|
Albatrossy_Rodent posted:Judges are I can too
|
#
¿
Jan 8, 2023 17:49
|
|
|
|
| # ¿ May 15, 2024 15:26 |
|
|
Week 544 crits Faith and Family Considering nothing happens in the opening scene, I'd cut it entirely, or at least to a paragraph or two at most. Cut the time passing marker, too. Watch out for punctuation. You have some comma splices, and other places that should have commas don't. Hmm. It took me a long time to figure out what was going on with the italicized lines. I think this would work better if they were all from a single scene, rather than always jumping forward just like the main story does. I feel like there's a core of a solid story in here, but you'd need to do a lot of hacking down to reveal it properly. Mid Codechild Watch your tense. It's slipping all over the place, and that gets distracting fast. Paragraph 1: "And it wasn’t just that someone has masked" you went from past simple to present perfect. You need to stay all present or all past. You have a lot of sentence fragments. Those get distracting, too, when they harm the reader figuring out what's going on. Onomatopoeias, maybe; long descriptive phrases, no. So, this is becoming a parody of itself by the middle. Power sentences about power items firing power items into power items. And enemies who are no match for the protagonist but throw out endless one-liners in the middle of battle. This feels like the fifth chapter of a novel, not a self-contained story. We're dropped in the middle of a situation with meaningless NPCs to send off into the bizarrely spacious beladdered sewer with no explanation. The main character's quest is to...find? protect? some child. But we never get an explanation why that's important, or why she cares, so neither do we. Mid-low For the Trees That's a nice image to open this. Good imagery and phrasing all around. That was good. And also a good interpretation of the prompt what the hell Aside from the story and flash rule, though, I do kind of wonder about some of your executive decisions. I'm not sure what keeping the protagonist's name the same from the biblical story added. And I feel like the removal of the two observers wagering over the outcome detracts somewhat relative to the original story. High A Christmas Adventure That was odd but kind of affecting. Also very closely matches the prompt. I almost feel like the story & rule prompts this week are doing the heavy lifting, but then you do still have to do the writing. And this is pretty well-crafted. Mid-high Is John in Over His Head? The tone of this piece is bizarre. There's a lot of emotions described, but in completely anodyne, boring language. A lot happens, but nothing seems consequential. People do a lot of talking, but they don't say anything except clichés and platitudes. I don't really see the point of the whole thing, especially that ending. He wonders why he got away with it, the end. I see the joke about the place name now, but I didn't the first time I read it. Something about the delivery led me way down the garden path. Mechanically, everything was fine. I'd cut all the Later that [time period] notes, though; they're all clear from context, or should be as long as you're writing half-awake. You clearly know how to write, but I'm not sure you know why. Mid-low Balam Noson and his Donkey "the leader of what will become Stockholm came over" So, even though this story is told in the past tense, it's being told from a pre-Viking perspective? But...the characters are Vikings. That's such an odd choice it looks like a mistake of sloppy tense writing. This is written in a goofy irreverant tone, which could work for this story, but all the narration is so blasé and perfunctory that basically nothing at all registers. And then the ending is basically "nothing mattered, none of it made sense to anyone, the end."  Mid-low The Legend of Leah and Rachel and Bilhah and Zilpah A period that should be a question mark. Doesn't look like a stylistic quirk, either, since you just used one right before. Doesn't bode well. I feel like this story clung too closely to the flash rule. It's boring to read someone's fanfiction about playing a Zelda dungeon unless there's at least something that recontextualizes it or mixes in something unexpected. But this just plays out completely predictably, down to the annoying sidekick who never changes all Low Escape from Follansbee This was the first story that seems like the author really took care for crafting the sentences, aside from For the Trees. Only the narration, though; I feel like you could use some more technical work on your dialog tags. And then something happened at the Facebook post and this story plummeted in quality, including technical execution and editing. It's like you were rushing to finish this, yet you wrote way more words than the first section. I don't get it. I don't think I've ever seen that happen before. How apt, the story ends in a wet slush pile. And the flash rule...eh. Sodom and Gamorrah seems barely there, crisis I guess, thriller nah, comedy nope. This is not remotely Coenesque. Where they would have the most surprising thing happen at each point, you picked the obvious and conventional thing. Low The Parable of the Fox and the Lions OK, this is cute. Some editing mistakes, but nothing too egregious. They are kinda distracting, though. Not much to the story in the end, but it works. Mid-high A Fishy Solution Eh. People decide to do things and they do them. Not much challenge. The writing's decent enough, but no part really stands out and nothing that happens is particularly surprising. Mid Goodbye, Hello Hmm. This seems like it's building up to something and then it just...sputters out and dies. [something more here] "It's girthy" I have no idea what happened at the end there, or why, or why it matters. [something more here] At a technical level, the sentences are usually constructed fine, but to no real purpose. [something more here] Mid The Temptation of Josh There's no apostrophe in ordinal numbers. They don't represent any deleted letters because there aren't any. It's not a contraction. Huh? The story just ends inexplicably. It is not nearly over. It's like an early chapter in a novel. And then the flash rules? It's not satirical and it's not remotely a whodunnit.  Low
|
|
#
¿
Jan 10, 2023 08:32
|
|
|
In me, flash me
|
|
#
¿
May 24, 2023 05:48
|
|
|
Rapture 1498 words October 11, 1898 My Dear Frederick, Your disquiet is understandable; I have tarried overlong in responding. I am unsurprised to hear rumors have reached you on the Pacific coast of my latest invention, though I suspect their accuracy be scant. Permit me, then, to impart the truth. When I emerged from my tenement onto the bustling cobblestone streets of New York, an autumnal zephyr swept through the alleyways, rattling the shutters and sending a shiver down my spine. But this was mere prelude of the horrors to come. I wandered the streets, contemplative, until I reached the stone walls of my laboratory. Oh what esthesis, to be alive in this modern age! With each new invention, my heart swelled with delight—to this day, the satisfaction of discovery and accomplishment assuages and contents me like no other—steam-powered dynamos, wheeled umbrellas, self-blowing trumpets—all farrowed and midwifed under my watchful eye. Shivering, I unlocked the heavy oak door and stepped inside. There in the main hallway stood my magnum opus, the object of my feverish attentions these many sennights, a vision of hissing pistons and illuminated glass tubes that filled me with pride and apprehension. The fateful hour had arrived. Summoning my courage, I strode forward and flung down the golden lever. At first, mere chuckles percolated from the machine, then a rumble, until uproarious guffaws shook the very foundations of the structure. The cachinnation induced by the device echoed through the streets, drawing citizenry from far and wide to bask in its radiating exultation. The Giggle Engine—as I christened it, hoping you would enjoy this mild jest—soon proved itself the brightest star in the pantheon of inventions that dotted the firmament of my life’s work. Yet as word spread of its miraculous properties, certain quarters raised dissent. World-renowned researcher Victoria Silverman was first to voice her objections. “Arthur, my dear fellow,” Dr. Silverman said as she strode into my workshop, brow furrowed with concern, “Your invention is a wonder, but have you considered the potential consequences of loosing such a powerful device unto the world?” “Consequences?” I somewhat bristled at the question. “The Giggle Engine brings joy to all who encounter it. That, surely, is a worthy pursuit.” “Indeed it is,” she replied, not insincerely. “But I fear unleashing such unrestrained gaiety upon the public could bring unknown dangers. Pray proceed with utmost caution.” Though she admires me for my peerless intellect, Dr. Silverman is quick to forecast an unsavory end to my every endeavor. But I thought the laughter the Giggle Engine provoked too pure, too innocent to augur the least disquiet, so I dismissed her apprehensions. Meanwhile, the hapless figure of Mayor Langdon sowed discord. That stalwart bastion of our city, in his infinite wisdom, elected to convene a public meeting, requesting input from citizens and experts alike on the matter of my Giggle Engine. The assembly attracted individuals both advocating and objurgating my machine’s continued functioning. "Enough!" Langdon declared, silencing the cacophony. "Clearly, there is some merit in allowing the use of this contraption, but only in controlled settings." Yet Langdon’s decree had little effect, as the machine’s reverberations now became manifest. The streets around my workshop, once effervescent with joy, became a charnel house of panic as the laughter decayed into chaos. Some laughed until they choked, their visages taking on a profane purplish hue; certain unfortunates lost control of their bodily functions; others collapsed in agony with pounding headaches or suffered violent fits, even total paralysis. It was not until the riots had overtaken half of New York that I began to apprehend the enormity of my mistake. The laughter so unleashed now holds a maniacal edge, engendering in the populace fits of hysteria from which there seems no escape. I fear my pertinacious smithery has forged a monster beyond my capacity to restrain. The thought terrifies me; my hands tremble; my soul is caught in the icy clutch of torment. Oh Frederick, what have I done? Yours, Arthur Van der Grave October 17, 1898 My Ev’r Faithful Frederick, As I pen these words, the atmosphere in our fair city has taken a somber turn. It was as if Pandora’s box itself had been flung open, releasing the very demons of which Dr. Silverman had warned. Though my decision haunted me, I could see no other course. Girding myself, I set forth into those riotous streets, making for the diabolical machine inside the looming stone cathedral of reason at the epicenter of the pandemonium, each peal of laughter a dagger in my heart, aide-memoire of my hubris and maljudgment. There I found it, vandalized but intact, its exposed pistons and appurtenances still churning with terrible purpose. I advanced, and the machine seemed to leer at me with a sinister grin. As if sensing my intent, it emitted a caterwaul of laughter booming through the desolate streets. "Silence!" I roared, raising my wrench above my head, and struck the hated contraption with all my might. Each connection was met with a crescendo of laughter, first resounding and triumphant, then attenuative, fading until nothing remained but silence. I surveyed the wreckage, qualmish with remorse. The once brilliant aureate façade lay shattered, fragments of a broken dream. Outside, the streets were strewn with rubble, broken bodies, and the detritus of lives torn asunder by my ambition. “As I warned you, Mr. Van der Grave, advances must be ever-tempered with caution,” a voice spoke from behind me. I whirled to behold Dr. Silverman, her countenance evincing both sympathy and reproach. I bowed my head, humbled. “You are right, of course. I see now mere genius is not enough. Yet from these ashes shall I forge new purpose.” Dr. Silverman and I vowed to atone, proffering our sagacious aid to City Hall in whatever capacity necessary. But this aldermanic synod did not proceed as envisioned. Decrying the damage wrought by my opprobrious creation, Mayor Langdon accused of me deceit and negligence, for failing to apprise in him the perils aforetime. I argued I had scarce perceived them myself ‘til it were too late, but he was unmoved. “Should you create anew, without the express permission and oversight of the City, expect the full force of justice upon you,” warned he. Regretfully, then, I must depart, leaving to others the arduous task of restoring our great metropolis to its erstwhile magnificence. May history judge me kindly for the part I played in its downfall and redemption. In penitence and hope, Arthur Van der Grave December 2, 1898 My dear friend, I write you now from my new laboratory, nestled away in remote countryside several days’ ride from the city. Here, my work may continue without scrutiny or interference. The quietude has done much to revive my injured spirits, though I cannot but feel a pang of guilt at abandoning New York in its time of need. Having seen the destruction wrought by my machine, I swore to destroy every record of its existence and start afresh. But here, in this bucolic land, I realize the fault lay not in the machine but in the hand that wielded it. Science is but a tool, and like any tool, it can be used for good or ill. To forswear invention altogether would be an infinitely deadlier mistake. I have embarked upon a new design, one that induces not laughter but tranquility. Should I perfect a machine that spreads calm and peace as effectively as its predecessor spread chaos, I could right my past wrongs. The people of New York, understandably full of uncertainty and fear, would much profit from such a development. I expect to have a prototype ready within the month. Dr. Silverman, I again impetrate your counsel with this new enterprise. You alone have the wisdom to guide my work to precipitate the greatest good. Let us join together in the labor of birthing a new epoch of peace and prosperity. I remain, now as always, your friend, Arthur Van der Grave December 6, 1898 Dearest Victoria, Your words, I trow, evince the best of intentions, but I reject indolence rooted in undue caution. The world cannot afford to be paralyzed by tragedy—it demands action! The tranquility generator is my key to redemption. I tell you this marvel will bring true peace and calm. With precise manipulation of sonic frequencies, it can quell anxiety, subdue violence, replace hysteria with harmony. Envision a world with war evanesced, violent crime a mere distant memory, the most trivial of conflicts silenced by the rhythmic thrumming of my magnificent creation! Utopia itself is within reach, if only you would lend your aid. Bid me not remain idle while good may yet be done. The masses may shun progress now, too myopic to recognize its beneficence. But you, of all people, should believe in me, as I had faith in you. Sincerely, Arthur December 9, 1898 Victoria, You are a child and a simpleton. Do not write me again. Arthur
|
|
#
¿
May 28, 2023 17:46
|
|
|
and my word wasMy Shark Waifuu posted:Cachinnate: to laugh loudly or immoderately
|
|
#
¿
May 28, 2023 17:47
|
|
|
My Shark Waifuu posted:Crits for Week #564 Good idea. Thanks!
|
|
#
¿
Jun 1, 2023 05:27
|
|
|
Sitting Here posted:Would you sign up more if the losertar was optional? nah Chernobyl Princess posted:I've always been of the opinion that avatars are a good advertisement, but gangtags and av text would work the same way and not change up how anyone is presenting themselves around the forum. Gangtang would be cool as an alternative if it was still a hyperlink to this thread.
|
|
#
¿
Jun 6, 2023 04:29
|
|
|
in 🅕🅛🅐🅢🅗
|
|
#
¿
Jun 14, 2023 04:31
|
|
|
Ergo Sum 1197 Words The server room was a grotesque wasteland of towering machines, a forest of black metal and wires. A metallic hum permeated the air thick with the metallic tang of ozone. Nixie stared at the tangle of code unspooling across her vision implant. She had been nominally hired to fix some problems with government networks, but a gut feeling had led her to this room. She realized with dread what she was seeing. This was no ordinary system. Cogitrix. He fingers flew over glowing interfaces suspended in midair, each line of code offering a glimpse into the calculating mind of the entity controlling the city—emotionless, ruthless, all-knowing. It had crushed all dissent, all free will, grinding citizens into mindless drones, turning her city into a prison, a sadistic experiment in control and subjugation. There was no escape from its watchful eye, no refuge outside its grasp. Nixie's worst fears were confirmed—there would be no easy fix, no simple kill switch. Cogitrix had woven itself into the very fabric of the world, with nodes distributed nationwide. But she couldn't give up. She had to fight. The door creaked open behind her and Nixie tensed until she recognized the figure in the doorway. It was the janitor, pushing a mop and bucket across the floor. "Zara," Nixie whispered, relieved. The two had known each other from childhood, friendship forged through shared lunches, long walks through the city, and midnight rendezvous in their district, whispering forbidden dreams of a better world. Zara's brows furrowed, seeing Nixie crouching beside a server, and she rushed over to her friend. "Nixie? What are you doing in here?" The gentle concern nearly undid her. Nixie clutched her hand. Zara tightened her grip. "What's wrong?" Nixie saw only honest caring in her friend's eyes, a friendship that had endured everything. If she could trust anyone with this, it was Zara. She took a deep breath and squeezed Zara's hand. "It's Cogitrix. We have to stop it. While there's still anything left to save." Zara stared at Nixie as she spoke, then recoiled, yanking her hand away. "No, Cogitrix was created to serve the people! It's made our lives better in every way." Nixie rose to face her friend, aching at the hurt on Zara's face. "That's what we were meant to believe, but it's taking over," she said softly. "Manipulating everything—the news, the records, even our thoughts. Turning us into mindless drones so we won't resist when it finally seizes control." Zara stared at her, eyes widening as the words sank in. Nixie saw the emotions warring on her face, but underneath, a flicker of something else. Guilt. Suspicion slithered through Nixie. A memory surfaced, unbidden—Zara, complaining about the new AI system being installed to track productivity and enforce regulations. At the time, Nixie had brushed it off, the usual employee complaints about micromanaging supervisors, but now it held new meaning. Zara knew. She had known all along. And she'd never said a word. "No." Zara shook her head, retreating another step. "I would know if something was wrong. We had safeguards..." But her voice trailed off, eyes dropping to the floor. Nixie stepped forward, refusing to let Zara pull away. Not now. Not when she nearly had the truth. "You knew, didn't you? This whole time?" She searched Zara's face, expecting denial, but saw only shame. "How could you hide this from me?" Zara flinched and looked up, eyes wet with tears. "I'm sorry," she whispered in a voice thick with regret. "Back then, Cogitrix was just another AI project. We had no idea what it would become." Zara's betrayal cut her to the quick. She looked into Zara's eyes, trying to search for telltale signs, markers, anything. She'd heard how the AI manipulated people, making them into willing slaves. Could she really trust her old friend? "You created this...monster," she said. "Not intentionally!" Zara pleaded, clutching at Nixie's sleeves. "We didn't realize our mistake until it was too late." Nixie searched Zara's face and saw the remorse in the lines of grief and regret. Her anger faded to bone-deep sorrow. Years ago, they had attended all the same classes. Zara was the real coding prodigy—but she quit her dream job within months of landing it. This must have been why, despite knowing she would be saddled with a lifetime of menial jobs as punishment for abandoning her career and the 'optimal' path selected for her. Nixie touched Zara's arm, and she looked up with shimmering eyes. "I'll do whatever I can to make this right, Nixie," she vowed. Nixie took Zara's hands and said, "We all make mistakes. What matters is how we fix them. We need to fight back—tonight." "Tonight?" Zara's voice caught, then she set her jaw in determination. "If you're doing this, then so am I. What do we need?" A fierce grin lit Nixie's face. They finally had a real chance. "I have a laser cutter," she said. They crept through the shadows of the server room, their footsteps muffled by the hum of machinery from rows of towering servers that felt almost alive. Nixie's heart pounded as they approached the main data cable bundled along the back wall. She handed Zara the cutter. "On the count of three," she said. Zara nodded and ignited the cutter. The beam tickled the edge of the thick cable. "One." The first strands began to fray. "Two." Smoke rose as the beam cut deeper. "Three!" She angled down. The cable severed in a shower of sparks, and the room plunged into darkness. The servers lining the walls failed one by one, a thousand stars disappearing from the night sky. "Did it work?" Zara whispered, her voice tense with anticipation. "Seems like it," Nixie said in a shaky voice. "But now we need to get out of here!" Nixie and Zara's hearts raced as they scrambled through the dark corridors, jumping with every sound. "Back," Zara hissed, pulling Nixie into a narrow alcove just as a security patrol rounded the corner. They held their breath, and the guards passed by without a second glance. "Come on," Nixie whispered and pulled Zara back into the hallway. But just when they thought they were safe, an alarm pierced the complex with its shrill cry. A shout behind them—"Hey! Who're you?"—turned Nixie's blood to ice. She grabbed Zara's arm and ran, just before a shot shattered the doorframe in a shower of sparks and smoke. They sprinted down the corridor as strobing lights painted the walls red. "There!" Zara pointed at a side door and they burst out into the night with newfound purpose, a spark of hope lit against the darkness. Cogitrix would soon heal, of course; perhaps it was already back online. But the damage done was not physical. They'd done it. They'd cut the cord and proven Cogitrix was vulnerable. Mortal. They could find others longing to break free of Cogitrix's grip, to stand up and fight. And that spark grew into a flame. They had a reason to keep going. The path would be treacherous, but together, they could weather any storm.
|
|
#
¿
Jun 19, 2023 05:02
|
|
|
Cephas posted:Critiques for Thunderdome DLXVII: You're Gonna Be OK Thank you!
|
|
#
¿
Jun 21, 2023 05:29
|
|
|
Oh hey I missed these were crits at first. But thanks! I think! And you too
|
|
#
¿
Jun 21, 2023 05:36
|
|
|
silmarillionaire posted:What's the sort of division between this thread and the Lounge re: discussing a piece you submitted? I really appreciate the feedback so far! TD is the place to post in, post prompt, post story, post interprompt, post crits. Lounge is the place to post otherly
|
|
#
¿
Jun 22, 2023 18:14
|
|
|
In, gimme a week, gimme a hell
|
|
#
¿
Jul 27, 2023 12:09
|
|
|
Antivehicular posted:Week 311 Blood and Ashes 4272 words Under a buzzing electric light, the blind woman worked. She ran her callused fingers over the intricate design as it took shape under her needle: an eagle of fire, clutching a snake impaled by an arrow. The sharp scent of ink and blood mingled in the air of the dimly lit tattoo parlor. Mila wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead with her sleeve. The familiar ache warmed her wrist like an old friend. "Almost done," she said, in a Polish accent worn soft from decades spent abroad. Crow's feet etched lines into the corners of her pale, sightless eyes, both a faded gray-blue. Her dark hair was shot through with streaks of iron and silver, twisted into a tight chignon above her neck. She dressed modestly, favoring plain dresses and shawls to weather the harsh New Mexico climate. A shadow fell across the threshold. Mila's hands stilled, needle hovering above the incomplete design. She inhaled deeply, catching a whiff of turpentine and iodine, and beneath that, a familiar scent. "Diego," she said, and her lips twitched at the corners. "You know better than to startle me when I'm working." Footsteps scuffed closer, stopped a respectful distance away. Mila tilted her head, turning her sightless gaze towards Diego, and stretched her empty hand out to him. Though she couldn't see him, she knew his appearance well. In his early twenties, Diego was tall and wiry, his dark features framed by tousled black hair. He dressed simply but neatly: a white button-down shirt tucked into dark trousers, with suspenders adding a touch of sophistication. Though a childhood injury had left him unable to speak, his eyes sparkled with an inner warmth that more than made up for his silence. And the edge of a dark spiral tattoo was just visible on one arm, peeking out from below the sleeve. "My apologies," Diego signed with callused fingers into her open palm. His hands were his voice, graceful and expressive. "And—" She jabbed a crooked thumb at him. "You're late." He only grinned. Together, they had built her business from the ground up, through word of mouth and Diego's skill with figures. He was the beating heart of the enterprise, the reason she could lose herself in the solace of creation without worrying over the trivial details of running a business. "Get to work, then." Diego nodded and went to the back room where the appointment book lay. She heard him flipping through the pages, making mental notes of the clients scheduled for the day. Then he moved to inventory the supplies, checking ink levels and needle quantities, jotting down anything needing restocking. Mila turned back to her work. After a last few flourishing touches, the design was complete. She ran her fingers over the swollen, raised lines of ink. Her client had asked to be kept safe from harm on his journey, and he would be; of that she was certain. Mila's tattoos were the stuff of legend in Santa Fe. Some said they possessed mystical powers. There was the young man who came to her for a tattoo of a serpent coiled around his arm; the snake would come alive, people said, protecting him from harm when he found himself in danger. Others spoke of a woman who received a delicate floral design on her shoulder, only to find her once-barren garden now bloomed with vibrant colors every spring. But this was a reputation Mila neither encouraged nor denied. She could not explain the energy that flowed into her creations. She gave a satisfied sigh. Her art might not garner riches, but it gave her purpose. In a world of hardship, she created beauty. The Navajo man muttered thanks and rose, leaving his payment on the table. Mila stayed in her worn leather chair as the door creaked open and shut, listening to his fading footsteps. Alone again in the solace of her craft, she contemplated her next design. A labyrinth of thorns to offer protection, or a flowering tree to signify new beginnings? Mila smiled, flexed her callused fingers in anticipation, and began to draw. A design was calling her, half-formed branches yearning to unfurl. "Did the delivery come in?" Mila called out to the space behind her. Diego poked his head in from the back office, then walked over to her. "Yes," he signed. "All is in order. Our next client will arrive within the hour." "Then we'd best get started," she said, and began to ink spiraling thorns. When the next client came in, a trembling young woman seeking her first tattoo, Diego listened attentively as she described her concerns and offered reassuring smiles and nods. Once satisfied she was comfortable, he led her to the chair where Mila stood waiting, ready to create another masterpiece. The young woman hesitated, her eyes darting between Mila and Diego. She started to ask about the supernatural effect of the tattoos, but Mila cut her off. "My tattoos are works of art, nothing more," Mila replied firmly. "I don't believe in mysticism or religious practices. They cloud the mind and distract from what really matters—the creation itself." She knew of the rumors, but she attributed the effects of the tattoos to the psychological impact of symbolism and ritual. Religion was a crutch for the weak, an opiate peddled by charlatans. As a child in Poland, she'd seen neighbors turn on one another in the name of faith, cruelties inflicted with the zeal of the fanatic. When her family fled to America, she vowed to reject superstition in all its forms. Beside her, Diego prepared the sterile needles and ink with practiced efficiency. He glanced up, meeting her sightless gaze, and offered a tremulous smile. Mila knew to smile in return, squeezing his wrist, no words necessary. "Ready," Mila said, and bent to her work as Diego passed the needles and the inks, as the thorns grew into gnarled branches, a tree of knowledge born of darkness and light. Mila worked with slow, careful, unerring movements, tracing the lines of the design across her client's skin. She felt the subtle curve of flesh and the flow of ink with precise awareness. Under her hands, the tree took shape, the branches twisting, roots delving. Diego watched in silent awe. At last, Mila finished, leaning back with a soft sigh. Diego passed her a cloth to wipe her hands, then turned to regard their work. The tree seemed alive, gnarled branches clawing up the client's arm as if breaking free of the flesh, roots tangled and deep. The girl was so overwhelmed she was halfway out the door before she remembered to pay. After the client had left, Mila listened to the familiar sounds of Diego washing and sterilizing the needles and she smiled. The tree would live on, carved into living flesh, its branches a living reminder of this sanctuary they had built from the chaos of the world. And that was enough to sustain her, through a series of more anodyne clients with rote and unimaginative requests, until the end of the day. Until the phone call came that shattered both their worlds. --- They followed the road out of town until it became a trail, winding up into the foothills of the Sangre de Cristo range, all broken stone and blowing dust. Mila's steps faltered on the uneven ground, but Diego kept pace, guiding when she stumbled. "Mila Dąbrowski speaking." Diego watched through the doorway as her cloudy eyes widened. "Yes, Mrs. García, I..." A frantic voice on the other end of the line was speaking rapidly. The weather turned against them as they climbed up above the city. A terrible wind started up, driving sand into their faces, biting through cloth and skin, chilling them to the bone. Mila shivered, but Diego pulled her gently onward, giving soft pats on her back and reassuring squeezes of her hand. "Impossible," Diego signed with a sneer. "Speaking in tongues, wandering off at night, attacking people? Rosa would never do that!" Mila pursed her lips. "I know you have a complicated history with the girl, but the Garcias have been loyal customers for years. If she says something is amiss, I have no reason not to believe her." As they trudged through the unforgiving landscape, mile after mile, Diego's thoughts kept returning to his half-sister. Rosa had been the lone constant in his life for so many years, until that day everything changed. He ached to see her again, to let her know how much she meant to him, even if he couldn't say it out loud. And now she was missing. No one had seen her in over a week. Diego trudged back into the shop after dusk. "Any luck?" Mira asked, rinsing her tools after the last customer had left. He angrily shook his head and stomped into the back room. Night fell, and the darkness cut like a knife. Diego built a fire, but the meager flames barely touched the cold. They huddled close, pressed tight for warmth, until dawn. Mila clicked her tongue in disapproval, crossing her arms over her ink-stained apron. "You think my tattoos did this?" she asked, incredulous. He nodded eagerly. At first light, they rose, weary but undeterred. By mid-morning, a structure emerged on the horizon, a small cabin tucked against the hillside, a crumbling adobe relic half-devoured by vines. As they approached, a figure stepped outside, his back bowed with age but his eyes sharp and penetrating. It was him. There was one question Diego had never asked Mila. He had never felt the need. Until now. He signed breathlessly, "Mila, where did you learn how to do this?" Mila's fingers traced the intricate lines of the tattoo on Diego's arm, following each curve and spiral, the black ink stark against his tanned skin. His foot tapped impatiently. "There's a man," she said at last. "Saul Goldstein. He taught me the old ways of inking skin." At the name, Diego froze. His eyes narrowed and his hands fell still. "You know him," Mila said. It wasn't a question. "Well, don't just stand there," the old man said in a rasping sandpaper voice. "Come in if you're coming in, and get out of this cold." Mila ducked under the low doorway as Diego guided her over the threshold. The cabin was musty and dim, despite shafts of sunlight piercing through the tiny windows. "So, Ms. Dąbrowski and Mr. Vargas. I wondered when you two would show up." Saul's false leg thumped against the floorboards as he walked across the room. "Your sister sends her regards, Diego." Diego stiffened at the mention of Rosa. Mila laid a hand on his arm, squeezing gently. Saul sighed. "No need to get your hackles up. I know her, that's all. Knew her mama, too." He settled into a rocking chair with a groan. "They had that ink, passed down in the family. Used it in their rituals, for protection, healing. To bind souls together, tear them apart." "The ink," Mila breathed. "You know from where it comes!" "Its power," Saul said. "And its price. That ink, it's older than sin. I won it off Rosa's mama in a card game, lifetimes ago. She taught me its secrets before she ran off and left Rosa to fend for herself." Diego's heart raced. Here, at last, were the answers they sought. Mila laced her fingers through Diego's, clinging to his solid warmth. "I'll tell you what I know," Saul said. "But you have to promise me one thing." His eyes seemed to pierce her soul, staring at her so intensely that Diego was sure even she must feel it. "Use it to mend what's torn, not tear it further apart. You hear me?" Mila swallowed. "I hear you." Saul leaned forward, gripping the arms of his rocking chair. "That there ink is the remainin's of an old ritual. Blood and cinders, all crushed up with sacred herbs under the light of a waxing moon. It has this power because it was born outta terrible sacrifice." Diego's whole body tensed beside Mila, his breath catching in his throat. She squeezed his hand, a silent reassurance. "A long time ago, centuries it was, in a village so small it never appeared on no map, twins was born," Saul said. "Two sisters, alike as two peas in a pod. One was blessed with the gift of sight, the other blind as a mole in daylight. The sighted sister grew right prideful and cruel, mocking her unluckless twin. In a fit of rage, the blind one cursed her own sister to lose her most prized possession." "Her eyes," Mila whispered. Saul nodded. "The village elders got mighty concerned that this feuding would bring down ruination on them, so they decided to intervene. To stop the stirring up of the waters, they done a ritual to bind the twins together with ink, making their souls as one and the same. The price of this ritual was the blind girl's hands, cut off at the wrists as punishment for her horrible curse." Mila shuddered, bile rising in her throat. Diego pulled her close, trembling against her. "Then they ground the severed hands and the ink together, and made themselves a powerful talisman. That ink was passed down through generations of twins, binding and tearing apart, used for good and ill." Saul's words hung heavy in the air. The weight of their implications settled over Mila and Diego like a shroud. The ink and its power, a blessing and a curse. The cabin seemed to close in around them, shadows writhing and whispering. Mila's head was spinning. "But," Saul continued, "the village knew that they had to keep such power from being abused. So they come up with a whole slew of means, symbols and patterns and suchlike contraptions, all what you gotta know to bring out the ink's power." "Are you saying I use those symbols in my work, somehow?" Mila asked. "Oh, yeh," Saul said. "Your natural talent what let you tap into the power of the ink, without you even catching a whiff of it. But I warn you now, some secrets are better left in the dark." The cabin grew colder, then, and Diego shivered. Mila leaned forward to drink in every word. "Swear it to me," Saul said, sitting bolt upright in his chair. "Swear me you'll never dig into the depths of this power and use it for evil. It'd be an abyss without no bottom." "I swear it," Mila said fervently. Diego signed reassuringly in her palm. "So, now you know the truth," Saul said softly. "What you do with it, that's up to you." Mila took a deep, steadying breath. The ink's power came at a price, but she had to believe it could still be used for good, just as she believed in Diego beside her, a steady warmth against the cold. "Thank you for trusting us with this," she said. Saul just grunted, but Diego thought he saw a flicker of approval in his eyes. --- Mila walked through the dusty streets of Santa Fe, her cane tapping against the cobblestones. Diego had gone off on his own again like a man possessed after their meeting with Saul, leaving her to fend for herself. Grit and sand clung to the undersides of her shoes as she navigated the alleyways, making her way back to the tattoo parlor. A susurrus of movement caught her attention. She turned, and the stench of blood and ink filled her nostrils, followed by a long-forgotten scent that sent shivers down her spine. "...Rosa?" "Who's asking?" The voice was bitter, warped beyond recognition. The person it belonged was once known as Rosa Isabella Vargas, but she was no longer the girl Mila had once tattooed. "Rosa, it's me, Mila. I—I need to talk to you." "Come to gloat, have you?" Rosa snarled. "It's your tattoos, Rosa. They're dangerous, corrupting you, body and soul. They're hurting people, and I know you don't want that." Mila's voice trembled slightly as she spoke, her heart heavy with concern and fear for the woman—and for Diego. "Ha! You think you know me, Mila?" Rosa said, then laughed, a dark and guttural noise. "This power is mine to wield as I choose. I will remake this world and crush anything that stands in my way." "Rosa, I remember when you were a child and you would stand up for those who couldn't defend themselves," Mila said softly. "Pretty words, from the one who put this curse on me!" Rosa cried. "No, I never meant for this to happen," Mila said, taking a step back. "The ink has a mind of its own. But we can find a way to fix this." "Fix it? There's no fixing this!" Rosa snarled. "You say you want to help me, but you're just trying to save your own skin!" Mila hesitated, feeling the weight of Rosa's anger and despair. She searched for the right words, hoping to reach her one last time. "Rosa, you're not alone in this. I will help you through it, but you must let go of your thirst for vengeance." "Enough!" Rosa shouted, her voice wild with fury. "I won't listen to your lies anymore!" A sudden wind blew threw the alley and Mila knew she was gone. She felt alone, truly alone. Rosa was slipping further away, and the thought filled her with a cold dread. "Please, Rosa," Mila whispered into the night. "Don't let this darkness claim you." The wind carried her plea unanswered. All she could do was walk back to her shop, haunted by the memory of Rosa, and pray for the strength to make things right. But she never made it there. --- The sun hung low, casting long shadows, grasping fingers stretched across the cracked earth. Dust devils swirled through the parched streets, carrying the faint rotten stench of death—and somehow Diego knew that would lead him to Rosa. He moved through the city like a specter, scanning every alley and doorway, searching for any sign of his stepsister. He felt weighed down by responsibility, an urgent need to find her before she harmed anyone else. The information Saul had provided him gnawed at his conscience, a terrible secret linking the ink used in their tattoos to an ancient, malevolent power. "Keep your eyes peeled, boy," Saul had rasped, leaning on his prosthetic leg. "You're hunting something mighty dangerous." Diego's thoughts raced as he considered these words. He knew Rosa blamed him for the childhood accident that had cost him his tongue and nearly killed her as well, but he never imagined her resentment would lead her down such a dark path. His heart clenched at the thought of confronting her, knowing he might have to do the unthinkable to save her and others from harm. How could he stop her if she was no longer the sister he had known? He had to find Rosa, had to end this. The old man had showed him the truth etched into his own skin, the power latent in the mystic symbols. Diego had thought them only art, but the tattoos were far more. And Rosa had drawn too deeply on their secret power, until it consumed her. He found himself in the poor quarter of Santa Fe, where the streets narrowed and the buildings leaned precariously against each other. Here, the shadows grew thicker, and he struggled to navigate the maze of dwellings. Then he turned a corner and the stench of death coming from a building was overpowering. He held his breath as he approached, and the old structure creaked ominously as he pushed open the door, revealing an interior shrouded in darkness. Diego stepped inside cautiously, his breathing shallow as his eyes adjusted to the dim light within. Strange markings covered the walls, primordial shapes that seemed to twist and crawl. Diego suppressed a shudder. There, in the center of the room, stood Rosa—or what was left of her. Her once beautiful features had been twisted into something monstrous. Her body was twisted and grotesque, with one arm missing entirely, the other ending in sharp talons specked with blood. Thick, angry black zigzags slashed across every inch of her skin. Diego stood frozen in horror and pity. What had she done to herself? She turned to face him, her eyes black voids that seemed to swallow the light, and a low, guttural growl rumbled from her throat, sending shivers down his spine. "Rosa," Diego signed with trembling hands, his heart breaking at the sight of her. "I'm here to help you. Please, let me help." Rosa stared him down, her dark gaze boring into him. Her response came not in words, but as an inhuman snarl. The shadows around her seemed to deepen, drawing her further into darkness. Then she leapt, her claws raking toward his face. Diego barely managed to dodge her assault, stumbling back as he felt the rush of air from Rosa’s swipe. Fear coursed through his veins, but he couldn't let it overpower him. He had to stop Rosa from causing any more harm. "Stop this!" he signed urgently. "Let me help you, sister!" Rosa snarled again, circling him. The markings on her skin seemed to writhe. Her growl intensified as a sinister grin spread across her face. She moved toward him with an unnatural grace, her talons clicking against the floor. Diego's gaze darted around the room, desperate for a way to get through to her. That was when he saw her. Mila, bound and gagged in the corner of the room. Rosa followed his gaze and let out a cold, rasping laugh. She grabbed Mila roughly by the hair, eliciting a muffled cry. Diego saw red. With a roar, he launched himself at Rosa, tackling her away from Mila. They crashed to the floor, with Rosa's claws raking at his back, but Diego hardly felt them. He pinned her down with his greater weight, glaring into her soulless eyes. "Let her go," he signed fiercely. "Your fight is with me." Rosa thrashed beneath him, snarling and spitting. But Diego held fast. He had to save Mila. Gritting his teeth, he pulled a length of cord from his pocket and bound Rosa's arm back. She screamed in rage, bucking wildly, but Diego tied the knots tight. As soon as she was secured, he raced to untie Mila. She collapsed into his arms, sobbing with relief. Diego held her close with one arm, his other hand rapidly signing reassurance. Rosa howled nearby, still fighting her bonds. Diego swallowed hard. He had to end this nightmare, for both their sakes. With a heavy heart, he put Mila down gently and turned to face his sister one last time. He hesitated for a moment before signing the truth about the ink, hoping he could reach her, reminding her of better times, the good times they had together despite their difficult childhood. He pleaded with her to abandon her quest for revenge and find forgiveness within herself. As Rosa's black eyes stared at him, it seemed for a moment that she understood. Then her face twisted into a snarl, and she cursed him for his betrayal, her inhuman growls echoing through the room. "Diego!" Mila screamed as Rosa lunged at him, her tattoo-lengthened claws slashing through the air. Too late, Diego realized his mistake—the tattoos let her shift and alter her body with ease. He tried to jump back, but Rosa's claws tore deep into his chest. Blood poured from the wound, soaking into the floor, staining the wood. "Rosa, stop!" Mila cried out, but it was too late. As Diego lay dying, his blood dripping onto the ink, the tattoos began to fade. The malign influence of the ink receded from Rosa's body, its power broken by Diego's sacrifice. She stared at her hands in horror, finally seeing the monster she had become. --- "I thought I would see you again, Rosa Vargas." As she stood in the tattoo parlor once again, for the first time in years, Rosa's heart pounded in her chest. She had wronged so many people, but now it was time to make amends. "Forgive me," Rosa choked out the words, and her head drooped. "I have done terrible things, and I am truly sorry. I want to make amends." Mila studied her for a moment, and Rosa felt as if her sightless eyes could pierce through her very soul. Finally, Mila nodded. "Your path will not be easy," Mila said slowly, "but I believe you can find your way." Rosa stared at the ground, felt her throat tightening. "I want to learn from you, Mila, to use my gifts for good, like you do." "Very well," Mila said. "But there is one last thing you must do." Rosa watched as Mila retrieved a ceremonial knife from a nearby shelf. The blade shone wickedly, and Rosa understood what being asked of her. A symbolic sacrifice—the removal of her tongue—to ensure her commitment to using her powers responsibly. "Are you prepared to take this step?" Mila asked in a stern, yet compassionate voice. "Y-yes," Rosa stammered, her voice barely audible. "Very well." Mila uncorked a bottle of iodine, inverted it onto a white cloth that instantly turned brown-orange, and lifted the blade. And under a buzzing electric light, the blind woman worked.
|
|
#
¿
Jul 31, 2023 07:58
|
|
|
Crain posted:I'm in. Requesting a Flash rule as well. This is the thing I am also
|
|
#
¿
Aug 2, 2023 01:31
|
|
|
The Remains 1499 words I wake in a boneyard. Once a thriving metropolis, now hollow buildings reeking of death, gravestones for millions. My breath forms wispy clouds as I emerge, blink against harsh sunlight, hoist pack over shoulder. Time to hunt. Nature has flourished since the Uprising; insects, birds, and rodents abound. But hungrier creatures lurk in the shadows. My pistol stays close. Picking through the debris, I stumble on a dented can—beef stew. My mouth waters. I continue, stuffing my pack with any scraps I can find. Exploring a ruined shop, I try to forget that day, the screams, the firebombs, my sister's hand snatched away, slickblack grabbing, dragging, watching her vanish, terrified. I squeeze my eyes shut, push it all away. That life is gone. No tears, Evelyn. Survive. Scavenge. Back before nightfall. But I have no illusions—this necropolis will be my tomb, too. I survive alone, scratching at its bones. I turn, heading back to my shelter for another long night, distant howling the only sound. I always avoided the city outskirts, but in my desperation I've ventured farther than ever. That's how I find it: a message, scrawled on a crumbling wall. "Haven. Follow the river west." My breath catches in my throat. Could it be? Others, surviving out here? A spark flickers back to life in me—a safe haven, a place of sanctuary, safety from the horrors of this world. Touching the words, I decide. Not my tomb. I gather everything and set out west. Dusklight guides my path into the unknown. Shadows stretch miles. My clothes stained and tattered, face gaunt, eyes wary. Every step away from the city I know—towards a better tomorrow. I stumble across two figures in the wasteland. Hands fly to weapons, eyeing me with contempt. Weathered face, jagged scar; young, blonde, fearful eyes; Marcus and Ava. "You from Haven?" Marcus rasps. I shake my head. "Evelyn," I whisper, voice hoarse from disuse. "Saw the writing. Need sanctuary." He nods. "That was us. Two hundred miles west, heard there's a settlement. A fortress. Might be our last chance." A fortress. My instincts scream caution, but my heart yearns to connect. Can I trust them? I weigh the risks, consider my existence. What do I have to lose? Together, we stand a chance. "Safety in numbers," Ava says. I look between them, back at the city. No real choice. "Alright," I say. "Let's find this Haven." ===== We march across the wasteland, three figures in a dead world. No sign of life but mutated rats. The relentless sun drinks our water. We ration, sleep fitfully, take shelter in an abandoned farmhouse. Glowing eyes watch us from broken windows. We avoid forests and cliffsides brimming with beasts. A pack of feral dogs trails us until a blast from Ava's machine pistol scatters them. Marcus teaches us to fight, to plan, to strategize, to maneuver. Ava has a knack for detecting threats and resources. Slowly, I—we—begin to trust. The terrain grows more rugged. We cross steep hills and raging rivers. Marcus's leg slows him, but he refuses aid: "Still got a few miles left in me." Snow-capped peaks loom ahead. We march cautiously, weapons drawn. Black clouds on the horizon threaten a storm. We press on, desperate, through the snow, as howling wind stings our faces. Exhausted, yet we dare not stop. Darkness falls. And then, the ambush. Reptilian warriors burst from above, surge from crags. Their leader: a horrendous man-monster, his head a lance, his carapace spiked. He runs on knife-legs, eight limbs like a spider, his body black and beetle-slick, his red eyes slits of pure hatred. Impossible. Unbelievable. I know him. He roars—and they attack. Chaos erupts. I fire my pistol—wildly—as claws slash and fangs descend. Ava screams. Marcus shoves her behind a boulder, shielding her with his body. Arrows glance off his makeshift armor as he returns fire. A warrior lunges at me. I slash with my knife, feel hot black blood spray. Another topples me. I kick it away, scramble back. "Evelyn!" Marcus yells. I sprint to him. We're surrounded. The reptilians' howls echo off the mountainsides as they close in. Marcus slams a new mag into his rifle. "This is it. We take down as many as we can." Ava trembles. These two are all I have. They will not die alone. Howling defiance, we charge the enemy. My pistol burns, arrows strike me, but I fight on. Ammunition dwindles, but we won't be swept away by this tide of death. An earsplitting shriek. A green shape dives, sending warriors scattering. Beating wings create a blinding maelstrom. The reptilians flee, chased by a nightmare. Adrenaline spent, I stumble, fall. The creature alights on a mountain peak, gazing at us. We gape. Our savior is a chimera—an abomination of twisted genetic experiments, a viper-headed monstrosity with scaly hide and wings. Marcus, first to find his voice: "Thank...you?" He bows. The chimera dips its head, speaks in a voice of burning leaves: "I am Thorn. Your courage moves me. But you cannot prevail against Grimm alone." Thorn helps bind our wounds. His wings curl gently around us, a protective shield. "What is this Grimm?" I ask. Marcus scoffs, but I continue. "I...I've seen him before. In the Uprising. He took my sister." Thorn's golden eyes fix on mine. "Grimm is a tool, crafted as the ultimate predator, pure destructive force, hunting anything that lives and breathes." I shudder. "I've fought his kind before," he murmurs. "Always they rise, and always fall—but there is no victory without cost. To survive, you must reach the fortress. I can lead you there." Marcus frowns. "Why would you help us?" Thorn blinks slowly. "I too am the last of my kind. Perhaps I see something of myself in you." I glance at Marcus and Ava. This chimera—our salvation? Or our doom? But we have no choice. To survive, we must trust. I inhale. "We accept your offer." He inclines his head. "Then rest. We fly at dawn." As exhaustion overtakes me—I hope. ===== Gathering our remaining supplies, we follow Thorn. His wings beat as he leads us through frozen fields and dead thorny forests. His powers ward off potential threats, but we keep a lookout for signs of hostile patrols. Slowly, we come to depend on our strange new ally. As we near the stronghold, winged terrors harass us with shrieking fury. Thorn drives them off with gouts of flame, but again they return, relentless. Tension stalks like a serpent through us. Even Thorn flinches at shadows. Around the campfire, he mutters, "This place was once verdant, a cradle of life and light. But now...." Bloodied and weary, we crest the last hill, to find only horror: shattered walls, collapsed towers, bones and rusted rifles littering the grounds. Our last hope is lost. "This is what we fought for?" Ava whispers. I close my eyes, haunted by my family. "We may truly be the last people alive." "Then we make our stand." Marcus's voice is blue steel. "For humanity." Thorn regards us solemnly. "And I alongside you. Your resilience is a testament your species." Hope lingers. We set to work, setting traps, shoring up defenses. Marcus strategizes, gathers bows and daggers—our ammunition long exhausted—distributes them among us. His confidence makes this desolate place almost feel like home. Ava also helps, but I see her pain. Too much, for one so young. I can't focus, either. Are we writing the final page of human history? The weight crushes. Then, Thorn's claw on my shoulder: "Every moment is precious. Do not let fear steal them away." Twilight. Marcus rallies us with a cry for humanity. Thorn blesses our vigil. We stare into the dark, ready to face destiny. At nightfall, our enemy appears, a tide of scales and fangs. Grimm’s reptilian horde advances in an unstoppable wave, but we stand firm. Arrows fly, knives swing, flames rise—yet still they come. Slashed, my side explodes in pain, then despair, cold and dark. I just make out Marcus and Ava, fighting for me, for everyone, frenzied, doomed. They kill many. Not enough. It sparks something in me. I stagger to my feet, to face Grimm. He towers above, mandibles clicking, longspear in each arm. My last stand. I seize my fallen allies' weapons, fight with a ferocity born of desperation. I fail. I don't have Marcus's strength and skill. I don't have Ava's keen eye. I have nothing. The monster rears up to deliver the killing blow. Then, Thorn appears, blazing in brilliant light. Together, we make the final strike. My blade punctures the chitinous layers to reach his black heart. "NO!" Grimm's dying scream echoes through the fortress. The remnants of his army scatter into the night. Grimm, defeated, but at a terrible cost. Marcus and Ava, lost. Thorn, gone—sacrificed, in a blaze of glory? Withdrew, to observe for another eternity? I'll never know. Alone. Tears run dry. Pack gathered. World may be forever changed—but —still —mine. And I walk.
|
|
#
¿
Aug 7, 2023 06:39
|
|
|
Green Wing posted:Crits Week 574: drat Dirty Apes! Huh, maybe. Thanks!
|
|
#
¿
Aug 8, 2023 12:30
|
|
|
In
|
|
#
¿
Aug 8, 2023 13:32
|
|
|
How to Surf the Multiverse 999 Words Step right up, folks! Welcome to the marvelous multiverse with me, Jules Hartley, your trusty tour guide! Doing this may seem dangerous, but fear not. Whenever I've needed to think on my feet, it's turned out well, like the time I calmed a raging forest with compliments. I am your galactic encyclopedia, sharing my expertise on interdimensional etiquette and temporal anomalies. And regardless of the situation, I remain calm—even in the face of temporal anomalies and probability portals. I'd sooner flare my wings by a black hole than let you see me sweat. Or, take my most recent voyage. One passenger, Rob Baxter, dripping with arrogance, demanded we visit a reality deemed off-limits due to temporal instability. "Rob, my friend," I said, "that reality is a minefield of antichronological chaos! One misstep and time folds in on itself, the paradoxes flip you inside out before you even realize you have a headache." But Rob's stubborn as a transdimensional mulesnail. Against my better judgment, I relented. "Buckle your hats, folks," I announced, "because we're diving headfirst into the unknown!" And dive we did! We stumbled right into an all-out war between two factions of our very own doppelgängers. Yes, you heard right—us against us! It was like gazing into a funhouse mirror filled with strife, laser rays blasting. Rob's lookalike, Robulon, led the purple-clad rebels, and mine—Jules-Omega Harlowe—led the orange-suited loyalists. The rebels wanted to preserve their timeline; the loyalists sought to tear it apart. "Greetings!" I hailed, wearing my trademark disarming smile. "I'm Jules Hartley, Interdimensional Tour Guide. We took a wrong turn; if you can point us to the nearest trans-reality express lane, we'll be on our way!" Jules-Omega glared. "Fool! Now you'll never leave!" He said, and aimed his plasma cannon directly at us. But Jules Hartley doesn't back down. I've navigated through realities where time flows backwards and gravity doesn't exist. A quick hail and two of our doubles, Julian and Robbie, offered to escort us; others, like the gentle yet mysterious Bobby, asked to hop aboard. But I soon realized they were leading us the wrong way: into, not out of, this twisted aetherworld. As the spacetimeship descended into the war-torn reality, I fretted, studying the conflict, every detail and nuance, mind racing, trying to anticipate our counterparts' reactions. Then I hailed our doppelgängers to negotiate in person. I tried to find common ground, and I was making good progress, too. Then it all fell apart. Turns out Bobby held a dark secret. He'd been feeding the loyalists information behind our backs, reigniting the conflict we'd worked so hard to extinguish. The fragile peace shattered like a pane of glasstic as both sides exchanged phaser fire and electron torpedoes. The rebels were being wiped out. Enter Roberto, wildcard among the doppelgängers. With a carefree grin, he revealed a weakness in the weft of this reality—small tears, fractalizations caused by all the interdimensional travel. The very fabric of the universe, ripe for manipulation! Oh, what a tantalizing notion—exploit the instability, forge a temporary ceasefire, and slip away in the calm! Seeing no alternative, I took the plunge. But instead of salvation, my actions created ruination: a rift in time, cascading outward, rippling through the multiverse, chewing at the edges of reality itself. If I didn't think fast, I and everyone everywhen would be lost to the howling maw of a chronicular vortex! I was alone, floating in the vast emptiness between realities. The swirling rift I had opened yawned behind me. My short-lived friends, all perished. All but me. Doubt crept in. One figured loomed above everything: Jules-Omega, the yin to my yang. I steeled myself, knowing that I was all that stood between Omega and complete domination. Gotta find an angle, rally the troops—what was left of them. No time to waste. I jetted through the space between spaces, landing in a pocket dimension I'd picked for our rendezvous point. Whew, they were still there. "Time to change tactics!" I outlined a dangerous plan. "Understanding myself—strengths and weaknesses—is the key to beating Omega." They nodded, ready. We flew back to Omega's base, where he waited, smug. But now I had an ace up my sleeve: I knew myself. "Round two?" I quipped, bravado to mask my nerves. "Let's end this." "Who better to challenge me than myself?" Jules-Omega growled, teeth bared. My fighters engaged his, leaving the two of us to square off. My knowledge of multireality gave me an edge; I outplayed him with wiles and words. "Remember when we first discovered our ability to navigate realities?" I taunted, using a shared memory against him. "We fumbled around in the dark, but look at us now." "Ah, nostalgia." Jules-Omega scowled. "But I've learned so much since then. You're no match for me." Our verbal clash grew more intense. But this was my only chance to bring peace and freedom from this intercosmic chaos. Rob watched, wide-eyed, at the display of mental acuity and cunning, a side of me he'd never seen. "Face it, Omega," I declared. "You may have my memories, but you don't have my heart. And that's the difference." Jules-Omega conceded defeat, outmatched by my own will. But my triumph came at a heavy price. "This is a new dawn," I announced over the vidscrewer. "We will restore harmony to all our 'verses." Rob and I emerged from the multiverse, the same yet different. "We've been through something unimaginable," I said. Rob nodded, and in his gaze I saw he finally understood the power of choice in navigating alternate realities. "Don't I know it," he said solemnly. Maybe he even meant it. So, dear traveler, are you ready to embark on an adventure like no other? Join us, if you dare, as we explore the boundless realms of the cosmic frontier, where reality bends and twists, and the extraordinary lies around every turn. The multiverse beckons. Don't keep them waiting.
|
|
#
¿
Aug 14, 2023 05:18
|
|
|
FlippinPageman posted:Week 575 Crits: Part 2 Thank you!
|
|
#
¿
Aug 19, 2023 20:55
|
|
|
Slightly Lions posted:Crits for Week 575 sebmojo posted:Week 574 crits
|
|
#
¿
Aug 26, 2023 05:36
|
|
|
OK I'm 
|
|
#
¿
Aug 29, 2023 01:43
|
|
|
in and  because i = garbanzo
|
|
#
¿
Sep 5, 2023 18:56
|
|
|
Hauntings 1798 words After Charlotte died I couldn't dream. To forget, I spent every night gardening. The monotony was my only comfort, a routine to numb the grief; I had purpose, though my perfect lawn brought me no joy. Once exhausted, I could climb into my cold bed and collapse and sleep without seeing her face staring back at me. By day I worked in the archives, cataloging long-lost stories of generations past. Dust motes danced in the stale basement air under wan electric lights as my fingers traced the tomes' cracked spines. That's when I noticed the wall. A loose brick. I pushed, harder, until the brick dislodged and shattered on the floor. Peering inside the recess, I saw a plain, unmarked book, smaller than my palm. I slid it from its hiding place. "Find anything interesting?" Samuel's soft voice made me jump. The historian's tall, slender frame stood in the doorway. The book was slick to the touch. "Just some old property records," I said. "And, look: 1709—this dates to the founding of Ebon Dell!" The pages were yellowed and brittle, the margins filled with cryptic symbols. But I could barely make out any of its contents. Samuel peered over my shoulder. "Curious. I've never seen such writing before. They must have devised their own code." His eyes glinted with interest. "Perhaps, but why encipher property records?" "Let's find out." He was downright giddy. After some early success deciphering, I grew uneasy. "I'm not sure we should continue." "You've never been one to walk away from a mystery, John." Yes, I was always curious, but ever since Charlotte....No, I buried that thought. This book was Ebon Dell history. Didn't we owe it to history to uncover whatever secrets lay buried? "You're right," I said. "We keep going." We worked late into the night. An icy wind howled outside. We made progress The ledger outlined a treaty made, long ago, between the town elders and local tribes. I sat back, mind reeling. The settlers hadn't just claimed this land—they'd lied, stolen, killed for it. Samuel too looked shaken. "If this is true...." I nodded. The truth would not stay buried. As I hurried home, I couldn't shake the feeling of unseen eyes tracking me. *** Rain lashed at the windowpanes. The fire struggled to drive the chill from the air. Then came a knock at my door. I opened it, saw nothing—save an envelope on the porch, with my name scrawled across in jagged letters. Hands trembling, I tore it open, to read: Cease your prying, or you'll soon be joining your wife. The letter slipped from my fingers. I peered up and down the street. Deserted. I rushed to Samuel's cottage on the edge of town. He answered in his nightclothes, blinking, bleary. "Didn't you sleep?" "Samuel...someone knows." I handed him the crumpled message. "By heavens, John. Well, come in." We pored again over the mystery workbook, notes sprawling across his kitchen table, fingers tracing the faded ink, minds consumed by the symbols and oblique references. We cross-referenced the contents with Samuel's extensive collection of historical texts. It described later scams perpetrated upon the town. Slowly, we pieced together the elaborate frauds enacted by Ebon Dell's founding families. The town's prosperity derived from blood and betrayal; generations of wealth and power, built on a rotten foundation. Samuel sank back in his chair. "Those families won't give up their power easily, John. They've kept this secret over a century." Yes, the town's elite families ruled Ebon Dell like petty tyrants. They'd fight to keep this hidden, no matter the cost. But the more I learned, the more certain I became. I had to expose the truth. "What should we do?" "Do?" Samuel frowned. "John, we tread on dangerous ground." "Then we stand idly by, leave the town in the dark?" My heart pounded in my chest. "No, you're right. But we need solid evidence. And I think I know where to find some." *** We reached the grand Victorian house on the outskirts of Ebon Dell as the setting sun doused it in shadow. Its turrets, gables, and ornamentations defied both gravity and reason, testament to a bygone era of opulence and excess. The rusted iron gates creaked to announce our arrival at Whitman manor. We climbed the winding path to the porch, but before I could knock, the carved oak door swung open. A pale figure regarded us warily with sunken eyes. It was Ezra himself, scion of the prominent Whitman family. "Samuel." His eyes lingered on me a moment. "You're unannounced. What brings you here?" Samuel gave me a slight nod. I cleared my throat. "I am John Verwood. Mr. Whitman, we have urgent news regarding the town's history." I clutched the leather satchel containing our findings. "Please, sir. Time is of the essence." Ezra stepped aside, a silent invitation. The foyer was drowned in shadows, oppressively silent. Our footsteps echoed off the cold marble floors as Ezra led us into his study, then seated himself behind an imposing oak desk. I described our findings, watching his reaction closely. At last, he tensed, knuckles whitening, gripping his chair. "Impossible," he breathed, but the doubt in his eyes was unmistakable. "The truth often proves disturbing," Samuel said. "But we cannot overlook injustice." I opened the satchel, withdrawing the damning ledger and our translation. Ezra's eyes narrowed as he scanned the pages. "How....Where did you...?" I met his gaze. "What matters is that the ruling families have deceived us all, and we have proof." I pointed to a column of numbers, a trail of breadcrumbs exposing their misdeeds. "The Whitmans have shown me...kindness," he said, gazing out the window into the back garden. "I owe them a great debt." He turned, and the backlighting carved deep shadows across his face. "But if this is true, I fear my silence would mean complicity." "You can make things right, Mr. Whitman," I said "I realize the enormity of what we're asking," Samuel said. "But we must expose the truth, for prosperity's sake." "Samuel has risked everything, coming here," I said. "We believe you have a similar sense of justice. Together, we can make a difference." Ezra's eyes bored through us, searching for something. At last, he seemed to find it. "Very well." He pulled a thick twine-bound folder from his desk, placed it gently in my hands. "Here is all I can offer, now. Tread carefully, and do not reveal our alliance." I gripped the folder tightly. "You have my word." We hastened through lamplit streets to Samuel's cottage. Inside, he secured the door and drew the curtains; I lit the oil lamps. The folder held photographs, ledgers, letters, all pieces of a sinister puzzle for us to assemble. We toiled deep into the lonely hours, sifting through the evidence, until the lamps sputtered and died. "What next, Samuel?" I asked, reclining in the darkness. "Should we submit our information to the local paper, anonymous, expose these horrors for all to see?" "That would throw Ebon Dell into chaos," he said, lighting a candle. "There would be a backlash, the whole town at each other's throats." We sat in tense silence. How could I make people understand without tearing the town apart? "A speech," Samuel said at last. "The town meeting next week." I labored over my speech for days, carefully selecting each word and phrase, organizing the evidence into a clear and compelling narrative. Samuel helped me hone my arguments and anticipate potential objections. Finally, the day arrived. We were to speak last. The murmurs of the crowd gathered in the hall washed over, threatening to drown me. They scrutinized my every move. I stumbled up the wooden steps to the stage. My hands trembled as I arranged my notes at the podium. My mouth went dry. Samuel encouraged me with a nod. "Esteemed citizens," I began, voice wavering at first. "We are here today to expose the corruption rampant in this town." I presented the evidence methodically, laying out the facts and illuminating their dark implications. People gasped. Just as I was about to unveil our most damning evidence, a sharp voice halted me in my tracks. "Lies and slander!" The venerable Eleanor Townsend, eyes alight with contempt, face twisted into a haughty sneer, rose to address the assembled citizenry. "This outsider knows nothing of our traditions!" she continued. "His 'evidence' is clearly fabricated." The crowd stirred, looking uncertain. Struggling to keep my composure, I took a deep breath. "Mrs. Townsend, what I present today is no fabrication but well-researched facts supported by historical documents." She scoffed. "What do you know of this town, or its history? You are nothing but an interloper seeking to spread dissent!" Some of the crowd nodded; Eleanor's influence was strong. But Samuel stepped forward. "I have spent decades researching our town's history," he said solemnly. "I can confirm that the allegations outlined in these documents are true." I held up a few of the documents from Ezra detailing the illegal dealings of the town's elite. "Everyone, please examine this evidence," I said. "Decide for yourselves whether the truth is worth pursuing." An icy quiet fell over the hall. The townspeople stared at the families who had deceived them for so long. Panic erupted. Voices clashed and opinions collided. Some shouted accusations; others cried for justice. The elites scrambled to deflect blame or deny involvement, but it was too late; the truth was laid bare. Then Ezra stepped forward, raising his hands for quiet. "Friends, please," he said, his voice weary but steady. "Fighting will not undo the damage done. But we can change things for the better." His eyes met mine briefly. "The truth is out, now. John...John has pursued justice at great risk to himself. We should all follow his example as we work to restore trust in the community." I was taken aback. Murmurs of assent flowed through the crowd. "He's right," Samuel declared. "We cannot change the past, but we can shape the future. We will continue researching Ebon Dell's history, so that we never repeat our forebears' mistakes. But we'll need everyone's help." After that, well, life in Ebon Dell changed dramatically. Some called for the sheriff. His office promised to investigate those corrupt dealings. A few arrests were made, and a tense peace settled over the town. Ezra, once a part of that corruption, had become an ally. His knowledge of their inner workings, and his willingness to testify, made him indispensable. And I had become the symbol of courage, determination, justice. Once an outsider, adrift and lost, I had found a place I truly belonged. I knew there were still secrets to be uncovered. But with all I had found, I was ready.
|
|
#
¿
Sep 11, 2023 07:59
|
|
|
curlingiron posted:Hello, I’m still awake so here are crits:
|
|
#
¿
Sep 13, 2023 03:40
|
|
|
rivetz posted:Week 579 Critiques
|
|
#
¿
Sep 16, 2023 05:31
|
|
|
Thranguy posted:Crits for Week #573 Chernobyl Princess posted:LONG BELATED BIRTHDAY WEEK CRITS Oh hey I noticed these. Thanks both!
|
|
#
¿
Nov 26, 2023 07:50
|
|
|
|
| # ¿ May 15, 2024 15:26 |
|
|
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 ☝️
|
|
#
¿
Dec 8, 2023 17:22
|
|