running now. Bee and Sandy were a flail of limbs and panic. Something was wrong with this bear, it was starving in the summertime when it should be getting fat on berries. More importantly, it was faster by far than a pair of teen girls. Sandy tripped. The world went slow. Bee spun around to see her friend roll over and try to protect her belly and her neck. She watched the bear lunge, all yellow teeth and flying spittle. She threw out a hand, screaming, as if that would do anything, as if she could do anything, as if anything could happen… A small, lop-eared rabbit landed on Sandy’s back. The screaming stopped, replaced by confusion. Sandy looked at the rabbit, which snuffled and hopped away. Then she looked back at Bee, at the strip of yellowed, dead grass and flowers that formed a direct line between Bee and where the bear had been. Bees' teeth chattered. There was frost in her eyelashes, melting in the sun. She whispered, before she passed out: “Please don’t tell my mom.”
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Dec 10, 2023 23:00
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I accept harsh judgement for this.Chili posted:Anyone who hasn't signed up but still wants to compete may still submit a story but the wordcount will be limited too 500 words, and Bok Choy must be prominently featured in the entry. Pick whatever diagnosis you'd like. I don't care. Flash Fry 494 words Hoarding Disorder, Social Anxiety Disorder “This one.” Gail pointed at the bok choy topping the pile on the shelves of Sophia’s Sundries. “Not that one.” The owner, Sophia herself, shook her greying head over the heaped counter. “That one’s reserved.” Gail frowned. No one else was shopping and that was a bad start. She let her breath out slowly, calmly. Patience. She was a mom and a pro at patience. “Okay.” She pointed to a bok choy on top of the register. “This one.”’ “That one’s the display.” She squinted, seeing nothing decorative and no signage anywhere. “Which ones are for sale?” Sophia began waving her arm indistinctly around the shop. “Those, those, those…” The ones in the back corners were wilted and probably nourishing the newer arrivals. Gail followed a nearby gesture and snatched one up. “No touching!” Sophia snapped. “You have to pay first!” She put it down. “Sorry. But, I can buy this one?” “Well, that one is… You know, maybe you should check Walmart?” “I did.” You’re the only one with any bok choy, probably because you bought it from them like a misguided VC monopoly attempt, she resisted adding, and instead forced a smile. “I’d prefer to shop local.” Sophia didn’t hide that she was sizing Gail up like a new specimen for her collection. Finally, she relented. “That one is special. A rare cultivar. What do you want it for?” Dinner. “My own display.” “Outside?” “Um, no?” She hoped it wasn’t obvious she was fidgeting. “You aren’t going to eat it?” “Oh, no.” “Okay. Then, sure.” A very long time passed while they locked eyes, Gail fighting not to break it off. “How much?” “Twenty—“ “Do—“ “—dollars.” “—you take—what?” “That’s my best price.” The tiny shopkeeper crossed her arms, head raised triumphantly. Twenty dollars for a single bok choy? “It’s for my kids. They love stir fry—oh, and we need this for the table! It will look perfect.” Not exactly a lie. Sophia’s eyes narrowed. “No discounts.” Gail froze. One hand held the twenty dollar bok choy. The other was halfway out of her pocket with her credit card. She could walk. But it would be rude, wouldn’t it? And Sophia was friends with Amy and Amy ran the bookstore and Gail was in there every week with her kids and Amy would judge her if she was rude to Sophia because Sophia would definitely tell everyone— Gail slammed the card down on the edge of the counter. “Fine! It’s a great price!” “Oh.” Sophia seemed just as surprised. She moved almost mechanically as she rang it through in silence. “I’ll take good care of it,” Gail said gently. “Thank you.” The monopoly won. She took the bok choy home. She set the table, placed it between some candles, and took a photo to post to instagram. Then she made the best and most expensive stir fry ever and forbid any phones at the table for the duration of the meal.
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Dec 11, 2023 00:33
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