|
In, flash
|
#
?
Jan 17, 2024 11:13
|
|
|
|
| # ? Apr 29, 2024 00:26 |
|
|
SurreptitiousMuffin posted:okay I am like 80% sure I am in fact signing up for the correct week this time, in with a flash. Your tiny town's high school is straight-up haunted. cptn_dr posted:In and flash, thank you very much A beat reporter in your tiny town is about to discover what's behind a sudden and markedly large uptick in suicides. Thranguy posted:In, flash Your tiny town's levees are about to break.
|
|
#
?
Jan 17, 2024 13:01
|
|
|
I'm in
|
|
#
?
Jan 18, 2024 03:31
|
|
|
Sign-ups end in about 12.5 hours! Also: In search of two other judges. Anybody wanna volunteer?
|
|
#
?
Jan 19, 2024 17:24
|
|
|
Thunderdome Week DXCVIII: Small Towns with Big Secrets Words 1500 Title: Epiphaneia Come in and sit. Here, I poured you a cup of coffee. You take it with cream and sugar right? Just like your dad. I remember when he and I started here years ago. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea; you’re not in trouble. I just have to tell you some important stuff about the job. Normally we’d tell you about it later, but Gary fell down last week, so we need you to head on up and check on things. I’m too old to make the climb. See, back around the winter of 78 widow Hansen called us and said that sangria was coming out of her faucet. It wasn’t popular back then, but she explained that it was a kind of wine infused with fruit. Your dad and I went over and sure enough, red wine was coming out of her tap. It was actually pretty tasty. Anyway, Hansen’s house was the closest to the water tower, so it made sense that she found it first. Later that day we got a few more calls about wine in the taps, so Billy Pickett - he was my supervisor at the time, died back in 93 - told me to scurry up the water tower and check it out. I made the climb and opened up the inspection hatch and was nearly overwhelmed with the smell of wine. The whole drat thing had turned into wine! Do you need a warm up? You want a nip? I know you’re only twenty, but that’s practically twenty one right? It’s a cold morning, sometimes you need something to warm you up. Here, I’ll just pour you a slug, it can be our little secret. Where was I? Right. So, I came back down and told your dad, and he went up to see for himself. Neither of us thought to bring a flashlight so we had to get by with the light coming in the inspection hatch, and as near as we could tell, it was just filled with fruity wine. By then, we had gotten a few more calls about it, so I called the Alderman, Jimmy Belante - He died around 99 - and he wanted nothing to do with it. Said that what we were dealing with had progressed into the realm of the Church, so he called up Father Timmins - he died back in 80 not long after this was all taken care of - and he climbed up the ladder himself. He took a peek in and then carefully climbed back down, white as a sheet. He crossed himself a couple of times and without saying a word to us ran back to his house. He came out twenty minutes later with his vestments on, the whole deal. The gold things over his shoulders, the long white dress, even a hat. I don’t think I ever saw it before outside of Christmas Mass. He also said he called Bishop Clement way up in Burlington. Not 4 hours later, Bishop Clement came down. I swear he must have whipped his old Valiant with how fast he came down. Father Timmins led him up the ladder and they both peered in for a long time. When they came down, Bishop Clement had said that we might be dealing with a real deal miracle, but he’d have to call Rome to make sure. I promise this is going somewhere but sometimes you have to sneak up on things. By now, it was after lunch and we were all just sitting around the water tower, smoking and staring at it. Nobody really talked, what was there to say? We all knew what was in there, we just didn’t know why. Around 6 that night, Rome called back and told us to drain the water tower and to not breathe a word of it. I said that we should bottle the stuff, make some scratch on the side, but the Bishop said that was blasphemy and that I’d rot in hell if I tried. Billy smoothed things over and told them that me and your dad would take care of it right away. We opened the valve and all the wine went into the storm sewer. By the time it was empty, it was well past bedtime, so we closed the valve and turned on the pumps. It would fill from the aquifer overnight. By now you might be able to guess what happened. When we found it was filled with wine again we called everyone back and this time Father Timmins was even more spooked. We didn’t know what to do though. He didn’t want to call the Bishop or Rome again, they’d either get angry or worse, send someone in from Rome to examine. We decided to just isolate the tower from the system again and try to come up with something. Everything stayed that way for maybe six months before Leroy got drunk at the bar and started telling stories about how he hit a guy with his truck a while back and dumped the body somewhere. Word got to Constable Reynolds and he paid Leroy a visit. They brought him in and Reynolds said that the judge would go easy on him if he just fessed up and explained what was what. Leroy and Constable Reynolds were old hunting buddies, so Leroy told him what happened. Leroy was coming back home late one night after running some hay down to Pownal and had hit this guy hitchhiking out front of the Water Department. Leroy panicked and grabbed the body, and dumped him into the water tower. No, I don’t know how he got it up there. I asked him and he said he just had some kind of fear strength. Also, yes you’re right, that’s a terrible place to dump a body, and we all told him. Could have killed us all from poisoning the water supply. Billy told me to drain the tower again and Reynolds rang up the coroner and when we all went up there… Okay, from here on out, this stays between us right? I told you all that to tell you this. I mean it. Breathe not a word. Not to your mom, not to your boyfriend, nobody. Get me? When we peeked in with flashlights, the body was still there. You’d expect after a few months in the water that it would be all gross and rotted right? Clean as the day he died. Couldn’t even tell where Leroy had hit him. We called back Father Timmins and he came up the tower with us and peered in and crossed himself again and climbed in the tower! He went up to the body and prayed over him and started wailing and weeping. He climbed out and shut the hatch and said that nobody was to go in there and to not fill the tower again. He called Rome and this time they sent some fellas I had never seen before. They spoke English with thick Italian accents and said they were inquisitors. I had thought those were long gone and said as much, but they smiled and said that they were just more discreet these days. A week or so later, they called us all into the break room. Asked us if anyone else knew about the wine in the tower, and so we called in everyone who knew. Most people accepted our story about the hydrants so it was just us in the Water Department, the Alderman, Father Timmins, and the coroner. They made us all swear on a bible - like a bible I’d never seen before - and explained that if we told anyone who didn’t need to know that they would be waiting for us. As near as they could tell, Leroy had run over the King of Kings with his Peterbilt. What he had dumped into the water tower was the second coming of Christ. Problem was, he was dead as a door-stopper and that meant that armageddon was delayed.Rome had decided that they quite liked things as they were and didn’t really want armageddon, so the decision was made to just leave him be. We were told to fill up the tower with water, seal it off and just ignore it. None of us particularly wanted to deal with armageddon or an angry Church either, so we did as we were told. I welded the hatch shut. Wardsboro agreed to sell us water until the new tower was built outside of town. The Alderman had put out word that our tower failed inspection, that’s why it was offline and that it was cheaper to just build another. And that’s that. I need you to get up there today, grind open the hatch, make sure there’s still wine and the body in the tower then seal it back up. We check on it every year and like I said earlier Gary fell and couldn’t do it. Don’t stand there with your mouth open; you’ll catch flies. Get to it!
|
|
#
?
Jan 19, 2024 17:25
|
|
|
Toaster Beef posted:Sign-ups end in about 12.5 hours! I will judge. Also  to get my crits for week 590 done before submissions close.
|
|
#
?
Jan 20, 2024 02:12
|
|
|
We've got our judges! Thank you to curlingiron and Uranium Phoenix for hopping on.
|
|
#
?
Jan 20, 2024 02:49
|
|
|
Squeeking in under the wire.
|
|
#
?
Jan 20, 2024 03:54
|
|
|
Yeah I'm also in with no inspiration or starting point. I got fired this week and my brain needs a good kick in the nuts to get focused again
|
|
#
?
Jan 20, 2024 04:56
|
|
|
Sign-ups are closed.
|
|
#
?
Jan 20, 2024 08:11
|
|
|
Falling Richards 433 words Richard never wanted to die on the toilet, and thus contemplated the universe’s sense of irony while also looked for a way to stop his current complicated relationship with gravity. He was curious about how one moment he sat on his toilet, and then the next moment was plummeting sixty feet above a small town. The town below grew larger and larger as the wind howled and bit at his skin. With no parachute in sight he did the only thing he could – resolve to become a small paste on the ground. The wind’s howl softened to a slight hiss, and Richard’s fall turned into a graceful dance. He swayed side to side like a feather, slowing as he fell. Then he landed face first onto the road with his only injury being his bruised ego. “Oh, that’s new,” a voice said. “I guess it is about to rain.” He looked up to see an old woman leering over him. “We should get you off the street.” The woman said and poked him with her cane. As Richard stood up, the old woman asked . “Are you a politician?” Richard offered his hand as they crossed the road. “No, I’m a plumber.” “Vote Republican then?” Richard shook his head, and she looked at him, confused. Around them, people ran to shelter as rain lightly fell from the sky, fear marring their faces. “Why is everyone running?” He asked. “Oh, because it’s about to rain,” the old woman said as they walked towards a small home. She unlocked the door and ushered him inside. “Let’s keep this our little secret,” she said with a mischievous wink. Richard stood, watching out the window as the rain fell. A loud pang against the roof caught his attention, too loud for it to be simple rain. He heard more pangs, like deflated bouncy balls hitting hard asphalt. The rain fell harder now. Richard stood, slack jawed at the sight.The old woman came by, and smiled as she looked out the window. “Wonderful, isn’t it?” Richard didn’t respond. He watched several semi-erect dicks tumble from the sky, slowing just as he did before they hit the ground. Ball sacks flapping defiantly, they landed with a loud SCHLONG against the pavement, against the roof, and yes, some even speared on steel fences. Richard squeezed his legs together in sympathy. Those not impaled by fate’s cruelty bounced, once, some twice, and then laid to rest upon the dirty ground. As a torrent of dicks slapped against the window, the old woman snapped her fingers. “Ah, your name must be Richard!” Town secret It rains dicks!
|
|
#
?
Jan 20, 2024 20:18
|
|
|
Crits for Week #590 that I did not edit or read through a second time so I'm sorry if they're incoherent beep-beep car is go - I Doctor Think, therefore I am: So the biggest problem with this story is that it's a lot of description of things, and almost none of them actually matter, which I think Thrang said already, but I'm just reiterating here as kind of a preamble for what I'm about to say next. I think I've probably said this before in crits (although maybe not to you specifically), but for me personally, the easiest way to figure out how to structure a short story (that is, to figure out what is actually going to matter in your story) is to figure out what changes over the course of your story. In this case, your story does have something that changes over the course of your story, namely that Doctor Think is given autonomy, but the problem is that we don't actually see any ramifications of that change, so it's very hard to care about it as a reader. We don't even really know that much about Celia by the end of the story, so it's difficult to really engage with her on the journey she takes, especially given that it's written as a very routine trip for her; it can be okay to have description for the sake of description, but it's hard to make your reader interested in something (even if it's legitimately interesting!) when your character isn't that interested. I think with the ending of the story you tried to do some foreshadowing, but since you had to leave DT's continued benevolence once given full autonomy sufficiently plausible that Celia would still be willing to go through with it, it's just not really clear what's actually going to happen, which is dissatisfying. I know you mentioned that you were trying to balance the placement of the change in this against another crit you got that said the reveal happened too early in a previous story, but since this wasn't so much a "reveal" as the sole dynamic element of the story (and the whole point of it, really), this feels like a different case. I do think that ultimately relying on a reveal or twist in a story, while something that can be well-done on occasion, is not a great tool to rely on as a general rule. Ultimately, if your story is only interesting because of some wild information (or, god help you, joke) that you're concealing from your reader until the reveal, the chances are it's not that great. I mean, sure, The Sixth Sense exists, but so do all of Shyamalan's other films. Anyway, I do think that your short stories are continuing to improve, but I know that it can be frustrating as you find the right balance of elements (and learn how to choose which criticism you feel works with the kinds of stories you're trying to tell). BUT I BELIEVE IN YOU!!! GO GO GO GO GO!!!!!! Chernobyl Princess - Reclamation: I actually had this more or less tied with Jib's story, just because I liked what you were trying to do a little bit more, but this mainly suffered from a lack of going anywhere. It was a fun maybe-meet-cute, and I enjoyed what I saw of Claudia and Tyson's changing relationship, but it left me wanting more, whether that was out of the setting or the (maybe) romance that was happening. Maybe you left this intentionally ambiguous, as to reflect the uncertain nature of continuing to live on the planet, but I think that if that was the case, you needed to make that theme more explicit. As it was it just felt like you ran out of steam, which left me feeling more than a bit let down. Still, I would read more of this, if you wanted to write it, so it wasn't a total let down by any means. The Cut of Your Jib - Paris in the Twenty-Second Century: This, to me, was probably your most comprehensible story that I can recall off the top of my head, and I liked it quite a bit. I think I got the gist of what the pod was (or maybe I just pasted in a relevant-sounding idea from a book I just read, who knows), but it could maybe have used one extra sentence to clarify. I don't think I would have minded maybe a sentence or two about the tower as well, but that felt more understandable than the pod for some reason. Still, really lovely language, and you had a recognizable and emotionally satisfying ending, so a pretty easy win. If you ever wanted to do more with it, I think you could add a tiny bit of exposition, as mentioned, and then do more to flesh out characterization of both Tariq and Vanessa, the latter of whom felt particularly flat to me. Not a major sin for such a short word count, but something to think about if you want to do more with it in the future.
|
|
#
?
Jan 21, 2024 06:27
|
|
|
lol, ty critters Week 598 submission No Glove No Love 1432 worda As he extended his hand to the innkeeper, Bart Waller was balding. He had a nice pate in the back, his widow’s peak was a long dracula finger, so he shaved it down until there was but a sketch of a hairline everywhere. His stubble made a chinstrap of the scritchy helmet. The pair behind the counter wore gloves. It was cold out, a wintry day at the edge of autumn, but this was just outside Geneva. He was in Switzerland to explore the origins of the comic book, and whether this was a good place or not, he would write the story. Rudolphe Töpffer was the name he was after, and he doubted the owners of a bed and breakfast would know. But he tried. ɼHave you heard of Rudolphe Töpffer?ɺ His German was bad, but he tried that first. The name should see him through. But they switched to French, and he knew that better. “I don’t know that name, monsieur, an historical figure?” “Not exactly. Pardon. Your name, sir?” “Richard. And, of course, my wife, Sharon.” “Bonne. Good. We speak some Anglaise, sir.” Richard placed his hand upon Sharon’s and nah, his hand didn’t pass through hers like shadows on the moor, nah. Those leather driving gloves were corporeal and distinct. Sharon worked through her real or feigned rustic anxiety with the little box computer and printed molecules onto the door card that would let Bart meet his bed for the hot date he had been dreaming of since he got on the disease box they called a 737 half a day ago. With the key, she handed him a half-liter brown bottle with a cork. Bart held it, a little surprise as she popped the cork with a deft touch through her gloved hand. She said, “Bonmont Abby lambic.” He swigged. Deep cherry, deep carbonation. Deep delicious. “Is the Abbey around here?” he asked. Richland clapped her on the back, and gestured up the stairs. “To bed, sir, you’ll feel much better in the morning. We’ll discuss Töpffer and set you on your way.” Bart was jetlagged, but as he crept up the creaky stairs he knew he heard Sharon say, ‘the monastery’s been closed since 1670,’ and he swore he saw Richard’s own gloved fingers creep across her back like leeches on the hunt. But he had enough of a sudden rush from the fruit beer he figured was 30 proof and the fog of travel that he dismissed it. A fresh bed overrode everything. Framed sketches painted the walls, but he was too fuzzy already to appreciate them. With a swig or two, he thought he heard creaks behind him on the steps, and the goosedown wasn’t the only momentary appeal. Bart crowded the big mahogany door, and his French faded in his drunkenness, but he caught a bit. ‘Do you think … him … pliable … juicy (WHAT? NAH,) … the others …” And he thought to struggle with the heavy wooden door, but it was too late. The clicking of the lock across the hallway rang in his sullied ears, and the hallway was empty and desolate save for the stereotypical vase of edelweiss on the end table. With another swig or two, he met oblivion, but it wasn’t the calm void he hoped. When Bart sauntered down it was close to noon, and there was a full breakfast waiting. Smoked salmon and eggs, and proper English scones with the most divine Hollandaise. He thought he dreamed of eggs royale, and there it was. Now he tried to remember his travel forms and was sure he requested local cuisine as part of his adventure; if the travel dialogue wasn’t successful, at least he’d have a story, but his favorite meal was on the plate. But he wasn’t sure if he dreamed of eggs royale, maybe it was just porridge, or corn flakes. Or nothing at all. Maybe he dreamed of leather-bound hands stretching and pulsating along a middle-aged woman’s back. But he sniffed the food suspiciously, it smelled good and he ate. Before they asked, and maybe it was because he was distrustful, he plucked a Coca-Cola from the glass front mini-fridge and drank it instead of coffee. Said Sharon, “It transcends class.” Surprised, Bart just said, “Huh?” Richard shushed, but she continued. “Coca-Cola. It’s accessible to everyone.” “It’s a product of global capitalism and thus a fascist world state,” said Bart, but Sharon seemed stunned at that statement, so he didn’t continue, and tucked back into his eggs. Eventually Bart cleared his throat and asked, “So, about Töpffer, the graphic novels?” Dumb faces. “The illustrator? You seemed to know who I was talking about yesterday.” Richard chimed, “Oh yes. Töpffer. Born and died in Geneva. I remember where he lived. We can take you. He went blind, I hear.” It was true, but it sounded like a threat. There was a degenerative condition, and there was the immediacy of Richard’s words. “I’ll go prep the van, we can take you as soon as you finish.” His easy come easy go nonchalance was as simple as he came and went. Sharon sat kitty-corner at the long table. She reached a gloved hand towards Bart, and palm down, fingers flexed, she pulled off the leather with an effort that seemed more of the soul than the physical. He blinked and wondered if he needed new glasses, but the tattooed symbols and glyphs danced across her paper and liver skin. Bart asked, knowing, “Is this … Töpffer’s work?” He reached over to touch her hand and she recoiled. “Don’t. Not yet. Not until you’re ready.” “Sharon, are you okay? I mean,” and Bart nodded towards the window, “okay?” She paused, then said, “When you’ve been married as long as we have, you’ll understand.” That sounded defeatist and dismal. “I can get you out of here, come to London. Things will be better.” “They won’t,” she said, “I’m sorry.” Bart didn’t know if it was a heartfelt moment or a ruse, but Richard was back in at that moment, and if he didn’t have a genuine feeling in his bones he wouldn’t have smashed Bart over the head with the centerpiece. When Bart woke it was to the grinding of a drill. He was tied and restrained to the point he could only vibrate. The tattoo needle hovered over his left eye. His right was already swollen shut. Richard whispered, “It’s better if you just go back to sleep.” Bart was both sober and awake as the needle pumped into his other eye. The vibrations pulsed into his skullbones. He couldn’t blink, he couldn’t squinch his way out of it as the needle matrix like a TB test punched down into his cornea. He was blind. When he woke again, it wasn’t like waking from a dream. It was like still being in a dream. He could see. But everything he saw was dead. Decayed. A bed of rotten feathers, a TV with a busted screen. He staggered down the rotten stairs and Richard and Sharon waited at the decaying table. “Are you ready?” Bart didn’t know, but the Hollandaise and bread were rotten heaps. Sharon pulled her glove off again, and he saw. The chaos of swirling symbols were perfectly clear. Apocalypse. Bart stumbled back, as if the creaky stairs would provide refuge. Richard pounced, his paunchy frame betraying the speed and cunning. Bart wriggled under his weight, but it was useless. Richard pulled his glove off and they struggled, fingers intertwined. Bart shrieked and then maybe it settled into a groan. He felt the skin pull from his shoulder, felt it slide over his bicep, over his elbow and forearm, felt the skin slough off his hand and like mercury through a thermometer, felt it rise up off him as Richard absorbed it. He might die from infection or demand these psychos cut it off. That burning, electric hand touched Richard’s face. “Why?” “It keeps us young.” “That’s it?” “Is there a better reason?” Bart punched and punched with that decrepit hand, white with streaked fat in the muscles. He couldn’t see anything, that is, nothing aside from the swirling death of Sharon hovering above him. He knew that even if he escaped, he would die. “Cut it off,” he said. “Cut my arm off.” “Your eyes will see the truth. Your eyes will see the truth.” Bart collapsed. “The truth is not what you think.” The words he uttered were of no impact. His skin slid off his body like a melted push-pop.
|
|
#
?
Jan 21, 2024 12:11
|
|
|
Becoming Ahab 1039 words Town Secret: the town’s water supply has been contaminated, causing husbands to act like classical literary characte – no it’s raining dicks again James' heart skipped a beat as he confirmed the readings, and he looked toward his wife, Martha, who was content reading a copy of Moby Dick. “It’s coming,” he said. “We need to go.” His wife, Martha, looked up from her book and said, “It came last week, and nothing happened.” “Nothing has happened, yet!” James said. “There might be human sacrifice, dogs and cats living together–“ “And mass hysteria,” his wife finished for him. “Honey, you’re overreacting.” James looked at her, confused. Last week she had been supportive, even helping him set up the hydrometer. “We live in a desert, and the humidity has risen by 300%. I’m searching for a reason, the truth to all of this.” Martha closed her book with a deliberate thump. “Do you know what day it is?” James paused, his hands involuntarily moving as he did the mental math. They had set up the hydrometer last week, on Thursday. It couldn’t be Wednesday because Wednesday was important and he wouldn't forget. That meant it must be… “Monday.” James confidently said. “Wrong. You’ve been dragging me out here every day for the past week an–” James interrupted her. “The day doesn’t matter. Finding out what's wrong does!” He looked warily at his wife, whose eyebrows were raised like hackles on a wolf. “We aren’t safe,” he insisted. Martha rolled her eyes but motioned to the car. “Let’s go home and talk.” When he was a young man, it would have taken him a few minutes to pack up. Now, with old pains and stiff joints, it took them half an hour to pack the science equipment into the car, all the while they could feel the humidity on their skin. James paused, looking at the lush greenery, at odds with the desert plains of Utah. He had tried to make inconspicuous inquiries with the weather channel, but had been ignored. A small town like Woodruff didn’t warrant a meteorologist's attention. “Ahoy Captain, the graceful Pequod is ready,” Martha said, and opened the passenger door. James got in and wondered why the sudden change in her demeanour. Last week she had even helped take readings, but now… Maybe she was effected? He had tested the water, and verified it wasn’t contaminated. A higher PH level, but nothing insidious. Unless… “Is everything okay darling?” He asked. “No. You have forgotten some important things.” “Martha, this is the most important thing in my life right now. Do you know what would happen if this got out? Salt Lake City would go into chaos!” “Oh well, thank goodness you got a village of fifty people to stay quiet.” James nodded, happy that Martha understood. Then she glared at him. “Listen, this is happening here for a reason. The town is lucky I am here.” “James, you are a retired water quality technician. This might be out of your league.” “Don’t you see? This is my big break. If I can figure out why this is happening…” “Then what? What can you do? Yell at god to make the seasons stop!” James sat in his seat, stunned. If it meant the safety of his family, he would yell at god. “It’s not natural.” He managed to say. “I just want to make sure you’re safe!” The rest of the trip was silent, Martha fuming, and James ruffling through paper and test results, trying to find a reason why. * * * They arrived at home, only a five minute drive (considered long by Woodruff standards). James had come to a decision. He would go out during the phenomena and try to collect samples. He could create an air-tight suit out of garbage bags. James was just about to open the cupboard when his wife whirled on him. “James Marcell Akawa, do you know what day it is!” James already knew the answer. It was clearly Monday except… Wait… He said that before and Martha had told him he was wrong. James turned towards the calendar on the wall. His face paled. Oh. It was Wednesday. “Congratulations, Ahab. You have been paying so much attention to this stupid storm, that you forgot our anniversary.” James tried to stammer out an apology, maybe he could make dinner? He looked around their house, filled to the brim with boxes of test results and scattered books. The kitchen counter had his colorimeter setup, and he was pretty sure the fridge was full of samples from the lake. “I can fix this,” James said. “I can!” Martha looked out the window, towards the gathering storm clouds. “Do you mean the storm, or us?” James paused. “I didn’t know we were broken.” Not knowing what to do, he moved boxes out from the kitchen, placing them in the living room. Martha looked on, then motioned towards the door. “Are you going to go outside, or are you going to stay here with me?” “I was just scared for your safety. It might end us,” James said. “Honey, at our age, it can end at any time.” “What can I do to make it up to you?” “We can talk about it, later.” Martha looked out the window towards the desert plains that were getting pounded by rain. A few more minutes and the storm would cover the town. Her arm dropped to her sides, and one hand reached out for her husband. “Without turning towards him, she said, “It might not make sense, but let’s face it.. Together.” James held his wife. He felt the steady rhythm of her heart quicken, as rain fell onto their town, and he could feel his own beat quicken as well. He couldn’t comprehend the phenomenon. His arms felt itchy as that sense of fear scuttered into his feet, his arms. It scuttled, clawing at his insides, until it reached his mouth and… And died as his wife settled and pushed her back into him, needing that sense of human connection one does when facing fear. He squeezed her hand, and together, they looked out on to this small town as the storm descended. They held each other as the sky turned dark, the earth rumbled, and thousands of dicks fell from the sky.
|
|
#
?
Jan 21, 2024 19:47
|
|
|
Bitter Water Flash Rule: Your tiny town’s lake has a mermaid and it’s killing local fishermen. 1,494 words Winter dawn was finally breaking over Main Street. The air promised snow later and the diner's window was already starting to fog with breakfast breath, peeling back the “SAVE PINE RIDGE” posters stuck to it. The humidity clung uncomfortably to Sheriff Warren’s skin as he stepped inside. Alice waved him over to his usual stool. By the time Deputy Collins joined him, he’d already reached over the counter and poured himself a mug of coffee, the first sip so hot he couldn’t taste the bitterness. Collins slid a photo to Warren. “There’s our last known sighting.” The grainy CCTV capture showed the cramped interior of the fishing supply store, a tall man in profile amidst dusty rods and waders. Collins tapped it. “Robert Moon. Swans back into town like he already owns the place. Rents McAllister’s boat, stops off to pick up some bait then sails off for a little night fishing. Alone. That was two days ago.” Warren nodded. “That Emma’s lad behind the counter?” “Elias. Says, and I quote, ‘he saw Mr Moon on the tee-vee but never in person before’.” “Tee-vee?” Warren drew out the syllables. “Kid’s laying it on a bit thick. Pine Ridge didn’t come up?” “No.” “Story going to be the same when the feds arrive?” “It had better be.” Collins tapped the photo again as Alice bustled over, frowning at the half-empty mug in Warren’s hand. He slid it over for a refill. “Moon’s gone missing?” she asked. “You heard?” Warren chuckled darkly. “I’ve got two ears, don’t I? Nice to have some good news for a change.” “The feds might take a different view. You didn’t have anything to do with him, did you?” “He came in here on that little publicity stunt of his.” “Alice …” “I didn’t spit in his food.” Alice put the jug down with a firm thud and glared at Warren. “I didn’t overcharge him, neither. He wanted to tear down Pine Ridge for that awful mansion of his and I …” Warren sighed as her voice trailed off. “You told him how good the night fishing round here was, didn’t you?” Alice’s nod was small but defiant. Warren sighed and rubbed his stubble. “So did I,” he said. “So did half the town. Other half would have eventually.” “The feds will notice.” “Hey, no crime in it. We’re a friendly town.” Warren drained the last of the mug and stood, cracking his back. “Now, I’ve got to go talk to a man about a boat.” “McAllister?” Alice’s face paled ever so slightly and she slid the coffee jug across the counter; Warren hesitated, pointed to the decaff jug and gulped it down once she’d poured him another mug. “Bobby said he saw it this morning.” Ice settled in Warren’s gut. “And by ‘it’ -” “The boat, of course,” Alice snapped. “My Bobby isn’t daft. He stayed well away from the shore. But he said McAllister had it dragged right out of the water, right up to the road. All chewed up, he said.” Warren groaned and rubbed his eyes. “drat it. Collins, have a nosy round and see if there’s anything else someone thinks they saw before the feds arrive.” He glanced at the coffee jug. When Alice raised an eyebrow he nodded; she poured another cup of decaf. “Better safe than sorry,” he said. ~~ Warren’s nerves grew as he approached the lake. The road stopped well short of it but McAllister was right down by the jetty, the lake creeping up under the wooden boards. He’d got a tarp just about secured over his trailer and Warren let him finish before clipping the man round the back of the head. McAllister staggered away, cursing and raising his fists until he saw who it was. “The hell was that for, Andy?” “You idiot,” Warren growled. “Why the hell did you bring it up out of the water?” “You said the feds would want to see it,” McAllister said. He gestured at the covered boat. “In the water,” Warren said. “They’d be looking at the top of the boat, making sure nobody else was onboard. Not at the hull.” “It’s not that bad,” McAllister said. “Couple of scratches - looks like rocks.” “Not what I hear. I hear it’s ‘all chewed up’.” The two men stood across from one another, fists clenched. Warren was uncomfortably aware of how close the shore was. He told himself the brief glimmer of colour was just some fish darting close to the surface. He reminded himself of the comforting, bitter taste on his breath, how it seemed to seep from his skin. This close, it didn’t feel like much. “Fetch you a coffee?” McAllister must have noticed Warren’s unease; he gestured at the small hut by the jetty. Warren could smell the bitter brew clinging to the man’s clothes. “Please. Then maybe we go over your story again, before the feds arrive.” ~~ Warren passed the styrofoam cup to Agent Pershing, who took it with a grateful nod. His own was half empty; he took another sip, eyes locked on the shore. The jetty under him creaked and Warren felt a cold sweat break out across the back of his neck. He tried to distract himself by refilling the cup from the portable urn that McAllister had dragged out. “Beautiful place,” Pershing said, gesturing out across the lake. Warren didn’t follow her gesture, eyes locked on the ripples closer to them. “Good coffee, too.” “Figured you’d be out here a while,” Warren said. “Sure everyone’s had a cup?” Figures in paper moonsuits walked the length of the jetty. A few had cups in hand. Enough, Warren hoped. The sun was starting to drop and every shadow reaching across the water’s surface grabbed his attention. Agent Pershing gestured at the small fishing boat on the back of the trailer, the tarpaulin now pulled aside. “Appreciate you securing the boat. Looks like it’s seen some hard use.” She gestured at the long gouges across the bottom of the hull, pale wood cutting through the dark paint. Warren’s stomach clenched as he searched the statement for any hint of accusation but the agent quickly moved on, gesturing at the lake and saying something he couldn’t focus on. “Sorry?” “I said we’ve pulled CCTV from the jetty. Looks like Moon set out alone. Spoke to the Denning kid too, over at the bait hut. He kept asking if he was going to be on ‘the tee-vee’.” Warren smiled, hiding it behind his cup. He saw the little laugh at the corner of the agent’s mouth when she said “tee-vee”; saw her relax slightly. He could see the thought running through her head: just another small town. Agent Pershing glanced at her watch. “We’ll take another look at the boat in the morning, but there’s no indication of foul play. I doubt we’ll be disturbing you for long.” “You won’t -” A knot of tension in Warren’s gut began to tentatively unravel. “Figured you’d want to send out a diver. Sweep the lake.” Pershing rolled her eyes. “You and the half-dozen senators who raised a stink at the Bureau. Moon had powerful friends. Pity he didn’t like them enough to take them fishing. Maybe they could have pulled him out.” Warren chose his next words carefully. “Figure he caught a bite?” “A big one.” Pershing shrugged. “Or one he wasn’t expecting. He takes a tumble, the water’s near-freezing, he sinks. The end.” Warren nodded, swallowing slightly. A flash of scales caught his eye, dragging his attention down, under the jetty. The late afternoon light glinted off of a two-metre tail and pale, drawn skin. Through the slats in the jetty, right under his feet, he saw ivory needles in a pitch-black maw. “There’s really only one person to blame,” Pershing said. “Oh?” It was the only word Warren could muster. Long, skinny fingers crept up one of the jetty posts, inches from his boot. “Moon. Who goes fishing at night by themselves?” Warren didn’t dare move, eyes locked on two red pinpricks in the water, but he let his fingers loosen. The styrofoam cup tilted; slipped - dark coffee spilled out and down, through the slats of the jetty, dispersing into the lakewater. The red pinpricks vanished; the hands withdrew. “You should put up a sign,” Pershing said “‘No fishing after dark’.” “The folks round here know the lake’s dangerous.” Warren tried to shake the tension from his body, offering a gruff smile to Pershing. “Local knowledge.” “Still, tourism’s on the rise, isn’t it? Hell, now that I’ve seen it, I’m tempted to swing by for a weekend, take the rods out.” “Well, we’d be happy to have you for the weekend,” Warren said. He glanced across the lake and saw a distant shape dive below the waves, two pinpricks of light vanishing with it. The cup in his hand felt ice cold. “Just make sure to call ahead. I’ll buy you a coffee first.”
|
|
#
?
Jan 21, 2024 23:00
|
|
|
[retracted for magazine submission]
SurreptitiousMuffin fucked around with this message at 20:37 on Jan 23, 2024 |
|
#
?
Jan 22, 2024 01:54
|
|
|
Thirteen Things 1197 words Flash:Your tiny town's levees are about to break. 1 These days people call it just ‘the old tree’ but everyone can hear the word they're leaving out. Used to be kids would play in it, climb the trunk and shimmy out on the long thick limb, but too many fell each year, usually breaking an arm or a leg, spending months with a cast or two. The township put up signs, and as a result only older, more reckless teens, often drunk on convenience store malt, would make the climb. Three different times somebody would think to light a fire, to burn the damned thing down, but each time it didn't do more than scorch the bark. It refused to die. 2 Niall Cullen was one of those kids. You know the type. Trenchcoat, butterfly knife. Adores the absent father he knew nearly nothing about, other than a vague sense he was in the military, and so obviously in elite special forces. Every summer he crossed the state line and while his friends, such as they were, went for the flashy stuff he spent his gathered fortune on M-80s. He didn't light off many. Most he would carefully drill into, collecting the black powder into PVC pipes. 3 These days Mark Phelps doesn't do much at all, just sits in his favorite chair. He communicates only in growls, enough to let his children know when he's displeased. They scramble to obey, to change a channel or lead him to the restroom or spoon soup into his half-drooped mouth. Junior and Connie and Jack. They know, somewhere inside, that he is helpless, that they could walk out or smother him with a pillow or burn cigarette marks into his skin. But knowing is not acting. 4 The Dylan house is owned by the First Sharpton Bank and Trust, and every now and again they try to sell it, or the land it's on, but there are no takers. It's overgrown with kudzu and other creepers, rusted out cars covered in vegetation like burial mounds out in the huge front lawn. It is not, it must be clearly said, haunted. Nobody has ever died in that house. The Dylans met their ends in hospitals and prisons. But you could not get anyone in town to spend a night there, not on any bet you could likely afford. 5 Josiphine Quinn is harmless, would not harm a fly unless it was bothering one of her cats. She spent ten years at Rockwell, before they shut it down, quietly taking her meds and looking out the window. When she got out the family she had been inconvenient to were all gone. She knows secrets, true secrets, will tell them to you if you will listen for a while. 6 Dace Williams might never have said a true word since he came to town. That's not even really his name. He worked his way through each widow in town, running the old affection game. And Sheila Burns didn't mean to hit him quite so hard with the frying pan. She's been wondering for a while just how long a corpse will keep in a basement freezer, figuring it might well be forever unless the power fails, but she's too careful to try and look it up. 7 The Church of the Trifold Spirit was run out of town in the Seventies, Preacher Calvin fled with the money off to Brazil. The parishioners either turned hippie and went west, found other communes to join, or else came back to their parents and a nice Baptist church. But the building was still there, out on the end of Main Street. It used to be a Catholic church, back in the time when there were enough Catholics to have one, and nobody was sure if it was properly deconsecrated. The city owns it, and rents out the basement for support group meetings. 8 Mayor Xavier Vargas has killed times in his life, and gotten away with each one. The second barely counts. That was in Iraq, in wartime. One tour, and it was as clean as that kind of thing gets. It's not that man's face that he sees in his nightmares. It's mostly his old business partner Miles Aaron, who wanted to come clean to the IRS and make a deal. But sometimes, sometimes it's Jessica, whose last name he can't even remember, struggling to get her head above the water, floating limp until he filled her pockets with stones. He can't remember her name, can't remember why he did it even. He does remember the summer and early fall, paranoid preteen days until he finally realized that she would never be found. 9 It was a once-in-a-century storm on its way, remnants of two hurricanes and the storm surges they made come up the river. 10 On the fifteenth of every month, Peter Boyd comes home late at night, shirt bloody, mood strangely light. Margery knows better than to ask questions. She does the laundry in silence. Except once. One time she sealed the shirt in thick plastic, used the old vacuum sealer, and hid the whole bag in an old box in the basement. She even went to the Walmart and bought a new shirt, the same brand and color, just in case Boyd kept count. 11 Dallas Entertainment employed fifty people on paper and did not appear to do anything, as a business. It did own a few subsidiaries: laundromats, a parking lot, a roller-skating rink, all as silent partner. The day before the company shut down, ceased to exist, all assets evaporating like digital smoke, all officers and employees, if they ever existed, ever gracing a tax roll or other government record anywhere 12 Niall Cullen would later swear up and down that it must have been a freak of nature, a random bolt of lightning that struck his decades-in-the-making stash of crude but tested pipe bombs. Even with that explosion so close it seemed for a few hours that the levee would hold nonetheless, but the cracks spread slowly then quickly and the water would not be stopped. In his later days, after he had lost his spleen and a kidney in a prison knife fight and found Jesus in the infirmary, he considered it divine retribution, and told anyone who would listen just that. 13 In the flood the old tree, the old lynching tree uprooted, those broad roots pulling up more old coffins and people buried without a box than anyone suspected were there, some dating back to before statehood, before the peoples the white men took the land from, before the ones they displaced. That old tree was deeper than it was tall, and it was tall enough. Tree and roots washed down with the floodwaters, wrecking buildings, dragging cars along with it before lodging across the interstate. The Army Corp of Engineers were called in to remove it. A year later a third of the men and women of that mission were dead. The records will show disease, suicide, car crashes and a few murders, but every last survivor lays a curse on that tree when they pray to whatever God they know.
|
|
#
?
Jan 22, 2024 03:45
|
|
|
I'm probably gonna fall asleep early so this is just a heads up that submissions close in one hour and 49 minutes (midnight ET) .
|
|
#
?
Jan 22, 2024 04:11
|
|
|
Vinegar and Honey 1498 words The last moon of the year was always a troublesome time in Fell’s Hollow. It was in those long, dark hours of the dying year that the strangeness of the Hollow stretched its arms across the valley; a thick, creeping mist wound through the packed-earth streets and unglazed windows of the town. The folk stepped lively on their business, hoods raised against the cold and damp, lanterns blazing against the gloom. Folk found as little cause to have business as they could manage, and went about it quick as was seemly. The heavy-wooded hills about the town pressed in in the snow-glazed solstice shadows, choking the Hollow in silver and sable. The hearth of Fell’s Rest was big enough to fit a hog, and the fire roared hot enough to roast one. The ancient oak timbers drank and held the heat and shone like burnished bronze. The taproom was filled with the soft susurrus of low conversation and the clatter of tableware as townsfolk ate, drank, and talked, holding the long night at bay with strained laughter and raised tankards. That was the way of things in those days. Fell’s Hollow rested at the edge of the world. Beyond the borders of its valley the forest waited: heavy, and dark, and old beyond measure. Old Raemond held court at the bar, as he always did on long nights, brandishing a foaming cup like a king would his scepter. He was in full swing, as was his way on long nights, telling a story old as the hills. “..and though the King of the Mists howled and cursed him, and fought with all his arts against him, Callum Fell knew the King’s true name, and so he could not break the bonds laid upon him. Fell bound his power against him and settled the last of the white stones. ‘This marks the border between our lands,’ he said, ‘As long as my power lasts and my descendants keep faith you shall not escape this ban, and they shall live in peace beyond your forest.’ The King could do nothing but bow his head and accept defeat. And that is how Fell’s Hollow came to be, and why we wear our white stones and iron circles, in memory of Callum’s wit and will.” Raemond’s audience of children cheered and begged for more stories as their parents ushered them into coats and hats to go home. Raemond felt a tug on his sleeve. He looked down. It was Juachim, the miller’s son. “M. Raemond, your story… was it true? Did it really happen that way, or is it just a fable like the Fox and the Mouse?” Raemond laughed, “Of course it happened, boy. My father told it to me, and his father to him, and so on back right to the days of Fell himself. A hundred generations of Hollow-men can’t be wrong, eh?” There was a loud, nasal snort from nearer the tavern’s door. Raemond turned his great, hairy head with a frown. It deepend when he saw the pinched face of Rearden, the preacher. “Don’t listen to him, boy,” the preacher sneered. Rearden’s voice was like the man himself: as thin, and straight, tightly wound as a fiddle-string. “‘Tis naught but the self-aggrandizing superstition of local lore-men, using their clever tongues to make a living off the generosity of earnest, God-fearing folk.” Raemond’s face began to flush darker, and not merely with drink. He’d never liked the God-botherer, not since he’d come to town these ten years past. He’d been trained in the Sacristy in the capital, but he’d been born in Rannish-town. The Hollow-men had no love for their distant neighbors: everyone knew that folk from that side of the river didn’t know their arse from their elbows in matters of lore. “Indeed,” the preacher warbled on, “It is only by the grace of God and our devotion to Him that this parish is spared the whims of the forest’s mists and shadows. Half-remembered culture heroes and their heathen ways will not protect your body or soul, young ones.” The parents hurried their charges along, no one wanted the children to see the preacher get his nose bloodied if the larger man decided to take offense. Raemond shifted his bulk off of his stool and reared to his full height, drawing in breath like a bellows to bellow at the narrow priest. His train of thought was interrupted by a sound. It wasn’t a large sound or a loud one, just a soft “Hmph.” But some sounds are much louder than their volume. A narrow, angular figure shuffled through the door, gently closing it behind her. A puff of thick mist, trapped by the closing door, sublimated in the warm light. The tap of a cane preceded the figure’s travel across the floor of the now-quiet tavern. There were a few mutters from the departing families: “G’night, Granny.” “Happy New Year, Ms. Gammage.” She fixed a gaze on Raemond and smiled a thin, tired smile. “You just set yourself down, young Raemond, and have another drink. Keep the cold out of you, it will. No use starting trouble with the young preacher.” The old storyteller sat, abashed as a boy caught stealing sweets, and waved at the landlord for another ale. Granny Gammage smiled at him, too, and asked him “Do you have my parcel ready, Donal?” “Aye Granny, same as every year,” he said, smiling back. It always did good to smile at Granny. The alternative didn’t bear thinking on. He piled a jar of brown sugar, half-a-dozen apples, a jar of honey, and a pat of butter into a basket and handed it over the bar, waving away the coins the old woman offered him. She smiled and wished him a Happy New Year as she shuffled out into the night. Rearden sneered. “I can think of no better evidence for this town’s Godless dissolution than the way you all dote on that old woman. No wonder you’re bedeviled with curses and creatures, that you support layabout spinsters; who, I might add, I’ve never seen at services.” The Sacristy taught its priests many things, and Rearden had studied many of them well, but he had clearly missed the lessons on how to read a room. Raemond was back on his feet, towering above the priest. Donal had come around from behind the bar, also scowling. “I think you’ve had enough tonight, Rearden,” he said, “You best get back home before the moon goes down. It’s an unsafe time, even for a Godly man.” Rearden glanced around, but found only stony faces devoid of sympathy. He mustered what dignity he could and stepped into the night. The town’s streets were deserted, empty but for the dark and mist. He trudged home, sullenly furious at the disrespect to his office and, therefore, to God. He noticed too late the mist thickening, growing spiney, fluted limbs and an insectoid face, reaching for him with clammy claws. He stumbled backwards, screams dying in his throat. He waved a hand in front of him, trying to disperse the mist. His hand passed through it and came away bloody, covered in stinging cuts. He fell, raised his arms, and tried to think of a warding prayer he’d learned in Sacristy. Nothing came to him. And then there was stillness. The monster looked above him and slowly backed away, dispersing into the night. Rearden huddled in the street, hearing nothing but his own breathing and the soft tap of a cane on frozen earth, moving slowly west towards the town’s edge. Granny Gammage bustled about her kitchen in the cottage closest to the forest. From the living room she could see the last of the white stones that marked the town’s border. Her home was old. Her great-aunt had left it to her, as her great-aunt had to her, and so on back farther than memory could reveal. There’d always been a woman like her in a cottage like this, doing the necessary work to keep the forest and town safe from one another. She reached into the iron stove with mitted hands and pulled out a fresh apple pie, rich with brown sugar. She carefully cut a slice from it and put it on a fine porcelain plate, which she put on a wooden tray next to a cup of tea sweetened with honey. She walked over to the window facing the forest and put the tray on the sill. After a short time a pair of diaphanous hands and slender, foggy arms lifted it away, back into the waiting dark. It would be returned by morning. It always was. Granny Gammage lit her pipe and sat down in her chair by the stove. Let the blustering men-folk of the town argue about their heroes and gods. Let them speak of wit and will and the church’s iron laws. The Gammage women have always known you catch more flies with honey.
|
|
#
?
Jan 22, 2024 04:56
|
|
|
Old Badger’s Sons 1286 words (Flash: A beat reporter in your tiny town is about to discover what's behind a sudden and markedly large uptick in suicides.) Content warning: Suicide. Badgerstone: The stones are still standing, and so are we! Badgerstone: Not just the suicide capital of the West Midlands! Actually, Charlie, you probably shouldn’t start with the headline anyway, come back to this when you’re done with the article. By Charles Burnham, Local Issues Reporter. Six weeks of reporting on suicides, you’d think it would be easy to write about something — anything — else but, staring at the mostly blank page with a deadline rapidly approaching, Charlie let his head sink slowly towards his desk, where it settled with a thud. Terry, editor-in-chief and the only other full-time employee of the Badgerstone Star, had instructed him to “Write something to pull the attention away from everyone offing themselves, readers are getting bored and miserable and the national papers are sniffing around, which is bad for business. Anyway, haven’t you already said all there is to say?” Terry was probably right. “All there is to say” didn’t amount to a whole lot. Badgerstone, population 13,036. Main attractions: A neolithic stone circle, an annual choir festival, and a charming pub built in the 15th century. It could also boast two historic churches, three schools, a bustling high street, and 17 confirmed suicides since the beginning of the year. A front page article every couple of days talking about “avoidable tragedies” with quotes from the police warning against “copycats” and a couple of numbers at the end to call “if you or someone you know needs help.” No answers, no closure, and no explanation for why nearly 20 people with no relation to one another would suddenly decide to end it all. His “voice of the street” research hadn’t been much help. According to locals, the spate of suicides (“It’s not a crisis, don’t call it a crisis!” Terry had yelled at him as he left the office that morning) was caused by: the pandemic, the immigrants, Brexit, Brussels, a decade of Tories in Government, the wokes, the pagans, or “Mad Alan down the way”. But still, better a racist tirade than the handful of times where the only answer he got was a distraught look or a muffled sob. Forehead still resting on his desk, he let out a long sigh. Writing another article about the — not a crisis, never a crisis — ‘current situation’ wouldn’t help, but ignoring it in favour of what was essentially an advertorial rubbed him the wrong way. No, he wouldn’t do it. gently caress it, what’s the worst that could happen? Terry’d fire him? Let him. He sat up, rotated his wrists a couple of times, and started typing. “In under two months, almost 20 people have taken their own lives in Badgerstone. Why? Maybe nobody can answer that question. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t ask.” There, that’s a start. Charlie sat back. Now he just… Well, now he just needed some answers. He had all the same data as everyone else. More, really. If there was something to be found, he could find it. He pulled out the printed copies of his notes, rifled through them, reading and re-reading and highlighting, searching for patterns, similarities, anything they had in common. Obituaries, biographies, autopsy reports. Transcripts of terse interviews with bereaved friends and devastated families. A map with little red pins marking the location of each death. Surreptitious photographs of suicide notes and — he felt a little stab of guilt at having taken these ones — a couple of dead bodies. A scrapbook of 17 lives cut short, and dozens of others left trying to fit the pieces back together. After three hours of research and note-taking, Charlie was left with two conclusions: Conclusion one: None of the deceased were what you’d normally describe as being a high risk of suicide. Sure, “you never really know” and all that, but statistically speaking, you’d have expected at least one of them to have been depressed, or in financial trouble, or any of the dozen other clichéd warning signs. Conclusion two: The deceased had nothing in common except geographic proximity. They had all lived and died within seven miles of Badgerstone town centre. Trying very hard to not think about red string, cork boards, and conspiracies, he took the map down off of the wall and started measuring. Distance between neighbouring sites? No correlation. Drawing lines between sites in chronological order, like the world’s most macabre connect-the-dots puzzle? No correlation, and a slight sense of embarrassment combined with the fervent hope that nobody would walk in on him while he was doing this. Continuing to feel a bit silly, he took some string — perfectly normal white string, thank you very much — and used it to connect outlying sites to their most distant counterparts on the opposite sides of town. To his surprise, they were all evenly spaced — six miles apart. And all the strings crossed over at the same point. Working quickly, excitement and anxiety mingling in the pit of his stomach, he drew a circle on the map, six miles in diameter, around the sites. Working inwards, he started connecting sites. All of them crossed over the same point. Old Badger’s Sons, the neolithic stone circle near the middle of town. Charlie laughed nervously, pulled all the strings, redrew the circle, checked and checked again. All within seven miles of the middle of town, but all within six miles of the stones. He pulled up the wikipedia page for the stones, and realised with an unpleasant jolt that they were arranged exactly the same way as the suicide locations. Conclusion three: Correlation isn’t causation. Also this is insane. But it’s all I’ve got to go on. Twenty minutes later, he was standing at the edge of the common. It was hard to make out the stones in the dim evening light, but he’d lived in Badgerstone all his life, he knew what they looked like. Eighteen remaining fallen stones, broadly arranged in three concentric circles around a central one — the only one still standing. There were half a dozen or so other people around the place, dog-walkers taking advantage of a rare clear evening, chilly but not too cold, a couple on a romantic winter stroll, a jogger out for a run, but they all seemed quite distant as he approached the stone circle. He shivered, but he wasn’t sure if it was because of the weather. He walked up to the nearest stone — matched on his map by Jonathan Avebury, he thought — reached out, and pressed his palm against it. He hissed, quickly pulled his hand away. It was freezing, so cold that it hurt to touch. He kept moving towards the middle of the circle, passing other fallen stones — Charlotte Craddock, Meg Blakey, Thom Burnmoor — until he reached the standing stone. He couldn’t see anyone else now, and felt very alone. Had it always been so foggy tonight? The wind was picking up and whispering Hello. through the stones and across the common. You are early. You are in the wrong place. You should not be here yet. This will not do at all. He jumped, heart thundering, and started to run. He collided with a fallen stone — Leslie Porlock — and went down hard, falling forwards and rolling to a halt. Do not worry. Charlie felt a thin hand on his shoulder, then found himself being hauled to his feet. A day or two does not matter. Something brushed the dirt from his back. Best be on your way now. I will see you again soon. You know where your place is. And he walked off in a daze, noting with only mild interest as he passed the stone that would soon be Charlie Burnham.
|
|
#
?
Jan 22, 2024 05:37
|
|
|
Smiling Henry’s Antique Mall Word Count: 1478 Your tiny town's antique store has a hidden back room that sells Things You Ought Not be Able to Buy. There was a part of me happy to be back at Smiling Henry’s Antique Mall, the folksy gem of Westcott, Missouri’s historic downtown. Not that I thought much of it growing up. Most of the time spent was in the parking lot, under the grinning cowboy mural on the side, teaching my little brother how to sell pot. Early step of the path that led me to prison on a B&E charge, and Greggy Boy to somewhere much scarier. The sulfur odor almost suffocates me from the moment I enter. I wonder if whatever dark magick that got my brother killed figured I’d be a good one to follow next. I wonder if the devil himself lays in wait, knowing I’d be dumb enough to wanna bring Greggy back. But honestly, this stink’s an upgrade. The place usually smells like mothballs and cedar wood. ”Samuel!” Old Miss Edith shouts as I drag over the store counter, a .38 snub nose pointed towards her head. “Samuel Liddel! You stop this right now!” There’s enough of the old woman I remember to give me pause. She scolds me like she would me and my brother growing up. He’d always get us caught shoplifting. Greggy would always fill his pockets a little too full trying to impress me. Hell, back then, he kinda did. “I’m just gonna ask you one more time, Miss Edith. Show me al-Hazred’s gold.” A crowd of thrifting retirees starts to gather from the mismatched, dusty cakes shelves. Their expressions blank as they shamble into a semi-circle around the counter. Miss Edith desperately points towards them, shouting Latin commands they echo with a chant. Loose glassware and porcelain rattle as they outstretch their arms. A few Paul Anka records and bigoted jockey figurines fall to the floor as the shop begins to quake. Just as I feel the creep of electricity begin to pull at my muscles, surely meant to shred them from the inside, I squeeze off a shot through Miss Edith’s throat. The bullet passed straight through, hitting the commemorative serve tray she had displayed by the register. It lands right on the hat of that same grinning cowboy, right under the old timey font text reading Thank you, Henry Westcott. “Next one’s in your brain!” I shout, moving the barrel to the old woman’s temple. “Now move!” She staggers upright pretty quickly for someone who just took a slug to the gullet. Her eyes go white as black bile pours from the open wound. The rest of the old folk cult don’t put up much of a fight. If the wound didn’t break whatever connection she had with them, the noise did. They eat collapse in turn as I push Miss Edith. She claws at me best she can, but this ain’t the first time I’ve used a human shield. “You’re a little poo poo, Samuel!” she hisses at me. “You and that little bastard brother! Worthless shits!” My stomach churns when she mentions Greggy Boy. I get pissed for a minute. But then something in my gut drops. I feel the muscles in my face sink and my limbs tremble slightly. I shake myself out of it, swallowing the sad and focusing on the angry. “Yeah, whatever. Keep moving.” I push her to the back of the store, in a little corner decorated with that same cheerful cowboy, his beaming grin watching from velvet paintings and wooden cigar store statues. A place of honor for the town founder, I guess. From kindergarten on in this town, you’re taught the story of Henry Westcott. From local fairs to parades, you’ve heard the story about the friendly rancher who saved an unnamed trading post from the mysterious caravan from the East. I got to play caravan leader Ahathoor al-Hazred in a middle school play, wearing a costume that looking back even makes my rotten rear end blush. If you went to school in the 20th century, al-Hazred was often called a bandit or a warlock. Most recent generations have picked a different word, judging from the “Kicking terrorist rear end since 1876” t-shirt on display. But the point is, Westcott killed the travelers, using their treasure to build the town that bears his name. What I didn’t know, until I started shaking branches, is that al-Hazred had some very old wares. And Smiling Henry himself got interested in a business very different than ranching. Miss Edith waves her hand as I push the revolver into her head. A section of the stucco wall vanishes, revealing a staircase leading into what appears to be a dungeon. I push her through. The sulfur odor fades into a headache inducing mass of bitter spices and incense. The splintered wooden shelves are covered in cobwebs. One set adorned by urns or gold and clay. Another of skulls, some human, some animal, some I can only assume. Tanned hides and scales hang from hooks. Glass vials of questionable fluids are set near an old rear end chemistry set. Me and the old lady push down the torch lit stacks. Then I see it. At the end of the center row of shelves stands a glass display case. A human body missing limbs stands inside with its chest open. Miss Edith manages to slip away while I approach, transfixed on what’s left of the face poor bastard inside. It’s been cut apart, but enough remains for me to recognize the face of my younger brother. Christ, I think to myself, what happened to you? “Kid couldn’t keep his nose where it belonged,” Miss Edith says, her black wound already closed. “but he was also a fast learner. Careless little punk was too busy pulling cheap scams and pissing off the wrong he didn’t realize how powerful of mage he became. Oh well… at least we can sell his body parts as artifacts.” I feel nauseous. I want to break down. Here I was thinking hard time and hard living numbed me to that poo poo. But the only thing that horrifies me more than that preserved corpses scraped for parts is the reflection of the sorry bastard that led him here. “Open the case,” I shout at the old woman. ”What are you going to do, Samuel?” ”You’re gonna bring him back.” ”No, I’m not.” I point the snubnose. “Yes you are.” Edith doesn’t flinch. ”Where’s your stash?” My stash? She laughs at my obvious confusion. “You’re telling me a crook like you doesn’t have a money bag hidden somewhere outside town? I’m not going to bring your brother back. But if we work out a deal, I can show you how.” Her voice softens towards the end, sounding more like the Miss Edith that never quite had the nerve to ban two little thieves from her store. I lower the gun. “You got a pen?” # Miss Edith gives me a package. Even helps me get my brother’s body into the car. I take it to the edge of town, well pass the jewel town facades and technicolor flowerpots of Westcott’s “historic” downtown. Into the abandoned Restoration-era factories and half demolished grain silos you don’t see on the highway billboards. This is where you hid after you held up a liquor store or knocked over the downtown bank. Dragging Greggy’s corpse into the old stove company felt like a homecoming for us. I lay the body out as Miss Edith instructed, placing the candles and six shooter bullets at the exact points around it. I put on the ceremonial cloak and the white Stetson. The radio of my rental car plays the old country classic. ”Ride on,” the 30’s crooner sings. “Henry Westcott! Point your iron and shoot al-Hazred dead.” The old lady’s cursive gives me trouble, but I manage to recite the Latin phrases she has written down. One of the bullets pops with a flash. The smoke fills the old building, and I see him. A silhouette in a ten gallon hat approaches, his white teeth glowing from his smiling face. I freeze only for a second before finding the English half of her instructions. “Hail to you, Lord Henry Westcott,” I read aloud from the paper. “I beseech thee with humility and graciousness to ask—“ In a flash, he quick-draws on me. The world goes white as I feel the impact against my chest. I leave my feet, but I do not fall. It doesn’t occur to me that I am floating until an image forms before me. A dark human form takes shape and I realize I have left my body, which crawls to its feet over my brother’s mangled corpse. The ring of the blast still echoes in my ears, but through the rattle I hear my voice. ”Holy poo poo,” my body says, as it crawls towards Greggy Boy’s corpse. “That’s me.”
|
|
#
?
Jan 22, 2024 05:53
|
|
|
The what in my cave? 800 words “A hard hat? Those tunnels are so tall that we can walk through standing. I don’t think we need to worry about head protection tonight.” “The tunnels we’ve seen were tall, yeah, but who knows what they get like deeper in? I’m just looking out for the health of that magnificent brain of yours, Jonathon.” Becky gives me a smile almost bright enough that we could use it as a flashlight before she gently drops it on my head anyway. I shrug and go back to looking over our equipment for tonight. Multiple light sources? Check. Chalk to mark our path? Check. Bottled water? Energy bars? Double check. As I mark each item off Becky’s list, I place them in the backpacks we’re re-purposing since school won’t start again until after Labor Day and it’s barely August. Once we’re done getting three packs ready, I stand up to pull Becky to her feet. Her joints get stiff if she’s in one position for too long. A few seconds of her warmth this close to me will never not feel surreal. Before it lasts longer a car honks outside Becky’s house, she grabs her bag, I grab the other two, and we rush to a waiting pale purple Fiat. It’s the only car like it in town. “Yo, Batman and Robin, did you get it all?” our driver asks the instant our doors close. “Yes, Ryan,” Becky and I said in unison. With that, Ryan was off, her foot impatiently speeding us across Green Bluffs in less time than it took us to get through Bohemian Rhapsody. A bluff’s like a mesa, just smaller, and the three of us know every trail and cave we have access to on the one that gives our hometown its name. When a new one, perfectly half-oval, appeared literally overnight last week, we spent a whole Saturday chilling outside it in case whoever made it decided to appear. Only when the sun began to set did we get up the nerve to venture inside. It was too drat dark to see anything, of course, so we left to regroup and try again this afternoon once we had a few supplies gathered. Ryan parks. “I’m leaving a note on the dash in case we don’t come out,” Becky says, as practical as ever. “I thought your anxiety was better lately,” Ryan says with rolled eyes. “This is better than I was. Besides, I’m only doing what Dad does when he goes hunting.” “Fine, fine. Your dad does it so of course it’s the good thing,” Ryan mutters, but doesn’t take the paper off once it’s placed. She doesn’t lock the car so people can actually get in if something happens. Nobody’s going to steal something this distinct and everyone knows her father is chief of police. Becky takes point and before I have a chance to choose Ryan steps in between us. “You’re both bigger than me.” “You’re just jealous puberty hasn’t hit yet,” I tease and step out of range of a half-serious slap. I’ve had plenty of practice doing that – we’ve known each other since sixth grade. Gravel crunches under our feet. The passage widens enough to let Becky and Ryan walk next to each other for a couple of minutes before the darkness outside of our head lamps shrinks claustrophobically small in both dimensions possible. A cold breeze whistles over our heads in an unreal rhythm while we crunch, crunch, crunch deeper in the gloom. In the first “room” we come across after long minutes of tunnels, I reach behind me for my backpack. “Guys let’s take a break here while we can. Who knows when we’ll find a spot like this again?” I say. “Good idea, Jon,” I hear from Becky while Ryan’s light moves up and down at me. We rest against the rock walls, grab our waters and bars, and eat in unusual silence. If we were anywhere else having a snack there’d be a couple of conversations going between all three of us. But each of us decided not to interrupt the wind’s monologue. Ryan’s brave enough to go in front this time. She doesn’t get to do it long, though, before the tunnels widens into the largest cavern we’d seen since entering. It reaches up higher than a church ceiling and plunges down to inky water I can only now hear drip, drip, drip. The dripping and blowing wind fall silent only for another, odder sound I struggle to place. It’s definitely metal connecting with something but the rest of the noise isn’t familiar. I step away from the girls and swing my head lamp in the direction of the sound. What I can only describe as a dwarf straight out of some bad fantasy novel comes into view.
|
|
#
?
Jan 22, 2024 05:56
|
|
|
PILF 776 words “Ant colonies with multiple fertile queens can on occasion grow to enormous size, resulting in a vast nexus of social units that breed and grow on their own but remain connected…one supercolony of Formica Yessensis, located on the Ishikari Coast near Hokkaido, Japan and discovered in 1979 by Seigo Higashi and Katsusuke Yamauchi, contains an estimated 306 million workers and one million queens, living in over 45,000 interconnected nests…” - Hölldobler and Wilson, “Observed Patterns in Social Homeostasis. Among Genus Formica”, 1993 Ixl hurried down the cramped tunnel, guided by the frail spectre of musk that still peppered the sandy floor. It had been over an hour since her last encounter with anyone on this little-used route, a file of bedraggled harvesters that had bustled past her in some distress: HOME WRONG HOME HOME WRONG Whatever that meant. This was not uncommon; workers who strayed from the central hub of burrows for too long devolved quickly into more abbreviated communications, their glands automatically abandoning production of all but the most economical pheromones. The results often bordered on nonsensical. HOME WRONG WRONG WRONG It was nonetheless disquieting, and Ixl quickened her pace, her antennae busily mappeing the path ahead. She was well past familiar ground out here. CckLyckLk, the subcolony to which she’d been dispatched, was positioned dangerously close to a stretch of soggy meadow that had aggressively quashed all attempts at expansion. Though the soil here was rich and soaked with nutrients, there were far too many predators, both spiders and wasps posing a menace so formidable that the entire region had been exempted from any plans for the upcoming migration. Ixl half-expected CckLyckLk to be overrun or abandoned, but as she rounded a shallow bend the tunnel widened, and she sensed the familiar branching of arteries to her left and right. The trails of scent were strong and clean here: storage sub-chambers to the left, hatcheries down and to the right. She was comforted to sense movement as well, the somnolent thrumming of activity above and below, less audible than tactile, registered by the fine hairs that speckled her abdomen. Over a shallow rise she entered the main chamber, and here at last was company. The last reliable estimate of CckLyckLk’s population placed the worker count at around 3,000, but since then communications had dwindled before stopping altogether, prompting Ixl’s dispatch. Based on the activity Ixl saw in the main chamber, it seemed clear that the colony had shrunk significantly, perhaps by as much as half. Those workers she saw, though, seemed in good health, large and well-fend. The dusky red bristles lining their ridged legs that identified all Hokkaido colony members were thick and mottled, a sign both of consistent nutrition and general social harmony. A colony worker separated from the flow of languid motion to approach her. Ixl flexed her pincers and inclined her head, allowing the worker’s antennae to tap hers with a respectful curiosity. MUCH WELCOME! COME FROM NORTH, FROM NORTH. COME NEST, FOOD FOOD WORK, FOOD It was a relief after the somewhat harrowing journey, a far more nuanced exchange than the babble of the workers on the trail. Ixl was famished. She allowed her host to escort her through the throng of colonists to a larder off the main trail, stuffed with an array of fungus and nectars. Ixl gorged herself s her host did likewise. She noticed that he, too, seemed larger than normal, the product of steady eating and comfortable living. WHERE FOOD TAKE? She tapped, curious as to how the small colony had managed to procure such a bounty. A larder this rich was had enough to maintain without the constant shadow of attack; Ixl wanted to know how they managed it. FOOD TAKE GROUND NEST, WHERE? FOOD COMES, the worker answered agreeably enough. COLONY OUTSIDE BRING ALL FOOD INSIDE, ALL EAT. WHERE QUEEN? Ixl asked uneasily. NO QUEEN. SKY MOTHER. COME! Her host guided her to a smooth and wide tunnel that descended to what Ixl assumed ws the queen’s chamber. There was no queen. The wasp that lay in her place was massive, swollen with gluttony. It hung suspended by slender threads of gossamer silk over the chamber. The huge stinger pulsed dreamily, exuding drops of clear venom the size of Ixl’s head. NEW MOTHER NEW GOOD MOTHER proclaimed the worked proudly. SAFE WARM NEW MOTHER GOOD NOT QUEEN, protested Ixl, and bared her pincers reflexively. It was a huge mistake. Triggered by the instinctual display of aggression, the watching soldiers emerged from alcoves, their long wings arched high, their wasp bodies bristliing with dusky red hairs. NEW MOTHER GOOD, proclaimed the worker cheerfully.
|
|
#
?
Jan 22, 2024 05:59
|
|
|
Submissions closed approximately 7.5 hours ago. Thanks to everybody who submitted a story! Hoping to have stuff turned around relatively quickly.
|
|
#
?
Jan 22, 2024 13:32
|
|
|
 Thunderdome Week DXCVIII: Judgement It was Small Towns with Big Secrets week in Thunderdome, and, as someone who lives in a small town, I was looking forward to seeing how folks interpreted that prompt. I don't know that I expected to see such wild variety! It turned out to be welcome in some cases, unwelcome in others. First, let's get some of the more unsavory stuff out of the way: Dishonorable Mentions Falling Richards, by Flyerant — I really don't like having to say that this was the raining dicks story the judges had less of an issue with, because it means there were two raining dicks stories. No Glove No Love, by The Cut of Your Jib — There was a mild bit of disagreement over whether this story deserved to get lumped in with Falling Richards, but ultimately the judges couldn't overlook baffling prose and a difficult-to-discern plot. Loser Becoming Ahab, by Flyerant — I dunno what to tell you, bud. These ain't even close to it, and this one was somehow leagues worse than the other. One of the judges has reminded me to remind Sitting Here to assign the new losertar and update the linking url within. Oh! And I'm gonna call out BabyRyoga and Vinny Possum, who both failed to submit this week. We shall never know the fates of your tiny towns, and that makes me sad. Finally, while we decided not to hit Lord Zedd-Repulsa's The what in my cave? with a loss, dishonorable mention, or disqualification, we did want to call out that it's ... not a complete story. Kind of a baffling thing, really. Okay, onto more positive stuff. I want to stress that while there was a bit of discussion — though no particularly hard disagreement — over the eventual winner, the judges were able to very easily nail down a top three. Three of y'all were just head and shoulders above the competition this week, and between you, things were extremely tight. So, with no further ado: Honorable Mentions Thirteen Things, by Thranguy — This thing was a blast, and if it were a little more cohesive I'm pretty sure it would've run away with this week handily. Eat Dirt, by SurreptitiousMuffin — Some of the most disturbing and well-realized imagery we got this week, hands down. Just a powerhouse of a piece. Much like Thirteen Things, this is just a little bit of revision away from being something really special. Winner Everybody give it up for Bitter Water, by Staggy! I think there are arguments to be made that Thirteen Things and Eat Dirt both took bigger swings than this piece did, but what it ultimately came down to was: When I came up with this prompt, a story like this is precisely what I had in mind. I had a big dumb smile on my face while reading it. Okay, that's it for me. Big thanks to Uranium Phoenix and curlingiron for their co-judging services. They are the bee's knees, and should be regarded as such.
|
|
#
?
Jan 23, 2024 00:27
|
|
|
Toaster Beef's crits for Thunderdome Week DXCVIII Epiphaneia, by beep-beep car is go In terms of small-towniness, I feel this is solid. I also appreciate that it flowed (no pun intended) so well — made for a breezy read. While there are definitely things I’d tighten up, I do enjoy the voice. I’m not too invested in any of the characters, really (and I don’t think you intended for us to become too invested in any of ‘em), but the Big Problem that they’re swarming around like ants is fascinating. Here’s where I hit a snag: I don’t think you needed to spell things out, re: the body in the water tower. I think this instantly becomes a much better story if you just leave that for the reader to infer. Moreover, I think the detail about this whole thing delaying Armageddon wasn’t necessary and maybe flies a bit against the prompt itself — creating a scope too large for a week where I’m curious about small towns and their small-town problems. Do I love the idea of these bumpkins being all that stands between us and the end of the world? Absolutely. But I dunno if this was the story for it. I guess another thing would be, structurally, I’m just not sure this was the most interesting way to tell this story. There’s a fun narrative here, and it’s just kinda … presented to us. I definitely didn’t hate it, but I find myself wanting to see this premise tackled in another way. Falling Richards, by Flyerant This is really, really dumb, even by my standards, and I'm a fond appreciator of really dumb things. I’m not gonna spend too much time critiquing this, though I will note that if your punchline revolves around the realization that your protagonist’s name is Richard, it definitely doesn’t behoove the piece to make Richard the very first word of the story. In terms of how this approaches this week’s prompt, I think really the only nod to it you have in here — and it’s not much of one — is that the old lady’s sly about keeping this whole thing a secret. Which, like … how? This was a joke in search of a week to be delivered in. I dunno, I'm just rambling now. “Vote Republican, then?” got a snort out of me. No Glove No Love, by The Cut of Your Jib This week’s theme was clearly inspired by King, and I do think there’s a vestige of that macabre horror to be found here. I appreciate that. I also appreciate how much this brings me back to Disco Elysium, of all things, even down to the brief anti-capitalist nod. That said, Disco Elysium had way, way, way more cohesion. I don’t know that hits the small-town vibe I was looking for, and I have to confess to getting a little bit … lost. I’m getting lots and lots of brilliant details and vivid imagery — the grossness of your final line hits like a truck — but I’m not entirely sure what’s actually going on. There’s a trap I fall into very easily with short stories, where I’ll have some crystallized event in my head that I know I want to end up at and it’ll lead me to writing pieces that amount to “a guy goes to a place and a thing happens to him,” and in my opinion, that’s kind of what’s going on here. On a technical level, there are bits and pieces here I keep getting hung up on. For example, your entire first paragraph. I don’t know what to make of the descriptions, I don’t know what purpose they serve, and it’s ultimately pretty distracting. Becoming Ahab, by Flyerant It feels weird to say this, but: I liked your other story about raining dicks far, far more. I do think there was a little bit of joy to be found in the final line revealing that the rest of this was purposefully a little off, but other than that … eh. Bitter Water, by Staggy I adored this. One of the things I worried about with this prompt was that I was railroading people into horror or just setting us up for a whole bunch of Twin Peaks fanfiction, and this has a little bit of both — but in a way that demonstrates an understanding of the exact vibe I was looking for. Your descriptions of the diner (that bastion of small-town life) are exceptional, your approach to the flash is nicely understated, and I thought the addition of coffee-as-deterrent was not only fun but also helped add to the tension right there toward the end. Since I’m afforded the opportunity to pick nits, if I wanted to nail down a flaw in this story I think it would simply come down to everybody being a character we’ve seen a million times over. I’ll undermine myself a bit here and note that the prompt does kinda push folks in that direction, so it’s not anything I’d deduct hugely for, but it’s definitely something I picked up on. Had a lot of fun with this one. Thanks for submitting it. Eat Dirt, by SurreptitiousMuffin When I made this flash I had Buffy on the mind, and this delivered. I appreciate what it was trying to do, and in a lot of ways I think it’s a lovely little success. In a week with its fair share of horror, there are concepts and bits of imagery here that really stand out. That’s absolutely to be commended. So is the style of the prose, I think, though it’s surely not going to be everybody’s cup of tea. I love the breathlessness of it, the feeling like it could be getting relayed to me, funnily enough, through a fast-speaking TikTok personality. I don’t know if that was the intent, but it’s how it read to me, and you get points for that, so take the W. There are some issues here on a technical level (typos, etc.), and they don’t stand out as much as they would in more standard prose but they’re still a factor. And while there’s a narrative in here, for sure, I feel like efforts to polish this piece would involve, to some extent, bringing it a little bit more to the fore. Honestly though, my complaints are few and far between. This was a really fun read. Thirteen Things, by Thranguy Ugh, man, there’s so much I absolutely love about this. I deeply appreciate how you’re living in the spirit of the prompt, understanding that some of the most fascinating small-town stories are the ones that are nearly microscopic in scope. Each of these snapshots could be teased out into their own proper short stories/narratives, and that speaks to your ability to do a whole lot with very little. Excellent work on that front. What I’m missing here, I think — and it’s maybe the only real flaw I’d feel is worth pointing out, but it’s a big’un — is more connective tissue between these pieces. It’s nothing that needs to be super heavy-handed, but as it stands some of these bits feel more relevant than others and that inconsistency gets a little distracting. You’ve got such an interesting premise at the heart of this small town’s miserable secrets, I’d love to see it woven throughout just a little bit more. Still, excellent stuff. Vinegar and Honey, by Slightly Lions Just gonna go ahead and say it: To me, this was the best entry this week that didn't win or get an HM. This is exceptionally well written and takes the prompt in a fun, unique direction. I love your attention to detail. It helps crystallize this setting and these characters in my mind’s eye — which, even though a lot of the aforementioned tread on well-trodden ground, is welcome and appreciated. I love that I can feel and smell this place. I want to draw special attention to two lines that are among the best I read this entire week: “Rearden’s voice was like the man himself: as thin, and straight, tightly wound as a fiddle-string.” and “The Sacristy taught its priests many things, and Rearden had studied many of them well, but he had clearly missed the lessons on how to read a room.” I think my only bone of contention is I wish you would have laid a little more groundwork for the old woman and her impact on things. It’s a lovely (and entertaining) little surprise at the end, for sure, but as I look through the — again, exceptionally done — descriptions in the first half or so of this piece, I feel as though some of that could have been pared back in the name of setting up the punchline (as it were). Old Badger’s Sons, by cptn_dr This is charming as hell, and well-written, albeit a bit rushed (but hey, 1,500 words). I think that last bit is at the crux of what I’d consider this entry’s weakness: We breeze through an awful lot of stuff — some of it deeply interesting and worth pausing for — on our way to the end of the piece, and even then, we can’t be entirely sure what’s happening here. What I’d suggest, because there’s definitely some great stuff going on here, is either expanding upon this or drilling down into one scene and building that out into its own short piece. As it stands, you have something that’s really neat but lacking a bit in impact. That said, as I opened with: this is charming as hell, and well-written. I had a smile on my face as the entity picked Charlie up and said “this won’t do at all” — something very funny to me about an ostensibly evil spirit being thrown off schedule and responding with indignant grace. I enjoyed this one quite a bit. Smiling Henry’s Antique Mall, by CaligulaKangaroo So, here’s what I like: You absolutely nailed the look and feel of the real-life small-town antique store that inspired this flash prompt. Your descriptive language is crisp and exacting, your vision — the scope for this piece — is impressive, and you’ve got some really solid horror imagery going on here. What I’m a little less wild about is it all feels pretty rushed. You’re introducing a ton of things here, some of which are immense, in a rapid-fire manner, and it detracts from the story’s overall clarity and drive. There are individual elements here that could each be teased out into their own short pieces. There’s also the matter where rushing through things means we don’t get enough time to establish the relationship between the protagonist and the old lady, which means (especially given her … whole thing) we don’t have any reason to trust her anywhere near as much as the protagonist is apparently trusting her, which undermines your ending a bit. Despite all the criticisms, I don’t hate this! I just wish you’d pulled the lens in tighter, is all. The what in my cave?, by Lord Zedd-Repulsa I like the mood you’re setting here, and for what little we got to know some of the folks involved, I like them, too. I also like that while you didn’t do a whole lot of world-setting here — and a chunk of what’s there is done with kind of a heavy hand — you were thoughtful to include some small-town details (everybody knows that particular car, etc.). So that much is nice. The problem I’m running into is this isn’t really much of a story. What you have here feels like more of an act one, and that incompleteness haunts this whole thing. Even then, I wouldn’t consider that immediately disqualifying if we were being introduced to the right characters or concepts or worldbuilding to make a snapshot of a story sing, but that’s not what we’re getting, here. You had another 700 words to work with, if you wanted to use ‘em, and the decision not to is a little perplexing. PILF, by Rivetz This is a really neat take on the prompt, and I want to commend you for that. It’s creative, it’s interestingly presented, and it carries this piece. Chipping in on carrying the piece are your descriptive chops, which help drop us into this deeply foreign world in such a way that we don’t feel lost or confused by any of the complexity around us. Just great stuff, there, and I liked it. I do think what we have here is something of a snapshot, though, rather than a proper story, and that’s not inherently a huge problem but does prove problematic because the snapshot we’re given doesn’t have the impact it needs to really drive this home. That’s not to say it’s a waste of space or anything — like I said, there’s a whole lot here to enjoy — so much as it’s just not quite what I’m looking for.
|
|
#
?
Jan 23, 2024 00:44
|
|
|
Crits for Week #598 beep-beep car is go - Epiphaneia: First, the quibbles: Trust your reader to know words like “sangria.” Condescending to define a term that common is a bit insulting. You continue this with major plot points. Hmm, some guy who’s turning water to wine that the Catholic Church is really interested in? Better tell your readers exactly who that is. Years, when listed partially, need an apostrophe at the front, like so: ‘99 or ‘78. A small town grandparent involved in the Catholic church would know the long white garment is called a “vestment.” Next, I don’t think the best way to tell this story is a rambling second person. I think the story was going for a humorous take on small town secrets, because the narrator speaks with levity, but there’s not really any funny parts. The story would do better to put us in the dramatic moments. I don’t see what purpose telling the story years later adds. Your biggest clue this is a problem is you have your character say “I promise this is going somewhere.” This feels to me you must know your story is rambling. You can easily cut huge chunks off the intro, as they aren’t characterizing anyone important or progressing the story at all, nor are they simply nice to read like flash fiction that plays with prose does (see “Vinegar and Honey” and “Thirteen Things” for examples this week of this kind of solidly written prose that stands on its own). Finally, it feels like the story skips over the interesting things. What’s it like for the town to lose water as the Vatican descends on the town? What dramatic tension exists between the people as they struggle with the secret? Do people question their faith? Do people try to not go along with the cover-up? What happens to them? That’s if the story is going to be dramatic. If you’re going for humor, you need to have more ridiculous things. Funny arguments. A priest arguing with his flock that, no, they aren’t allowed to have sangria as part of communion instead of wine. More shenanigans are needed overall, and again, that’s best displayed in another point of view. Flyerant - Falling Richards: I don’t really want to spend more time critiquing this story than you did writing it, so let me just say: I used judgemode to read, so this was the second of your raining dicks story I read this week, and neither made me laugh. I don’t really have any advice for how to write humor consistently, but I can tell you this didn’t land. Given that there is literally nothing else to the story than a single setup and punchline, I have no other advice to give here. See your second crit for the rest. The Cut of Your Jib - No Glove No Love: When I read this story, I thought for sure this was a new entrant and English was not their first language. Structurally, in the grammatical sense, there’s a lot of weird choices that feel wrong, and it’s been too long since I diagrammed a sentence for me to explain it using technical terms. This is another story where I can’t tell if it’s going for horror or humor. Let’s list some examples of sentences: “As he extended his hand to the innkeeper, Bart Waller was balding,” feels like an entry for the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest. It sounds like he’s going bald as he extends his hand. “Sharon worked through her real or feigned rustic anxiety with the little box computer and printed molecules onto the door card that would let Bart meet his bed for the hot date he had been dreaming of since he got on the disease box they called a 737 half a day ago.” You’re cramming like four separate ideas that have nothing to do with each other together. Sharon is anxious, Bart is thinking about meeting someone, she’s getting his key card ready, also he got off a plane on his way here. What a mess! “With the key, she handed him a half-liter brown bottle with a cork.” This sentence is structured so weird. Why not, “She handed him the key and a half-liter of [alcohol goes here]”? The double negative on “smashed his head with the mantle piece”—why? WHY? WHY USE A DOUBLE NEGATIVE?? You don’t use drills to do tattooing. Is it a drill or a needle gun? It’s one or the other, please pick. Okay, let’s move on to the overall story: It seems to me the idea is to establish that Bart is in a small town checking into an Inn but the vibes are off. But this is described in such a way I have trouble even following this simple action. Why would Bart expect Sharon’s hand to pass through Richard? If he’s expecting that, it might be worth cluing your readers into why. If you’re trying to ramp up tension by making the simple interactions here seem creepy, it didn’t land at all. The mood is further undermined by the baffling sentence structure and the strange tangents the story dives off into, like “he just got off the 737 disease box” or “Coca Cola? You mean Capitalist Scum Syrup??? Fascists!” I don’t know why a guy would fly to Switzerland to investigate a comic book artist, and the story only sort of implies why this might be interesting after the story has already taken its turn. As the story progresses, I wondered why Bart was trying to steal Shannon away from her husband… because she has… comic book artist tattoos? In the end, some creepy things happen. But by the time they do, I’m already checked out of the story, and the first 2/3s of the story haven’t properly set up the last third. At this point, I've given you a lot of critiques that amount to the same word: clarity. I don't know how to properly convey that the thing happening in your head is not the thing you're actually writing, and I don't know how to get you to see what you've actually written and how confusing it is. It's a bit discouraging at this point. Flyerant - Becoming Ahab: I got to read this “raining dicks” story first. I guess this is the second version of the story. At the time, I didn’t realize it was the same author. This story doesn’t work either. Like the first story you wrote, this one seems to have been written in a rush, as you have basic grammar errors. Maybe don’t rush two sub-par stories out, and instead spend time making one good? Just a thought. Next, if you’re going to have a scientist character, please do a bit of brief Googling to get even the basics right. If the desert air is at 1% relative humidity, and it then goes to 3% relative humidity, that’s an increase of 300%, which is not very impressive. Also, deserts periodically get rain storms, even if they’re rare, but this is a known occurrence. A hydrometer is for “…measuring density or relative density of liquids based on the concept of buoyancy.” The term you’re looking for is actually “Hygrometer.” My trust in an author to deliver a good story goes down when they butcher basic science, since it already feels less like the characters are real. By the way, everything I just mentioned is literally 6th grade science and one Google search away, so I’m not asking for an in-depth understanding, I really do mean basics. By the time we get past the lazy science errors, the only thing I know is humidity is higher than normal, an area that is usually dry is not, and the pH of the water is higher than normal. This is probably the least interesting mystery in the world. In the end, none of that matters. You’ve predicated your entire story on the ending being funny, because it’s missing a plot and the characters are flat. But it’s not funny. Like, even if I’d read these in the order you posted them, you already made the exact same joke. But standing alone, the setup here is completely lackluster. It feels like I’ve just had a bunch of my time wasted by bothering to turn on judge-mode and try to read the stories this week seriously. Staggy - Bitter Water: This story has some solid parts to it. The plot is introduced quickly: A man’s gone missing, and now there’s an investigation. Lines like “Emma’s lad”, are good, and get us that small-town vibe. As the investigation continues, it’s clear something is being protected, and the town is “in” on the secret and willing to conspire to keep it. Small pieces like the coffee seem innocuous, but coffee ends up being the critical “mermaid-away” that keeps them safe. What could improve? While the story was highly functional, it didn’t really have anything that made it stand out. What could help? Some more depth to the characters. A bit more effort put into the descriptions. Some more attention to dialogue. Something to make it stand out. I also wondered why they’re protecting the lake-predator mermaid (as a note, I was a bit sad the flash rule spoiled it, but that’s not your fault). It’s not like they knew they’d need to get rid of the rich guy earlier, and this is obviously a long term secret. Nitpick: I don’t buy it’s cold enough for snow and so humid it feels clingy. That seems contradictory. But as I said, overall a fine story, but needs some more to elevate it. Still, this was certainly a solidly written story and while I didn't push for it to win, I certainly didn't protest either as it did what it set out to do quite well. SurreptitiousMuffin - Eat Dirt: First, do a quick check for typos. A few snuck in, like a run-on sentence. Onto the story: Is this humor or horror? “Teen eats the spooky dirt and becomes slenderman-style tall and then won’t stop making tik-toks even after 100 phones are locked away” is funny. But then the story goes into their “dreams of being hunted.” You can go for both, and I don’t know there’s enough room in the story to have both land. So, students do sometimes die and school, and this does not actually affect their funding. The only reason I would buy admin hiding a dead kid in the field is if they were culpable in some way. I think the story implies this, but it’s not totally clear; we know it’s a suspicious accident, but that’s all. Did this conspiracy happen in a staff meeting? Because I cannot buy a room full of teachers keeping a secret. Never has happened, never will happen, sorry. (This is to say: some clarity is needed around who is present in the cover-up.) More, it seems Walrough and Nedry are willing to dig themselves deeper in a cover-up, but no insight is given into what sets them on this path to begin with. This has some excellent creepy moments. However, too much time is spent on bits that are not as strong. I think some dialogue might help, and actually putting us in the super creepy moments. Making this into a short story would give it enough room to do this, but even in a flash format 1-3 scenes could really be emphasized. Like, I want to know what Mr. Walrough is saying to the kids vomiting dirt on him as he’s buried alive. What excuses does he have? What confessions does he make? I want to be in the moment of Mrs. Nedry’s dream and horrific awakening, or, you could also have it from Mr. Walrough’s perspective as he walks into class. This story felt like it had a lot of potential, but hasn’t quite reached it yet. As it is, it still elevated itself this week, and deserved the HM. Also if you do end up polishing and selling this story, American publishers are going to want punctuation after things like "Mr." and "etc." Thranguy - Thirteen Things: It’s a risky maneuver to have these things so disconnected. Some very sparse descriptions are doing good work here—we get quite a bit of depth to the characters, places, and situations in only a few words--but they’re too isolated. “9” feels it needs work. There’s not enough there to set up “13.” “11” feels like a fragment. Reread that last sentence. Also doesn’t have a period. I get after I get to the end that the cursed tree is screwing this town up, but it became sort of darkly amusing just how many murderers this town apparently had. In the end, we learn the town is cursed, because of the lynching tree. But too much is just snapshots, disconnected. The tree and the curse it drew up from the unjustly murdered is the core, and each other snapshot should maybe tie into either the tree or one of the other snapshots. Or into the sins of the past haunting the present, as is the theme. As it is, the fragments seem too isolated to really tie this together as a story, or even a properly cement the mood and scene. It feels like this has potential, but is not there yet. As it is, it still elevated itself this week, and deserved the HM. Slightly Lions - Vinegar and Honey: This story has some great descriptions to start us off. It really starts us off with strong visuals and two clear contrasting moods: The gloomy outside, and the warm sanctum. Midway through, it becomes a bit on the nose, tossing as many descriptions of ‘bad’ as it can on the preacher. He then goes outside and immediately gets his comeuppance. Feels a bit moralistic, as does the end. Sort of like how all the women super-heroes in End Game get together for a big lady’s scene, the grandma’s thoughts on men just seem too… blatant? The implementation needs work. I do like the core idea there: old grandmas baking pies for the supernatural to keep the town safe. That a simple kindness goes farther than ancient legends or bellowed faith. Some nitpicks on language: “drawing breath like a bellows to bellow…” eugh. Would anyone actually say “M. Raemond” out loud? Overall, this had some solid descriptions and a neat premise, but needs some rework on the dialogue, characters, and conclusion (mostly looking at the second half) to reach the next level. cptn_dr - Old Badger’s Sons: This isn’t a bad story, but it’s also not a good story. There’s just nothing particularly exciting or offensive. The mystery is at the core of the story, but the problem is the mystery is too predictable. Somehow, as soon as you mentioned the neolithic stones, I knew the pattern of deaths would match that. Meanwhile, the deeper mystery of “why did the neolithic stones decide to kill a bunch of people so they could fall over or whatever” is not discussed. This brings us to the ending: The character’s agency is taken away too fast. The latter part of the story is more interesting in the investigation. I would start with the revelation, then spend more time with him and maybe the voice. Give the reader a chance to see what the victims might have gone through, as that’s more interesting than the very medium investigation going on prior. A great deal of horror can be found as, despite their best effort, the protagonist is driven unwillingly to their fate. Some more work could be done on the characters to expand who they are, how they feel. Little details about interests, home life, struggles, etc. can bring them to life a lot more, and a sympathetic character is critical in making horror land. Details about British politics and hot-button issues firmly establish the setting (I liked that), and more work like that can help elevate the story. CaligulaKangaroo - Smiling Henry’s Antique Mall: The way the opening scene is deployed needs a lot of work. There’s a skip between ‘ah, the old store’ and waving about the revolver. The magic needs to be introduced some other way too, because here it’s jarring. This is, after all, a fantasy story (even if it’s low fantasy), so it needs to be clear about setting up the necessary world building for the plot at hand. We have “Greggy Boy somewhere much scarier [than prison]” and at first I thought you meant he was dead and in hell, but no, this is metaphorical Satan: Edith is Satan, and Greggy Boy is only mostly dead (or something, wasn’t quite clear on that). See, there’s magic, but if the magic has rules, I don’t know them, and the protagonist doesn’t either, so I don’t know if what he demands of Edith is even possible or this just shows us he’s desperate because he loved his brother. And, to that note, so much time is spent on magic and fights and whatever that the characters are missing a certain depth to them. Why does Samuel trust Edith, who he just shot in the throat to little effect? As for the magic, I’ve seen better. I get the gist of it, ancient things have power, witchcraft is real, the mysterious east has artifacts of power, etc. etc.. But why is Latin always magic, but no one ever has the Romans as sorcerer people? Look, I’m asking the big questions here. Anyways, this wasn’t that bad, but it wasn’t that good. It’s one of many stories this week that need to think more about what they are at the core, polish up the edges, and spend the word count more on the things that will elevate it. Lord Zedd-Repulsa - The what in my cave?: Well, I saw someone on Discord say they only did half a story, and while there’s another contender for that accolade, this is certainly the one. There’s not too much to say because, well, not sure where you were going or how you would have landed it. Uh, plan ahead a bit more is my biggest advice. Some notes: - Starting with untagged dialogue, brave, and probably not wise. - Please don’t define words like “bluff” to the reader, it’s condescending and a waste of words. - Are these teenagers dumb enough to explore caves without an adult, but smart and resourced enough to have hardhats and headlamps (so, they’ve done it before?). Bit confused on this. The characters are pretty weak, the descriptions need work, and has some clunky language: “our head lamps shrinks claustrophobically small in both dimensions possible” —there are three dimensions irl, not two. “…water I can only now hear drip, drip, drip.” (Needs something like “hear going drip, drip”). There are some good turns of phrase too, like “wind monologuing” and Becky mentioning her dad hunts and the narrator mentioning he’s the chief of police, which makes the characters seem more like whole people. Obviously I could say more of if the story had an ending, but rivetz - PILF: One: The title looks too close to MILF, sorry. Also, please don’t name your ant colonies CckLyckLk. So this is an ant town with horrible secret, which no one else did. However, this means a lot of time is spent explaining how ant life works, which, I dunno how much of that we needed. A lot of the start could be cut. You could do some interesting things where you play with ant perceptions, like the wasp exuding pheromones that changes Ixl’s idea of what is right as she struggles to hold onto her loyalty. As it is, the story is pretty meh. The idea is fine, but the implementation doesn’t have much going for it. The characters are weak, the descriptions need to be strengthened, and the horror is just a brief bit on the end, it really needs to be expanded on. If you’re looking for a novel that does this idea of non-human perceptions and pheromone manipulation well, I would recommend Children of Time by Adrian Tchaikovsky.
|
|
#
?
Jan 23, 2024 01:39
|
|
|
I ran out of time, not of ideas. But with the NFL season almost over, I'll have less taking up my precious writing time.
|
|
#
?
Jan 23, 2024 03:08
|
|
|
Pays to be an Eagles fan, our season was over two months ago
|
|
#
?
Jan 23, 2024 03:13
|
|
|
Thunderdome Week DXCIX: Almost There Seeing as we're on the verge of Week 600, why don't we channel some of that anticipation into this week's writing? Your theme this week is the night before. You don't have to take that literally - you can play fast and loose with the timing and absolutely don't have to set your story at night. What you must do, however, is write me a story that takes place just before a momentous event. Maybe it's the last hour before battle. Maybe it's the week leading up to that dream job interview. Maybe it's the years leading up to the end of the world. What's important is that we don't actually reach the event in question and that there's a growing sense of anticipation. I want to see stories about preparing for the big day, not the big day itself, and not stories that just happen to take place the day before with no connection. I don't think I have to say it but a story about some guy's day off that ends with "the next day the moon exploded" isn't going to do well. Unless it's really, really funny and appropriate, of course. You're free to pick your own big event, of course, but if you need a little bit of extra inspiration, you can ask for a flash rule. That flash rule will tell you what the event will be - how you interpret it is up to you. For example, if your flash rule is "The big test", that could be anything from an Algebra final to meeting your significant other's parents for the first time. We should be able to see the connection in the story, though. If you choose to be given a flash rule, your maximum wordcount will go up. CLARIFICATION: If you're assigned a flash rule you don't want to/can't use, you don't have to use it. However, you only get the expanded maximum wordcount if you do use it. If you choose not to use it, I'd appreciate you putting a note to that effect in your submission. Max Word Count (No Flash Rule): 1,500 words Max Word Count (With Flash Rule): 2,000 words Sign-ups close: 11:59 PM California time Friday / ~8 AM UK time Saturday Submissions close: 11:59 California time Sunday / ~8 AM UK time Monday Judges: Staggy ??? ??? Entrants: Whoever wins this week will not prompt/judge week 600! They will prompt/judge week 601 instead!
|
|
#
?
Jan 23, 2024 19:35
|
|
|
gently caress it, put me in with a flash
|
|
#
?
Jan 23, 2024 19:38
|
|
|
I'm in with a Flash too.
|
|
#
?
Jan 23, 2024 19:41
|
|
|
In with a flash
|
|
#
?
Jan 23, 2024 19:43
|
|
|
I'm in with a flash! Also, hello everyone! Looking forward to going head-to-head with you all in the 'DOME.
|
|
#
?
Jan 23, 2024 20:43
|
|
|
derp posted:gently caress it, put me in with a flash The first night of the tour. beep-beep car is go posted:I'm in with a Flash too. The last train out of the city. Thranguy posted:In with a flash That conversation you really, really didn't want to have. Paranoid Dude posted:I'm in with a flash! Arriving back home, finally.
|
|
#
?
Jan 23, 2024 22:57
|
|
|
The Cut of Your Jib posted:BRAWL #374(ish) "It's not the Mountin' we Conquer, but Ourselves" RECORD SCRATCH  That's right!  I'm the judge now. This is no longer a brawl about legendary mounts, this is a PROLOGUE OFF. Both contestants are deep into novel writing and were going to forfeit, but we can't have that, now can we? Instead they will both post 1000 words (or so) of their prologues for me to judge. They have until NOON EASTERN TIME on February 2nd to post their prologues. I will render judgement within 24 hours.
|
|
#
?
Jan 23, 2024 23:37
|
|
|
beep-beep car is go posted:RECORD SCRATCH Tox
|
|
#
?
Jan 24, 2024 00:41
|
|
|
In for this week. Flash please.
|
|
#
?
Jan 24, 2024 01:13
|
|
|
Crits for Week #598 Crits Thirteen Things: drat, we’re starting strong this week. Fantastic story, I really loved this one. Some minor typos: you’re missing a word in #8, and while I assume the number is at least three, it was mildly annoying not to know how many times the mayor has murdered people. I also agree that it would have been nice to have all the pieces tie together a bit more, either with their connection to the town, or even to the tree itself. Still, this was a very strong piece and I enjoyed it a lot. Bitter Water: Some really great description in your opening. I do wish that I could get the archives to put the flashrules in spoilers consistently, since I think this could have been better without knowing what was going on, but I still liked it a lot. I don’t think this resonated as much for me as the other two HM stories this week, but I think that may just be my own preferences. This is a well-done mystery, and I dug the characters and their relationships, which you did well for such a short word count. Becoming Ahab: So on the one hand you have a story of a man forgetting his anniversary and finding his relationship suddenly in question, which I think you’d have to work very hard to make not-boring at this point, and on the other hand you have some cataclysmic event looming, the details of which are not clear from the description, and then the story ends with an inexplicable dick joke. It’s not to say that I don’t appreciate silly stories or dick jokes (god knows I love dick jokes), it’s just that the supports you needed to make this one work just weren’t there. I even think if you’d put in some foreshadowing to the dickrain, this could have worked a little bit, although again, I think you were always going to be at a disadvantage if your starting place was “man forgets his anniversary.” I guess my point is that jokes require some setup, and at least some forethought to how you lead the reader to expect the punchline before it comes, or at least to have some expectations that can then be subverted ironically. Admittedly, I had not read the first dickrain story before I read this one, and perhaps it would have worked better as a callback. Still, I’m hopeful that you can find some points to take away from this, even though I know it was likely disappointing. Vinegar and Honey: This is neat, and I like the vibes a lot. Third omniscient usually bothers me, but you handled it well enough here that I didn’t have any problems. I’m not sure your ending line works, though; it felt a little too trite, and I’m not sure you made the ‘vinegar’ clear enough in the rest of the piece. Still, it was an enjoyable read. Good Granny Weatherwax vibes. Falling Richards: So this at least didn’t have the issue of the tedious A-plot, which made it somewhat more palatable. I think there were still setup issues with your joke, and of course the issue of it rather belaboring the point. And of course, as toaster beef mentioned, I don’t think this really qualifies as a “town secret” at all. No Glove No Love: I don’t feel that I am adequately able to critique this piece, because I don’t fully understand what it was about, or what you as the author were trying to convey. If you would like to discuss this further and/or ask for specific feedback, I would be happy to do so in PMs or on Discord. Smiling Henry’s Antique Mall: This was in serious need of a proofing pass, and was difficult for me to parse at times due to the typos and stilted language. As for the story itself, it feels like you set up a lot of questions about Henry Westcott and al-Hazred that you never answer. Our protagonist starts out (apparently) looking for al-Hazred’s gold, and then ends up trying to resurrect his younger brother. Did he know he was down there? What was Westcott’s business? It all left me very confused. I might have suggested this as a DM candidate in a different week, although I’m not sure the other judges would agree. The what in my cave?: This wasn’t bad, for a half-to-a-quarter of a story. I liked the character details about the kids, although I was more than a little curious about how old they were, because you seem to be writing them like they were high schoolers, but (ime) high schoolers cautious enough to get spelunking equipment to explore caves are usually ones whose parents are involved enough to know they’re going spelunking ahead of time. Oh well. I’d be interested to see where you were planning to go with this, and the offer to read the rest if you end up finishing it stands. Epiphaneia: Okay, this is actually funny and silly. Good job. Maybe dickrain broke me, but I found this charming. The folksy voice worked for me, and I didn’t mind the ride that it took me on to get to the punchline. If you were genuinely going for the pun on sangria it was completely lost on me, but trying to make it clearer would have undermined what worked about this, so I guess there’s no real change to be made there. I do agree with beef that you could have done with maybe a touch more left unsaid with the ending (especially re: the apocalypse), but at the end of the day I can appreciate a good “outlandish thing happens, even more outlandish things are the reason, everyone just agrees to not talk about it because dealing with the implications is too much of a hassle” story. It wasn’t quite enough to push it into the upper echelons of the week, but again, I had fun, and I do see continued improvement in your short stories. Keep it up! Eat Dirt: Hell yeah. I love this kind of weird. A couple of typos tripped you up, but this was probably my favorite of the week, and something I could easily see getting published with another editing pass (and as UP mentioned, maybe clearer motivation on the teachers’ parts). PILF: I really enjoyed the details in this piece, and if you had made your ending a little clearer I could have seen it HMing. I really would have liked to see a little more of what happened to Ixl in the end, or even have it intimated in a way that leant closure; all you really needed was one more sentence to sew it up. I will also say that I don’t care for your title at all, even knowing your reason for choosing it; it not only undercuts the ending reveal (or the intended one; I’ll admit that I did not pick up on the fact that the ants were breeding with the wasp), but also takes away from the intended horror by turning it into a jokey acronym. Old Badger’s Sons: This could have done with a little more explanation, but it’s pretty solid. I think it’s a little odd that no one noticed that the deaths all made a perfect circle around the exact same point in town – that really seems like something someone would have noticed already, maybe at the actual police station, but perhaps that’s giving truly small town detective work more credit than is really warranted. I do agree that your words would probably have been better spent showing us other parts of this story, as there’s not a lot of interest in reading about a writer having trouble writing. It could be good to show us more about the victims, or about your MC and his character and why he’s unable to leave the case alone. If he was always the intended 18th victim of the stones, perhaps there’s something more to be said there as well.
|
|
#
?
Jan 24, 2024 03:07
|
|
|
|
| # ? Apr 29, 2024 00:26 |
|
|
Chernobyl Princess posted:In for this week. Flash please. The big dance.
|
|
#
?
Jan 24, 2024 10:28
|
|