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In, gimme dat sweet story and genre.
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Jan 4, 2023 00:57
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Joseph (of technicolor dreamcoat fame) as a Hollywood Rise-to-Fame Musical Romance. Faith and Family 1750 words "So, what you in for?" The Latino guy had a thick black moustache and sharp eyes set in a weatherbeaten face. He didn't sound particularly threatening, just bored. Not much to do in lockup, when it's just one large room with bars keeping them from the short corridor that lead to the rest of the sherrif's office, and another set of bars dividing men's and women's sides. From the look of it, the talker had been here for a while. His only other companmy was the hunched body curled up on one of the benches on the opposite wall. "It ain't much of a story," she replied. "Anything's better than trying to get him to talk." "I guess...." * * * Five years ago Twelve kids stand on stage at the Ohio State Fair, with a range of instruments. They play a country version of Paradise City, and as they finish the crowd goes wild. The roar of the crowd echoed in Jo’s head as they left the stage, clutching her guitar tight. It was her anchor. After every show she bought a sticker, and that guitar was a shining patchwork, a technicolour scrapbook of her music career. She was nine years old when Betty and Mac fostered her and gave her that guitar. She loved it like nothing else. The whole band were foster kids, Betty and Mac's family. They taught the kids how to sing and how to play. When Jo turned fifteen, the kids became a band. They played some square-dances and sweet sixteens to start, but they got bigger and bigger. Two years in and here they were, playing the state fair. Thousands of people wanting to see them, cheering every song. Maybe Betty pushed the orphan angle a bit much, maybe Mac’s own songs were schmaltzy, but it worked. Twelve kids aged seven to seventeen, tugging people’s heartstrings. Reminding them that the Lord still put good people on his Earth. Back at the old farmhouse they called hom it was a nice night, with a clear sky that shined with stars. Sitting out around a fire, the kids laughed and joked, still hyper from the show. A constellation caught Jo’s eye. Lyra, the lyre. As the firelight danced, she almost felt like she could see the other stars bowing to it. That had to be a sign. “Guys.” The others ignored her. She was one of the eldest, when Betty and Mac weren’t around they ignored her in lieu of their foster parents. “Guys, listen!” Eleven heads turned towards her, their chatter dying away. “You know how Mac always tells us that music comes from the heart?” “Yeah, so?” Ben asked from behind his thick glasses. “Well, most of what we sing is just covers of other people’s songs. Sure, we give it our all, but it ain't coming from our hearts.” She had their attention now. “And Mac’s songs are good, but they ain’t ours, not really. They’re his and sometimes…” she cast her eyes down. “Sometimes I don’t know if his heart’s coming from the same place as mine.” “What’re you talking about?” Ben again, confrontation and curiosity mixed in his voice. “It’s easier if I just show you.” Jo begins to sing, haltingly at first, just accompanied by her guitar, a formulaic song about not finding family until late, and being accepted but still feeling alone. As the last notes faded, she looked up to see eleven sets of eyes staring at her nonplussed. "I knew this was a mistake." Jo ran up to her room, tears welling in her eyes. Her foster siblings at least had the grace not to say anything to her afterwards, but sometimes she caught odd looks, and family dinners had a weird atmosphere when Bettie and Mac were away from the table. The next week, on a trip to one of the big malls just outside Dayton, things came to a head. Simon, Anna, and Dan rounded on her just in front of the Orange Julius stand. "You're a songwriter now?" Anna's eyes were cold. "You think you're better than us?" "No! I just–" "We know what you just!" Simon snapped. "And you can just stop. Right now." "All you are is trouble," said Dan. "Mac's done so much for us but it's never been good enough for you." Simon, Anna, and Dan sing Go Your Own Way. Jo pushes Dan, Anna pushes back. As the song ends, Simon grabs Jo's guitar and holds it aloft, triumphant. "Get out of here," he shouted. "You're not part of this family no more." "What are you going to tell Mac? Or Betty?" "That ain't your problem." * * * Jo met the man's eyes, gaze steady. "So I've been drifting since then. I don't have money and a girl's gotta eat. Here I am." "That's hosed up. Family's meant to have each other's backs." He scratched the thick stubble on his chin. "I have a friend, César, he's got a bar a couple of towns over. He's coming to bail me out, I could put in a word." "And why the hell'd you do that for me?" "He looks after strays, doesn't ask questions. The only good thing in my life is family. Yours treated you like poo poo. Let me and mine show you it ain't all bad?" He stuck his hand through the bars. "Ramon." "Jo." The sound of a guitar. The two sing a duet, about chance and risk and trust and blind faith. They both start doubtful, but come together during the song. Things moved fast. Ramon's cousin César didn't just give her a job, he posted her bail. The pay wasn't much, but at least she had a place to sleep and hot meals. She soon learned that most of César's 'strays' were undocumented, and he looked after them when nobody else would. Once, after the bar was closed and they were both three beers in, she asked him why. "Some people are assholes. Like the people who brought me here. They bled my parents dry and left me with nothing and nobody. Everyone deserves family, even if sometimes it's one you choose. I can't give much, but if I can give some people something, then I will." "What about when your family kicks you out?" "You find another." He finished his beer. "And you have faith, that your family will come to their senses. Or you show the ungrateful bastards what they missed out on." Jo bought a new guitar, and spent the time she wasn't working writing songs. But after seven months, things started going downhill. Regulars weren't coming to the bar as often, and people didn't order what they used to. "Things are bad, Jo." "How bad?" "It keeps up like this? I got maybe two, three weeks." "I didn't believe anyone would be as kind as you are, César. You took me in on Ramon's word. I got an idea, but you're gonna have to trust me." A montage, to a soundtrack of multiple performers. Jo leads, but at least three other people also sing, including Ramon. People hand out flyers for the country music night, and a banner is raised over the bar's door. On the country music night, a crowd thronged the bar. César had called everyone he could think of to help, even Ramon. Jo looked out from behind the taps, the guitar resting behind the small stage they'd set up. She could play it, but it wasn't her guitar. That part of her was still missing. As she was about to take the stage, she caught a glimpse of someone in the crowd. It couldn't be, could it? "Ramon! That girl over by the window? You ever seen her before?" "I'm seeing a lot of people. Wait, Kelly? Long red hair?" Seeing them looking at her, the woman smiled. She was maybe twenty-five, with long red curls, and a smile that could light up the whole room Ramon grinned. "Yeah, she's definitely sweet on you." And with that, Jo took the stage. "I'd like to welcome you all to our first live music night!" The crowd cheered. "I'm gonna start us off with a little something, then I'll be back after some of our other amazing singers." Jo stands on the stage with her guitar, and sings a version of the song she sang for her foster-siblings around the fire. Her voice is heavy with emotion, and both her singing and playing are a hell of a lot better than they were. As she finished playing, Jo saw a sudden movement in the crowd, a kid in glasses hurrying for the door. She hadn't got a good look at his face, but something made her push through the crowd after him, out into the parking lot. It wasn't just her imagination. There was the same bus that she'd ridden in so many times. She glimpsed eyes pressed up to the windows. "Ben?! What the hell are you all doing here?" "We heard about someone who was gonna be singing here. None of the others believed it but I figured it had to be you." "Come to laugh at me?" "Hell no! Things haven't been the same since you... yeah. We don't get the bookings, and I heard Mac saying something about how the soul's gone. He doesn't sing or play much any more." Still looking at Ben, she heard the bus doors open, the murmuring of teenagers and adults alike. She raised her voice. "I know you're all wondering, and yes, it's me." "Jo, I–" Simon started "No. I'm gonna say something." She cast her eyes from Simon, to Anna, to Dan. "You told me I wasn't family. But you know what? Family's important. I found it here." "We're sorry," said Dan. "I know. You wouldn't be here if you weren't. And I want you to know, I..." she blinked back tears. "I forgive you. I found family here, but you're my family too. Ain't one more important than another." They looked at her, stunned. Slowly, they parted as Mac walked through the group. His eyes filled with tears, he held out Jo's guitar to her. She gasped as her hands touched the stickers covering its body. "Well now. You'd better have all brought your instruments." The woman with the red hair stepped out of the bar as they approached. Jo gave her a broad smile. "Kelly, right? You better not be going anywhere. The main event just arrived."
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Jan 7, 2023 16:57
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Yeah, sod it, in!
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Mar 24, 2023 00:10
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The Eternal World Ceilidh 1449 words When I worked a 9-5, I'd dream of weekends, of time spent in the fresh air away from the air-conditioned open-plan taxi driving me straight to drink and an early grave. Now, I dream of that place. Spreadsheets dance as I sleep and I long for the cheap plastic keyboard, the hacking coughs and loud phone conversations. The interruptions, the anger of switching out of the flow of coding because Dave's got some trivial question that he'd know if he hadn't lied on his CV and my boss wasn't too stupid to spot it. I've not had that in a long time. * * * I wake up early, the sound of rain on my tent. I scowl and scoot down further in my sleeping bag. It's going to be one ofthose days. I don't need to check my poo poo, it's been long enough that my meagre possessions are burned into my mind. Twenty quid in notes and one pound seventy-three in change. A phone that gets no signal. Earplugs. Car keys. Half a pouch of tobacco, a full pack of blue Rizlas, a lighter, and enough weed for two satisfying joints. In my bag, a water bottle half-full of a potent mix of gin and tonic, a full bottle of Buckfast, and my rocar. The festival has been going on long enough that we've lost all sense of time; the weather changes and the world seems to pass as normal but every morning we wake up in our own tents or vans with the same stuff. Things change, but for us it's always Saturday at the World Ceilidh, originally a small Scottish music festival and now our entire world. My bones creak as I dress light; it's warm despite the rain but I still roll the first cigarette of the day before leaving my tent. My band's worked out a basic rota; this morning it's Andy's turn to make the coffee and host the half-dozen of us who haven't given up and started drinking already. I've seen corpses sleep deeper so it's going to be a couple of hours yet. Catherine and Gav are awake, so we gather by the river and smoke in amiable silence. It's hard to make conversation after what might be a year of the same day, but the band has more than just me who appreciate the quiet, before the screaming starts. It comes early this morning, the rain waking people up who freak out at another morning living in a straight-to-DVD Groundhog Day sequel. If they don't get a grip soon, the Audience will take care of them. If you don't at least pretend that it's just another day at the greatest party of the summer then they take you to the chill-out tent. You emerge with a smile like you're hosed on Mandy and for a while the endless repetition doesn't bother you. They don't steal your memories, they steal your ability to care. * * * After coffee, we head in to the festival proper. I get food from the bratwurst van; it's not the nicest on the site but if I don't vary things up I slip into a routine that's just as hypnotic as whatever happens in the chill-out tent. The rain eases and I buy a couple of hippy shirts and something I don't think I've read yet from among the second-hand books. The rain beats down on the canvas of the stalls. Doesn't matter how many days we've had like this, they still piss me off. At the edge of the site, past the longhouse, I look out over the steep hills. Time was, a few people would manage the walk in to the fenced-off site. The general attitude among the management held that anyone managing the ten-mile hike over several steep hills from the nearest public road was welcome. Claire and Nik have both tried it, slipping out when the Audience weren't looking. Thick mist occludes everything past the first circle of hills, and even with maps and compasses they got turned around and ended right back here. Jude tried taking her van and ramming through the closed gates, only to find that the roads now form one big loop. We're trapped in space as well as time, our memories the only thing that doesn't reset. I go see a friend play a solo set in the bar. She's mixing it up, trying out new material. It's good stuff, not yet polished but with definite potential. I see them watching. Half a dozen people in the crowd wearing round black sunglasses, who never quite finish their drinks. The Audience. They never miss a set. * * * Soon enough it's time for us to play. We've negotiated with the other bands that we'll get the main stage for the early afternoon. Sounds great, but after this long it's also a curse. More eyes on us. More of those unblinking stares. The band plays, twenty-five drummers belting our samba-reggae-punk. I give it my all. We used to switch up instruments to alleviate the boredom but now I stick with my rocar, playing as fast and as loud as I can. I'm shaking the thing not just from my shoulders or wrists but all the way down to my ankles, my whole body dancing like I'm possessed by the rhythm. In a way, I am. This is the only time I'm just in the moment, not preoccupied with everything else going on. Me, my shaker, and the music. We normally play 45-minute sets, but today it's twice that and as we finish the crowd goes wild. I hope the Audience don't mind, but the few I see as I stagger off-stage are cheering madly. My shirt's covered with a fine silver dust where my rocar's jingles have hit one another hard enough to shed tiny metal flakes. I gulp down half the bottle of gin and tonic, relying on my long-held delusion that it's rehydrating, then go to chill by one of the fires. The weather's finally eased. As I roll a big joint to take some of the edge off, I notice the others. Half a dozen people with the same weary resignation in their eyes as me --- though outwardly enjoying themselves, because otherwise the Audience will notice. A couple of those around the fire too. One asks for a poem in the slurred tones of someone already off their face. I give a hollow smile and recite a filthy limerick about the ornithophilic proclivities of the Bishop of Oxford. They laugh for a little too long, and hand over a fiver. That goes with me straight to the bar, where I nurse another pint as the weather gets worse again. * * * Bombskare put on their headline show. They don't have a choice, all the posters call it out. At least it means I can ignore the rain and just skank, fuelled by Bucky and good music. I know two thirds of my band will be in one of the bars, this being the one thing they didn't care about at the entire festival, but I don't care. On the stage, I see that they're recruited a handful of other musicians from bands playing in the festival. Must mean there's a few more performers in the chill-out tent. After that gig I drink, smoke, and talk the same bollocks with the same friends as we do every day. I find out from Claire that we have the closing set at 3am. She suggests heading back to the tents for a bunk-up, and I gladly agree. Pretty much everyone who wants to has hosed everyone else by this point; festival hookups are pretty much a given. We've done it enough that we know we're a good fit, but we haven't fallen into the trap of starting a full-on romance. With everyone corralled together, when they go south they get messy fast. As we lie there, recovering in a fug of sweat and hormones, we talk softly about what we miss from the real world. These are the only moments of true human connection, free from the feeling of constant repetition, but it's over too soon. We dress, and drag ourselves back over to the main bar tent, sharing a post-coital joint. We smile at one another. It could be worse. * * * I wake up late, my tent warmed by brilliant sunshine. I smile, and ease my way out of my sleeping bag. It's going to be one ofthose days.
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Mar 26, 2023 10:28
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WEEK 556: Lawyers, Guns, and Money https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F2HH7J-Sx80 Not only is it one of Warren Zevon's best songs, it's a list of three good story ingredients. Let's throw'em in a pot and see what inedible garbage you can make! Your story this week must include lawyers, guns, and money in some form. The only limit is you can't play the prompt entirely straight: no hard-boiled crime/noir stories. Take these basics in hand like they're your daddy's nutsack and give them a good hard twist. You get 1000 words to start with. Brevity is the soul of wit, and if you can't be witty you can at least be brief. If you ask for a flash rule, I'll give you another Warren Zevon title to use in your story in addition to Lawyers, Guns, and Money. You can use this new one either directly or thematically. In return you get 500 bonus words (1500 total). If you ask for a Hellrule, you'll get the same 500-word bonus as a flash rule, but I'm going to pick out a song title from my entire music library to include, and it'll be a fucker. You don't get anything beyond that; this is Thunderdome, pain is its own reward. The usual rules apply about no erotica, no poetry, no google docs, etc. Signup deadline: Friday, 31st March at 11:59 PST Submission deadline: Sunday, 2nd March at 11:59 PST Judges DigitalRaven rohan My Shark Waifuu Entrants Pham Nuwen — The Indifference of Heaven Thranguy — Poor Pitiful Me steeltoedsneakers — Mr Blobby BeefSupreme — Grafting Haddock in the George FlippinPageman ItohRespectArmy flerp — Play it All Night Long derp sephiRoth IRA IShallRiseAgain Beefeater1980 DigitalRaven fucked around with this message at 10:04 on Apr 2, 2023 |
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Mar 28, 2023 13:37
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Pham Nuwen posted:Good prompt. The Indifference of Heaven https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=adHwtOLoVjE
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Mar 28, 2023 18:00
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Thranguy posted:In, flash Poor Pitiful Me https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=_TbfQPRgcS8
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Mar 28, 2023 21:53
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steeltoedsneakers posted:in. Mr Blobby https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rNkgDJpcuwU
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Mar 29, 2023 15:50
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BeefSupreme posted:in and hellrule Grafting Haddock in the George https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LBNpw6fkiAs
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Mar 29, 2023 15:51
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flerp posted:in flash Play it All Night Long https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4W07dFdGadE
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Mar 29, 2023 20:10
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Ignore me.
DigitalRaven fucked around with this message at 09:59 on Mar 31, 2023 |
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Mar 31, 2023 09:34
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The signup deadline looms closer! If anyone wants to join the idiot on the Blood Throne in sitting in judgment over these poor saps, make yourselves known.
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Apr 1, 2023 02:05
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Signups are closed!
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Apr 1, 2023 10:08
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Looking for one more judge!
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Apr 1, 2023 23:08
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Submissions are closed.
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Apr 3, 2023 09:00
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Thunderdome 556 - Judgment Day We had an interesting crop of stories this week, only a couple of which ended up dividing the judges. Certainly interesting to see which way people went with their prompts. FlippinPageman is Disqualified. Do not hit the edit button. This is not rocket science! Beyond that, they also take the loss for Make Some Noise, a story we all thought was confusing, boring, and with an ending that doesn’t land. This week also brought with it two DMs, ItohRespectArmy’s The Bacchanalia and Dead Weight by sephiRoth IRA. derp takes this week’s sole HM for Dearest Nelly, which brings a charmingly distinct voice. Quietly, Quietly gives this week’s win to Pham Nuwen, for a combination of strong characters and good worldbuilding. The Blood Throne is yours!
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Apr 3, 2023 13:11
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And for my triple-post, Crits for week 556 The Bacchanalia by ItohRespectArmy The style flits between the anodyne and the violent. I could get it if we're meant to think Alfie's a Patrick Bateman type but there's no other indicators of that. As a fan of a terrible pun I do at least like the last line, but there’s real issues with phrasing and formatting that makes my eyes start to glaze over by the third paragraph. You do have the week’s most interesting take on the prompt, but it’s not enough to save you. Make Some Noise by FlippinPageman Yes, I am going to harp on this: preview twice, post once, and DO NOT EDIT! As a fan of ridiculously over the top metal, I’m here for the band descriptions but the twist isn’t really a twist because, err, what?!. There’s no sense of the band’s intentions or what the ray’s meant to be, and the conclusion strips out whatever tension may have remained. I should have loved this, but it’s a lot of wasted potential. Dearest Nelly by derp If you’d replaced e-signing and digital documents with telegraph/telephone I’d have thought this a period piece from a hundred years ago — the language and style lends itself very well to that, in a way that I really like. I get the sense that the writer’s a spoiled rich brat from the start so I’m not surprised he walked out, but it does mean that there’s not as much impact to what he does. If it was written as that period piece and the money involved was a serious amount even for the protagonist this could easily have been a winner. Dead Weight by sephiRoth IRA I like the style, and I get the feeling that Jim’s a right bastard (at least, given he was about to draw on the judge) but I don’t get a sense of his personality to back that up. I know you didn’t have many words, but you could’ve carved out enough for a sentence or two to add context. The court doing an Anubis-style weighing of the heart is a strong visual and one I’d have liked more of. Lawyers, guns, and money by Beefeater1980 This kind of slice-of-life-with-a-dark-ending couldn’t be more my poo poo if you’d written it with an empty gin bottle on an old D&D character sheet. I really really liked this. Yes, the end’s telegraphed from the very beginning, but the tone of the coffee chat means I kinda don’t care. I do have some stylistic nitpicks - snorted/snorts (tense agreement), and I think you have a missing ‘not’ when describing Mike as ‘a big man’. Quietly, Quietly by Pham Nuwen I love tales of community and human connection in the post-apocalpse, so you’re coming out of the gate strong. I like that this particular end is something you can choose that isn’t death, more like joining a liquid hive mind. I was originally disappointed that Dave taking the pills happened so soon after his attitude shift towards gold and jewelry and such, but it does make sense from his POV that he only came to that understanding once he’d already decided to go, since it’s such a big thing for someone who was a prepper/goldbug. Up Country by Thranguy There’s a lot of style and worldbuilding here, but I just don’t give a poo poo. It’s a couple of scenes from a trashy airport novel rather than an actual story. That can be fun, but you’ve got nearly 700 words that could have made the names into characters, and the last five paragraphs into an actual story. I’m actually angry because I feel like there’s so much wasted potential. And where's the flash rule?
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Apr 3, 2023 13:28
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In, word me.
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May 24, 2023 00:33
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My Shark Waifuu posted:You can! Switch me up!
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May 26, 2023 12:27
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Yeah, screw it, I’m in
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Jun 9, 2023 20:12
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The Women of Troy 478 words The fire in the camp gives me no warmth. The bread, freshly baked by Andromache, turns to ashes in my mouth. The fire is the colour of the sky over beloved, burning Troy, the same flickering orange through day and night. The ashes all that remain of my home. I force down sips of water, though it tastes of the blood of my dead father and husband, and the tears I wept - and will weep again - for my sons. This is the end of my world. Looking around the women’s camp, as we wait to be taken as war-brides, I know I am not alone in my grief. The Greeks call themselves heroes, they rejoice in taking back Helen for Menelaus, though the Trojan armies held them at bay for ten long years. Ten years, in which Helen bore Paris three sons and a daughter. Ten years, in which she lived with the most desired man in Troy, having escaped her old husband. That Paris may have been willing to use force to take her is clear, though she seemed far happier in Troy than as child-bride to a Spartan king. My home still burns as the Greeks congratulate “cunning Odysseus”, as if his base treachery was cleverness inspired by Hermes himself. They congratulate Sinon, the liar. They may not mistreat us, but that is scant comfort. Our lives are over. Our world has ended. At best, we may be war-brides to Greek soldiers, praying for those nights when wine gives our new husbands desire but not ability, though Hera will surely spurn us. Even dear, mad Cassandra will find herself some Greek’s prize. She more than any of us knows what it costs to spurn a god’s advances, I fear she will not last long when her captor can gift her not lunacy, but only death. Might that be a mercy? To be reunited with my dear husband in Hades? I have not the strength to take my own life, and if I did the guards would stop me. Perhaps the worst part of the end of our world is how courteously our captors treat us. We do not have much food but the flour we get is good, and the water fresh. They know, I am sure, what becomes of it when we try to eat and drink. Our grief raw as it is, takes its own forms. Cassandra remains at the edge of the circle, muttering to herself as always. Hecabe spits curses whenever the Greeks turn their attention on us. Laodice prays to whichever god will listen, hoping her devotion will bring her freedom. Andromache bakes the bread and shares out the water. I fear she would pretend that everything is normal, though nothing is normal now. We are the women of Troy, and we alone live on after our apocalypse.
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Jun 10, 2023 15:05
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Dreams of the City 298 words I don’t know why these dreams always start on the shitter. I’m sitting there, not thinking about biological functions but about the path that runs through my flat from the main door to the garden out back, and how it’d be really nice if there were a wall or a door or anything between my khazi and the people walking that path. But nope, I’m sitting there with my kecks round my ankles, being watched by everyone. This isn’t one of those no-pants-at-school dreams, though. It’s recurring, and it stays with me when I wake. I clean up and head through to my bedroom. The door’s there, same as ever. Practically, the door should lead onto the path. Not into an old, white-painted room twice the size of my flat that’s filled with antique furniture. The bay window features closed net curtains; it’s impossible to see out. There’s another door at the back of the room, one that would logically lead to more of this impossible home, but I don’t look too hard at that one. No, I’m looking at the white-painted door to the outside world, its large metal mortice lock and the heavy key that turns easily in my hand. From the outside, the room is the front of my grandparents’ house. Cracked flagstones lead to the front gate and onto the street beyond. Despite their actual house being in a leafy suburb, right now I’m already in the depths of a city. at night It reminds me of an abandoned *fin de siecle* Paris just after sunset. The sky above is bone-white, dotted with black stars. This is as far as I’ve ever come. When I go back and open the door to my grandparents’ house, I wake up.
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Jun 12, 2023 18:57
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I'm trying to up my crit game, so if you enter for the interprompt I'll crit your story.
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Jun 12, 2023 18:59
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Beezus posted:That's Your Cue I like the twist, and I've had dreams a lot like that, and you capture the mounting dread well. The structure has enough sense of narrative to it, but I still feel the sudden twists of dream-logic. Nice. But. I think the use of "scene" at the start telegraphs the ending, and a different word would make it hit better. Also, there's a "she" who shows up three times in the opening paragraph, with a mounting sense of urgency and disquiet to the narrator... then what? She vanishes totally, not just from the story but from the narrator. Which, yeah, I'm not going to try to argue that dreams don't have that kind of sudden dropped thread, but as someone reading a story the sudden disappearance stands out like a sore thumb. Idle Amalgam posted:Falling There's no fear of impact, no sense of vertigo, and no sign of anything actually happening. "how I struggle to penetrate the veil of unreality that keeps me dreaming" is too purple for a piece that doesn't top 200 words, and that's a microcosm of my issue here: so much of this is padding. Words used for their own sake, to bulk out the story so it's more than one, maybe two lines. It's not bad padding, but if you're going to be pretentious then commit to the bit and go seriously overwrought, really play with language, and if you're not then find something to describe, rather than relying on descriptions of absence.
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Jun 12, 2023 21:54
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curlingiron posted:Back-to-School Nightmare Season Starts Earlier Every Year This hinges quite a lot on the reader having had that "back in school" dream and knowing that sense of near-existential dread. It's clear that's what's going on, but it feels oddly anodyne for the dreams it's describing. The only part that sells any real emotional impact is the headteacher shaking her head. Sitting next to the students you've been teaching is weird, yes, but maybe use some of the 100+ words you didn't use to give us non-teachers an idea of what feelings that would bring up? e: Now I know what a US middle school is, I totally get it. derp posted:The Beach I really like this. Separating out the description of the beach makes it clear both what it's like and how the narrator feels about this place, both in reality and in the dream. If I haver a quibble, it's that I'm not a fan of using italics for both emphasis and the internal monologue. Even if it's just quoting the thoughts, that additional bit of differentiation would help with readability. DigitalRaven fucked around with this message at 23:15 on Jun 12, 2023 |
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Jun 12, 2023 23:00
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Antivehicular posted:my anxiety dreams are weirdly derivative of Billy Madison Another "back in school" dream, but this one - focused as it is on the one specific lesson, and the one specific incident during that lesson - feels like it has a narrative to it. I like the sudden shift between the fun details of the adult engaging with story art, and the sudden reminder and confusion of the practical, working world. Given the way some people can say "it's not best practices" in an office or lab and make you feel like a child for not knowing, this really hits home.
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Jun 13, 2023 11:08
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In and  for a hellrule
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Jun 14, 2023 08:56
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derp posted:not feeling this prompt, somebody BRAWL ME Why would anyone when this is how much effort you put into calling someone out? "Ohhh, please brawl me. Notice me senpai! uwu" I have no idea what that even means and I'm still gonna use it to mock you, because I know writers who understand what they write and they're all cowards. Like you. Let me put this in simple words so you'll understand: come and have a go if you think you're hard enough!
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Jun 15, 2023 17:52
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Fat Jesus posted:This thing I'm writing actually starts with a dark dream the oracle can't remember, so I'm going to cheat a bit and post it and get laughed at. Okay, so, I know it's coming from another bit of writing, but unlike all the other entries — including those I didn't like — this doesn't feel like a dream. The only bits of what might be called dream-logic, events being entirely normal for the one experiencing it but clearly abnormal to the reader, come in the last line, without any kind of buildup. For your purposes, it being a vision might work, I dunno, but it's too coherent to be a dream. What we have here is some grimdark fantasy in dire need of an editor. First, what the gently caress is going on with that formatting? Each sentence on one line made me initially parse it as free verse, which is if anything worse. Paragraphs are nice but use them properly. The same goes for commas, and it's not illegal to use semicolons, dashes, and even wilder means of differentiating clauses within a sentence. Mix up how you describe someone taking action as well, because otherwise it's "as he/as he/as he". I mean, look at that second-to-last line, it's so boring it hurts to read. Beyond that, for something that's dripping with fire and blood and death it's so loving anodyne. You've somehow managed to make give even less of a toss than I did going in, which is an achievement. Sprinkling in some "hateful obsidian clouds" doesn't make up for the fact that you've written the scene in such a detached way that there's no engagemen with the reader's emotions or senses, so they have no investment in what's going on. You should track down your high school English teacher and apologise.
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Jun 17, 2023 11:38
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The Resurrectionarians 1999 words Hellrule: your characters are humans with crab claws instead of arms, and do not find this at all unusual. “Mr. Volante, I don’t know what you expect from me.” Damien Archis paused for the time it took to light his pipe. “You’re proposing spending millions on, what? Reviving an animal that’s been extinct for fifteen hundred years? I am hardly given to throwing away my money on flights of fancy.” John Volante shuffled in his ill-fitting suit. The pipe smoke brought his grandfather to mind. The old man had been a strict disciplinarian, and just the memory of afternoons spent in silence in his wood-panelled study, so like this office, brought a shiver to his spine. “With all due respect, er, sir,” His grandfather’s voice in his head: drat it, boy! Don’t trip over yourself. Sit up straight! “This project is more than a noble cause. It’s a way to prove that we can un-archive history. If you’ll turn to page, ah, twenty-six.” In the quiet office, the rustling of Archis’ claws against the sheaf of papers was suddenly deafening. “What am I looking at here?” “It’s a proof, sir. What I’m proposing is not just possible mathematically, but within the physical constraints of the universe as we know them. The equations don’t lie, I’ve had them verified by three independent teams. This is as much a breakthrough as the auspex window, and you know what happened there.” “Yes. My predecessor thought it was poppycock.” Archis puffed his pipe and produced a perfect ring of smoke. “And then one of his competitors brought it to market. A device that could reconstruct historic events with such accuracy that we’re effectively looking at them. But that’s hardly what you’re proposing here.” Volante straightened. Intended or not, he’d heard that as a challenge. “That’s exactly what I’m proposing. This is practical! An investment of five years and twenty million is nothing in the grand scheme of things.” He took a deep breath, realising that he’d been waving his claws. “Really?” Archis shook his head and puffed his pipe some more. “You may disagree, but I do not think myself a cruel man. I have no doubt you’re a brilliant scientist, Mr. Volante, but you are no salesman. You are failing in your pitch. The memories of my predecessor’s reticence are strong, but they’re also the only reason I’ve entertained you this long. Now calm down, straighten your tie, and tell me what, if anything, I have to gain from your proposal.” “Right. Well. Um. Ah… page fifty-eight summarises the initial plan. We’re most of the way through developing a means of capturing the state vector of a moderately complex animal. We’ve had most success with lobsters and rats, but within a year — with the benefit of your funding — we should be able to capture most relatively simple animals. Now, with the addition of cloned tissue, this in and of itself is a significant breakthrough. We can effectively ‘save’ the state of a living being and restore it into a clone made at the same time as the capture. “Now, that’s a mature field. It’s maybe eighteen months away from being practical, maybe five more to bring it to human testing and a lot of that is going to be ethical approval. Philosophers will have a field day; I could see epistemologists fighting claw-to-claw in the streets over the subjective continuity of experience of duplicated humans but that doesn’t matter.” “The *point*, Mr. Volante?” “Okay, so. Yes. Connect state vector capture with bio-molecular analysis, and point all of that through an auspex window. So far, bio-capture has mostly been used for fast-cloning, because we don’t have to worry about an animal’s higher consciousness. So we’re cloning penguins and rhinos and the like to ensure that they still exist, but fast-cloning doesn’t have the error-checking needed to make a fully accurate copy of the original. It’s fine for claiming that we’ve saved species, letting us eat dolphin-burgers all we like, but anything brought back with full accuracy is effectively a newborn and we do not have anything that can teach it how to be, well, the appropriate kind of animal. “The clones we can make are broken. And that’s not even thinking about what went extinct before we mastered the art. We were too late to save tigers, squirrels, or triceratops — until now. We use the auspex window to perform a full analysis of an animal that went extinct long before we had the technology to save it, and we then capture its state vector. Getting that much detail from the past, both on a genetic level and a full-system-description level has long been thought impossible, at odds with linear causality, but that isn’t true. Hence the equations, hence working my claws to the chitin and my brain to its limits to get here. “So that’s why I want, why I need your investment, Mr. Archis. Dodos remain the most well-known example of a species long-dead that we will never get back. With five years and twenty million, you will not only be able to present to the world the first dodo on Earth for over one thousand years, but you will already have both the theoretical and technological base at enough scale to offer them as *pets*. “It’s a small step from there to rescuing other animals.” Archis leaned back, his eyebrows raised. “What kind of other animals?” “Anything you want.” John’s looked around the room, and his eyes settled on the ancient painting of a cat hanging on the wall. “A house-cat, for example? A real cat, with the instincts and memories of being an actual pet. Beyond that, page 73 shows that we have had promising results with biomanipulation of restored creatures. In ten years you can open your own theme-park full of historical animals where children ride miniature brachiosaurs.” “Good grief, Mr. Volante.” Archis carefully set his pipe on the table and rested his chin on one claw. “This is very ambitious. Very ambitious indeed.” “It is, sir.” John Volante smiled to himself, hearing Archis’ change in tone from patriarchal disappointment to thoughtful consideration. “Hemmingway and Hemmingway are pushing hard on capture of human state vectors. You’ve heard they’re merging with SaxoKlithGlein?” “More a hostile takeover than a merger, from what I’ve read.” “SKG are working on speeding up full-spec cloning. With that merger, once they push through the necessary changes in the law they can offer full human backups. Effectively, immortality. What I’m proposing goes one step further. We wouldn’t just provide a backup in case of death, we would *cure extinction.*” “How certain are you that you can make this work?” “It’s not without its risks, sir. If I were to give it a number? Ninety-five percent. That’s not much of a risk given the potential rewards.” Damien Archis leaned forwards. “That, Mr. Volante — John — is a hell of a pitch.” He proffered one claw. John leaned forwards, brushing the inside of the older man’s claw with his own. “I’m in. This isn’t just about the profits. It’s not even about screwing Hemmingway and Hemmingway. “We’ve made so many mistakes, as a species. Let’s put those right.”
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Jun 17, 2023 17:01
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Damnit, for some reason I got the wrong word count. It's 1200 words.
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Jun 17, 2023 17:03
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Bummerdome Brawl entry Runaway 987 words Three days. That’s how long Waris had been on the run. Three days without her phone, of stealing clothes so she didn’t look the same, of putting one foot in front of the other. She wasn’t dumb. She knew she didn’t have much of anything to run to. She could worry about that later. Right now, she was running *from*. She just had to get away. For her parents, the UK was the dream. They sold everything they owned and more to travel in shipping crates and overcrowded dinghies. They made it into the back of a truck headed through Calais, and they claimed asylum when they arrived. They were among the last people with successful claims. On Waris’s second birthday, the government authorised the Navy to sink any unauthorised boats trying to cross into the UK, international law be damned. She was five when Ireland reunified, eight when Scotland declared independence. For as long as she could remember she’d wanted to find somewhere — anywhere — that didn’t treat people like poo poo. Then one day immigration control officers had showed up at her home, with body armour and automatic weapons. She overheard them shouting about illegal immigrants, but she was already running. She’d made it into the shared attic of the row of houses, managed to get to the end of the row and out. Even as she ran she had to act normal; England may be the most surveilled country in the world but she could fade into the crowd. In three days, she’d made it to one of the façades: fake houses built years ago so posh people didn’t have to look at the Underground. She’d managed some sleep, curled up in one of the arches, headphones cranked up against the noise of the trains. Her parents had escaped a loving war zone, and here she was scared to get out of a city in peacetime. After midnight, she could head into the tunnels, try to get to a station. From there, she could find a way to get _somewhere_. * * * Greg Alderton didn’t think of himself as a bad person. He was just another victim of the gig economy that’d seen him driving for whoever and delivering takeaways at the same time and still not making his rent. His latest gig was different, though. He’d got lucky, got into a pilot scheme. So now he was a stringer working for the Metropolitan Police by way of G4S who’d subcontracted to Uber. They paid him to find petty thieves, escaped immigrants. The petty criminals who stopped the police going after real scum — groomers, paedos, terrorists. He knew they were everywhere. He’d read it in the Daily Mail. All of which explains why a nondescript fiftysomething with greying hair and a bad cardigan was sat in his silver Ford Mondeo, staring intently at his phone. His target had managed to dodge CCTV, but now the police used social media, scanning photos and videos to find people. Figures that his target didn’t know that. So he flew his drone over the area, using its night-vision camera to search nooks and crannies for people. She may just be a fifteen year old girl, but she wasn’t daft. She’d clearly picked up some tradecraft, probably read some Lee Child. But that’s the thing, she might think she was a spy, but she was just a runaway illegal who was due to be relocated. She should’ve stayed home, Greg reckoned. If she hadn’t done anything wrong, he wouldn’t have got her details. The drone captured a grey blur climbing down onto the tracks behind the false fronts. He swept it in closer as she slipped into the tunnels. Cunning. Still three hours until the next train. Greg yawned, popped open a can of supermarket own-brand Red Bull, and pondered. She was heading towards Paddington. Plenty of connections there, and plenty of people even first thing. He slipped the car into gear, and went to find a car park for a couple of hours’ shut-eye. * * * Had it really come to this? Walking through a tube tunnel at two in the morning, trying to keep away from the electrified rails, with only a pocket flashlight to help? At least what Waris had read on the Internet about trains not running between midnight and 5am on weekdays was right. This early in the morning, Waris is pretty sure she can sneak into Paddington station. Stay in the tunnels, then hop up to the platform as the station opens up and the first people get onto their trains. Yeah. She can make this work. The waiting is the worst part. The tunnels are cold and cramped, and more than once Waris wishes that she’d stolen warmer clothes. But she’s got to make do with what she has, so she huddles down and tries to keep herself warm despite her shivering fingers. It feels like an age down there in the darkness, but in the end she can hear doors opening, gates clanging, the sound of voices coming and going. She hops the gate on to the platform, and lurks at one end until the first early-morning commuters show themselves. She tries to hang back, make herself look tired and bored, hide in the crowd. The train pulls in with a roar. The doors hiss open. She puts one foot in front of the other. Four paces to go. Three. A hand on her shoulder. “Waris Duale?” She hesitates. That’s her mistake, letting Greg hit her with the stun gun. “It’s alright,” he calls to the crowd, brandishing his cheap laminated ID badge. “Immigration.” People’s eyes turn away. They don’t care or they don’t want to be seen to care. Either way, nobody gets in his way as he carries the unconscious girl to his car, the first stop on her journey to Rwanda or wherever the Home Office has chosen this month.
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Jun 19, 2023 15:50
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Gimme the spin, kissed and told, this Thunderdome I'm in.
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Jul 12, 2023 11:51
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BANGSIAN x CAPER A Ghost of a Heist 1497 words Cast Penelope - Mastermind. Queen of Ithica, smarter than you. Odysseus - Muscle. Egotistical king of Ithica, second-smartest person in the room. Charles ”Black Bart” Boles - Thief. Stylish and sophisticated gentleman highwayman William Shakespeare - Face. Playwright and student of the human condition. Robert Liston - Surgeon. Two-fisted pioneer of anaesthesia John Knox - Also a surgeon. Burke and Hare’s sponsor, a trailblazer and a piece of poo poo. Henry VIII - King. Founder of Anglicanism, a poor prospect for a husband. - - - “Will? What do you have?” Odysseus leaned back in his chair, looking across the table at the writer. “The word in the stalls, sir, is that King Henry has been levying taxes on the citizens of our fair underworld. He would regain not just his position in society but his riches. He’s already made several lavish purchases, including the Dagger of Aqu’Abi, and a collection of precious emeralds from the Musk Mines.” Black Bart straightened up. “Riches, you say? Such things shouldn’t be kept in the vaults of kings, but the hands of the people. And we are very much people.” “Quite. People who have expenses, at that. Even in Hades’ realm, wine isn’t free.” “Then we’re agreed,” said Bart. “We shall take this king’s ransom for our own.” In life, King Henry had palaces. In death, he had already carved himself a sizeable place in the underworld. The grey stones, slightly insubstantial and out-of-focus at any distance, were the work of very talented soul-masons, and almost impossible to climb. Knowing that Odysseus was only moments from recounting once again the story of how he had broken the Siege of Troy, Penelope wracked her brain. “William. Go, rouse the guards’ ire. Your mastery of language should rile them. Husband, provoke them to action and give chase with them.” The bard nodded. “Yes, they’ve got the look of the common soldier about them, not a general or a king. I shall lead them a merry dance.” “Just far enough that you can make sure they won’t come back, then join us inside. I don’t want us half-handed.” Penelope and Bart hung back. She was, of course, correct. The Bard of Avon’s mastery of invective had not diminished in the many years he’d had to learn. By the time he called their family tree ‘two dead twigs sticking out of a dead badger’, they were already fit to strike, and had started chasing him before Odysseus had a chance to speak, though they wouldn’t get far before the wily one would tackle the guards. Black Bart, dashing as ever, lead her through the ornate doors as though he owned the place, a suitor showing off to his beau, rather than a pair of thieves breaking in to their latest target. He cast his eye over the interior, then moved around, looking carefully over each wall and floorboard. Though he was originally a highwayman, an age of working with this particular crew of misfits had rather broadened his instincts. “There will be more guards upstairs. I’m certain that’s where this King will be, as well, but look here–“ he gestured at two panels in the wall, apparently no different to any others. “Servant’s doors, but far larger than they need to be. Large enough for grand paintings, statues, and everything else.” “Paintings and statues are too large to lift, though, and even if we could recover them we’d not be able to leave at speed,” said Penelope. “It’s not like the only security is a hidden door. I’d wager that’s his strongroom, and whatever isn’t on immediate display is down there. We’d be less likely to raise alarm as if we took it from under his nose.” “I don’t like it. It seems too obvious, a treasure hoard in a basement.” “Dear wife,” said Odysseus from the doorway, “obvious or not I would suggest we make ourselves scarce. I hear many footsteps on their way here, and beyond this Henry there are few enough guests.” Bart had already opened one of the hidden doors by the time Penelope replied. “Very well, husband. But it is too obvious, and too easy.” “Oh, I don’t disagree, but Fortune may yet smile upon us.” The simple brick-lined passage beyond the door were clearly part of the backstage of the residence, a place for servants rather than nobility. Even then it was large, able to accommodate three broad men abreast. It was not far until the passage ended at a thick, locked door. Shakespeare’s ears pricked up. “I can hear someone through that door,” he whispered. “Only one, so not likely a guard, and the sound is odd, like it’s a theatre rather than a treasure-room.” “We can still turn around,” Penelope said. “I have a bad feeling about this.” But Black Bart, acting while the rest of the team bickered, had already opened the door. What was on the other side made him pale. A filthy charnel-house of a room, thick with the smell of old blood. Stains and spatters of bodily fluids covered the surfaces. Down the left-hand side of the room were the locked metal doors of small cells. Along the right, a series of other bodies in various states of dissection. A woman’s body lay strapped on an anatomist’s table, her abdomen pulled open and the skin held back with wires. A balding man wearing a high-collared coat and thick round glasses worked on the cadaver, inspecting organs and carefully cataloguing them, before carefully replacing them. The doctor — if that’s what he was — turned to the opened door. When he spoke, it was with a thick Scottish accent “No. No, this will not do! I will not have my work interrupted.” “Barbarian!” Cried Odysseus, stepping forward. “You butcher the bodies of the slain and call it work?” “It is the greatest work there is, to understand the differences in the human condition by the variations of the body! If only those idiots Burke and Hare hadn’t got themselves caught, the whole world would understand.” Then the woman on the table moaned. It was the quietest sound, but in that room at that moment it was deafening. Odysseus leapt forwards, grabbing for the doctor. He grabbed and punched, using his wiry strength to fend off the doctor’s blows. The King of Ithaca, however, was unarmed, and he soon felt the sting of the surgeon’s blade. Penelope and Shakespeare raced to the woman on the table. Whatever cruelties she had endured, she was still alive — as alive as any shade could be in the underworld. They could not rouse her, and while they could remove the wires holding her abdomen open, they could not effectively tend to her wounds. Black Bart, meanwhile, tried to open the cells. In the first he found only a bloody mattress. The second had a pair of young men, dressed only in rags, their faces sallow and pitted. The third, however, revealed quite a surprise. A tall, strapping man, bald on top but with curly black hair and great bushy muttonchops whiskers, his hands tied behind his back and his mouth gagged. Bart cut the gag free, and worked on the man’s wrists. “What’s going on?” The man had a Scottish accent similar to the doctor’s. “The madman through there is Robert Knox. In life he was an unscrupulous bastard but a fine anatomist, who asked no questions of the men who brought him his bodies — including the most basic, such as ‘did you kill him?’. I knew him in life, and he has not taken well to death. He’s obsessed with how our bodies work in the underworld.” “You knew him? Are you another doctor?” “Aye, Robert Liston.” He straightened, rubbing his wrists now they were free of the cuffs. “Fastest surgeon in the West End, and the first to use that Yankee dodge that became known as anaesthesia.” “The woman on the table, are you fast enough to do anything for her?” “I can indeed, though you’ll have to keep that madman from me.” Liston stood, a gleam in his eye as he saw Odysseus wrestling with his former colleague. “Go, help your friend. Lady, and — good grief, the Bard himself — I’ll need your assistance.” He retrieved a bag from beneath the table and grabbed various instruments from within. “I’ll do all I can to save you.” Penelope, one eye on the brawl, was trying to work out the group’s next move. If they were able to defeat Knox they still had to get his victims out of King Henry’s palace, find out what Henry was doing working with Robert Knox and why… all of that and they hadn’t a single coin to show for it. And yet she saw the care in Liston’s work, working with both speed and precision. He’d make a valuable addition to the crew. And they’d need all the help they could get with the plan already forming in her mind.
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Jul 17, 2023 01:45
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In, pick me one!
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Jul 24, 2023 12:45
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