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Eh, I am trying to start writing again. Flash me.
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Jan 24, 2024 17:42
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| # ? May 14, 2024 10:50 |
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ZearothK posted:Eh, I am trying to start writing again. Flash me. The party to end all parties.
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Jan 24, 2024 18:37
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beep-beep car is go posted:RECORD SCRATCH Subbing early. 1098 words DAYCARE One two three four five six, the beetle in the grass has six legs. The beetle has six legs and because the beetle has six legs, it is an insect, and not a spider, because a spider has eight legs, and not six legs (like the beetle). I put my hand in the grass and let the beetle crawl up my arm. It feels good. There are other kids outside, and they're playing and they're yelling. I don't like how loud they're yelling because the loud hurts on my skin. They're playing cops and robbers and the cops are chasing the robbers, and they never ask me to come play and that's okay because I like it over here picking grass with my beetle, which is an insect because of the number of legs it has (six). Wanda calls us inside for lunch and the other kids run screaming towards the playroom door and I stay in the grass to whisper goodbye to my beetle because I don't want to get in line while everyone’s still loud, but then Wanda comes and grabs me because I'm dawdling and I start crying because I'm in trouble. Wanda drags me to the line with the other kids and I'm crying because I'm in trouble and I'm crying because the loud hurts, too. I won’t keep walking with the loud line, I won't!, so Wanda has to carry me through the playroom and the living room and past the staircase we’re never supposed to go down ever and into the kitchen. I'm crying too much to eat the tacos and by the time I'm done crying lunch is already over and Wanda throws away my tacos so I don't get to eat lunch today. I'm really, really hungry, so I start crying because of how hungry I am. After lunch it's Inside Playtime and I hate Inside Playtime because during Outside Playtime I can keep away from the other kids and their loud but during Inside Playtime there's nowhere to hide. The quietest place is the Book Nook which is on the other side of the room as the Duplos and I pick up my favorite book, Martian Mike Visits the Planets. I've read the book normal so many times that just reading it normal is boring so I pull apart the words by their letters and read it that way. Mm eh rih cuh uh rih yuh. For a little bit I'm not in the playroom for Inside Playtime anymore, I'm in outer space with Martian Mike and it's not loud because there is no sound in outer space. Then the mean kid Andy grabs the book out of my hands and it's loud again and the loud hurts so much! I want Andy to hurt too so I run after him and he climbs up over the gate and I climb over it too and I chase him through the living room and Andy’s going down the staircase we're never supposed to go down ever but I don't care because I want to hit him and hit him and hit him. He opens the door at the bottom of the stairs and I run inside after him. Inside the door there's another playroom. There are toys all over the carpet and there's even a TV with the Martian Mike cartoon show on it. There's a grown-up sitting in a big chair with a big beard and big teeth and big hands and messy hair. Then he gets up from the chair and makes a louder kind of loud than I've ever heard and he runs towards Andy and grabs his head and pulls really hard until Andy’s head pops off his neck and the big messy man tosses it into the corner of the room and I need to start screaming because I'm so scared and I'm in the car and Daddy is going to take me home. I look out the window and Andy’s mommy is here too and Andy's getting in her car and giving her a big hug. Daddy drives me home through the country and Daddy tries to play the Cow and Horse Pointing Game with me but I don't want to play a game right now. Dinner tonight is also tacos. “Did you do anything fun at daycare today, Colin?” says Mommy. “Yes, I met a beetle, which is an insect because it has six legs.” “Shouldn't you be playing with your friends, not with bugs?” says Mommy. I don't want to play with friends because friends are mean and loud. Someone is knocking at the door. “I wonder who that can be at this time of night,” says Daddy. He gets up and walks to the door, and he opens it and the big messy man walks in screaming and he pulls off Daddy’s head and starts running towards me and I get up and start running towards my bed. Daddy is reading me a bedtime story. “Daddy, I know you're not real. I know this is just one of the pictures that I see in my brain when I'm sleeping.” I think I know the word for this, but I don’t know if I know and I don’t want to say the word if I might be wrong. “Of course I'm real, Colin,” says Daddy. “If I was just a picture in your head, you wouldn’t be able to touch me, would you?” I reach out and touch his shirt and I can feel its soft, and I must be wrong. I lie down and I go to sleep and I have dreams. Mommy wakes me up. I go to breakfast, which is tacos. Mommy drives me to Wanda’s house. When I look back to blow a kiss to Mommy, I can see him behind her in the field across the street, and he's so far away but he's getting closer and closer. I scream to Mommy to run and get away but she just keeps smiling and waving. Wanda tells me she doesn't want any more tantrums today but I'm already doing a tantrum and the big messy man pulls off Mommy’s head and starts walking towards me and it's just one of the pictures I can see in my brain when I'm sleeping, it's just a dream and I need to wake up, I need to wake up I need to wake up I need to WAKE UP I NEED TO WAKE UP I NEED TO WAKE UP I NEED TO WAKE A BAD DREAM WHERE YOU’RE BACK AT SCHOOL
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Jan 25, 2024 19:53
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Edit: Now it's here.
beep-beep car is go fucked around with this message at 20:33 on Jan 31, 2024 |
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Jan 25, 2024 20:06
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All righty, I"m in.
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Jan 26, 2024 22:13
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Lighting the Fuse Flash: Arriving back home, finally. Words: 1999 “You are asking for a lot and giving us little,” Weimin said. His voice kneeled to a hush in an attempt to guide King Andras towards a civil tone. “On the cusp of total victory, we should not rush into a foolhardy assault,” the chief artillerist continued. Karrel recognized Weimin, he had just joined the king’s war entourage when she had last been called to council. In the grinding six years since then, the planning tent now sported no fewer than two dozen more pennants and banners of every color and heraldic device that Karrel could conjure into her mind. Weimin was a bittersweet reminder of victories won and allies gained. Karrel had, after all, personally led the scouring of the Jīntián Plains. The eternal firestorms she loosed on the Imperial fields would haunt her every night; the chorus of melting flesh and disintegrating stalks of wheat stained trips into the Aetherium for far too long. Shalissa grumbled. She still sported her forest green Wyld Watchers tabard and devices, not that of the Undefeated Lord. She sat on a crate, sharpening a curved dagger. “Why don’t we just rip the leech off the wound here, eh?” she asked with her typical childish malice, the edge of her lips curled into a slight smile. King Andras, standing upright and imperious, ran a hand through his beard. In the time since Karrel had last seen him, Andras had aged less than gracefully. His plump body was poorly contained within his plate, the hinges creaked in distress with his every movement. “I have asked you here for a reason. Karrel’s sorcery will not be needed for the assault tomorrow. We will make a bold assault on the walls at dawn’s first light,” he said. “Weimin, ensure your bombardiers are prepared to bring down the main gate at my signal,” King Andras ordered. An uproar swelled in the tent at the proclamation of the sorceress’ absence. The fury of the congregation surpassed that which they held for the Independent Cities challenging Andras’ rule. “Please,” Grimwold, the right hand of the King, pleaded. “Think of our fighting men and women, your grace. They give their all for you, you should give all you have for them.” “Our King has made a proclamation, you dog,” shouted a small tinker from the Desert Lands that Karrel did not recognize. “You give him your respect!” “Without sorcery, we are in a poor spot to conquer a walled city,” Weimin said patiently. “We can break the gate down, but if they have sorcerers of their own, it might-“ “You doubt our army, Wei?” Shalissa asked. “I doubt nothing,” Weimin said quietly and scanned the room. “Nor should you, frankly, this walled city is a poo poo-stain harboring enemies unworthy of the mercy you show, my lord. What has possessed you,” Grimwold asked. “Possession? Oh, great purgators above!” the tiny tinker shouted and shot a look to Karrel. “Nobody here is possessed,” Karrel said flatly. “Oh, of course she’d say that,” Shalissa said. “Might I suggest a siege, your lordship?” Grimwold asked. “We could spare the residents the soldierly drive towards plunder.” “Enough!” King Andras roared as if already bellowing commands on the field of battle. The entire council, even Shalissa, straightened at their king’s command. Andras the Unbowed surveyed the room and huffed, or perhaps struggled to catch hold of his breath. “This is our final conquest,” Andras continued. “There is open rebellion in the Windward Isles. Administrator Crookedtooth lies broken at the feet of a pretender. We need a triumph to solidify my reign before the true work of unification can begin. Rockholm will not be left in rubble, but elevated as one of many jewels in the crown of our empire!” Despite the wear of the years, Andras still bore the mien of a noble-born and the oration of a fanatic. The idea of uplifting the modest city into something of a capital left even Karrel with the suggestion of a smile. “If we are to bring the rebels and detractors into line, permanently, we need to demonstrate our competence with a swift and sudden strike. We can’t rely on Karrel’s sorcery to mend every stubbed toe or broken goblet, can we?” King Andras asked with an infectious grin. The mood in the room had grown light and tempers diminished with every word out of the grand general’s mouth. “That is all. Get your rest, you will need it tomorrow,” Andras said with a wave of his hand. The inhabitants of the tent slowly filed out into the quietness of the sleeping camp. The only remaining members of the war council were Andras, Karrel, and Grimwold who walked briskly towards the sorceress and opened his mouth to speak, but the words flowed just a hair too slowly. “Karrel, please, stay with me. We’ve much to discuss,” Andras said with a warm smile towards Karrel and his back towards his chief subordinate. “Grimwold, make yourself scarce, please.” Without a word of dissent, the large man sorrowfully strode out. She wanted to tell him not to worry, that she would be seeing him soon. It had been too long since Karrel had shared a bed with Grimwold. Not even a second after Grimwold had disappeared past the tarpaulin flap than Andras spoke. “You’ve not aged a day, yet my body has grown thick with feasting.” The King Unbowed stepped so close that the smell of his sweat flooded Karrel’s nostrils. “I won’t beg you. I know well that once you set your mind, little can be done to sway you. However, if you can offer me just a small glimpse of the Aetherium, then I will reward you with unknowable spoils after we capture the city,” he said and shot a clammy palm towards the sorceress. “You wish to feel the Aetherium on the eve of battle? I might allow it,” Karrel teased the portly lord and crossed away from his embrace. Her face hardened and Karrel narrowed her eyes at Andras. “Why are you really sparing this city?” She asked. Andras sighed and strode back towards Karrel’s side. “Truthfully? Rockholm is my home,” he said. “I want to peek at the Aetherium so I might know if my childhood friends and my family are still alive and well. If I can glimpse them, I might spare them the wrath of the coming assault,” King Andras said quietly. “A noble cause, but are you sure you want this?” Karrel asked softly. “You will be enjoined with thousands, if not millions, of souls who are going to be snuffed out at your hand. Even I have struggled before such a burden,” Karrel continued. Andras gave Karrel a hard look, unsure of how to take her unbidden warning. “Yes, Karrel, let me travel the Aetherium,” he said firmly. Karrel placed her hands on the King’s temples and established a unifying link between their souls. The pale blue light where sky meets ocean shone through the pair’s eyes brighter than any fire. King Andras’ jaw dropped as he felt his senses drip out of his mortal form like overflowing candle wax. Before Andras made himself too comfortable in the shared experience of their bodies, Karrel severed her connection with her mortal body and allowed the crushing tide of the Aetherium in. The unadulterated experience of every soul, rock, and gust of wind circled the two in a twirling spider web of experience. Karrel took in the surety of city walls, allowed the flavor and fullness of the soldiers’ pre-battle feasting to fill her, spied on the romantic aspirations of dreaming squires. The crush of experience could only be filtered as it washed over the disembodied consciousness of the sorceress. King Andras’ consciousness had quickly flown from Karrel’s lavishing in camp, as his mind barreled through slate-grey walls, the patience of ascending forest green moss, and the quiet panic of a city’s night watchmen. Andras centered himself on the panic of the scarce military his mind could scry from the throng of thousands of residents and refugees alike threatening to entangle his formless self and never let up. Karrel couldn’t help but get use her precision in navigating the Aetherium to join Grimwold in his dreaming world and to embrace him as friend and lover as one only can between a lucid dreamer and his welcome visitor. The entire exchange had taken less than a second of time but the experience stretched to consume multiple days of otherworldly courtship and vacation in locales uncharted and peaceful. Finished with her fun, Karrel forced herself past a forest green night watchman and joined Andras, who was currently soaking in the terror of a father mourning his still-breathing son. He lingered on the despair of this father wracked with pangs of inconsolable loss. Andras then dove into the mind of a woman sharing the father’s bed and drank the woman’s inconsolable night terrors of wedding bells smeared in blood. The customary rose petals thrown at her and her groom melted into the blood of their closest friends and family. Those in attendance melted into sticky pools of wine and gold. Karrel could feel that Andras was deliberately shaping this dream – this imagery was drawn by his hand. With a twitch of her finger, Karrel severed the Aetheric connection and gave Andras a dark look. “What was that?” Karrel demanded. Andras faced away from Karrel and stared into the middle distance, shaking visibly. “Garoline lives,” he said repeatedly in a series of soft sighs, his chest heaving. “Then I am to lead the assault. Yes. Yes, that’s the only way that-” Andras exhaled quickly, eyes wild when he turned back to Karrel. “My lord, please tell me that I am misunderstanding you,” Karrel said, the real reason for the assault piecing itself together in her mind. “You understand nothing, sorceress!” the King spat with a murderous glint in his eyes. Karrel reflexively prepared to reduce Andras to ash. Were anyone but King Andras to use such a tone on her, they would have been dust in the wind without a second’s thought. “Get yourself to bed, we’ve nothing to discuss until after the assault,” he continued, sobering up from the brief Aetheric dive. Karrel returned to her spartan tent and returned to the Aetherium. She desired to return to Grimwold to forget that the man she had devoted a decade of her life supporting was no more than a slavering dog, if not for a moment. Once more the world became a hazy spiderweb of interconnected impressions and sensations. Karrel pushed her pure sensate being towards Grimwold’s tent but caught a spicy smell she couldn’t recognize mixed with the humidity of anxiousness on the other side of the city’s walls. Forcing herself once more through the merriment of men at camp, and the surety of stone walls, Karrel found that the cloying anxiousness was a pair of guards preparing a pile of black powder kegs tied in a bundle just under the wall’s main gate. The powder was ready to pop at the mere suggestion of a spark. It would have taken just a snap to light the fuse and stop their trap before it was even set. Where would Rockholm have even procured black powder? Karrel moved to create a microscopic spark in the Aetherium and blow the trap sky-high, but she thought about Andras and his ‘final triumph.’ His desire ‘to protect friends and family’ spiraled through her mind. When did Andras become a peddler of hollow vows? Had Andras’ morality been flayed by years of war, or had there been an ulterior motive for every passing conquest? Karrel thought and debated. Aetheric time stretched through the rising of the moon into its setting, and still, Karrel thought. She thought about a life with Grimwold. She thought about Andras’ conquest and sweet, terrified Garoline. Karrel even thought about Shalissa. As the first rays of dawn flooded the Aetherium with a yawning eagerness, Karrel’s mind was made up.
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Jan 27, 2024 08:33
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Signups are closed. Still looking for two co-judges so shout out if you're interested.
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Jan 27, 2024 11:31
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Tubes 1,420 words You don’t know how many first-hand accounts of other open-heart surgery patients you read in the months leading up to this, but just about every one of them had the same thing to say about the chest tubes: When they come out, it’s one of the weirdest and most intense pains you’ll experience in your entire recovery. One testimonial memorably described it as being stabbed in reverse. Oddly enough, not a single one warned how the tubes might feel while they were still inside you. The body responds to the trauma of surgery with fluids — blood, pus, all manner of grossness — and that stuff can’t stay in the chest cavity or it’s going to cause trouble. So you leave surgery with a small bundle of silicone snakes weaving their way around your heart and lungs. The number varies from patient to patient, but you have three. Each pokes out of your torso, just under your sternum, and is secured in place with an anchor suture. Just past those sutures, the three smaller tubes meet to form one larger tube, which is connected to suction and drains into a handy transparent box your doctors and nurses can use to check how much fluid you’ve shed. You’d braced yourself for the uncountable indignities. You’d be pissing into a bottle hanging off the side of your bed — a lot, because they’d be loading you up with diuretics. You’d never have more than an hour to yourself because an endless parade of nurses, technicians, and physicians would be coming in to test or collect or measure or dole out or fiddle or fluff or inform or request. You’d have the worst breath of your life. And you’d be doing it all in a hospital gown. You’d even braced yourself for getting stabbed in reverse. What you hadn’t braced yourself for was the agony and profound discomfort you’d deal with in the interim. From the moment you first stir into groggy consciousness, you’re acutely aware of it: a vice, crushing your lungs and driving the air out. Clawed fingers digging at the inside of your ribcage. It doesn’t care how you contort yourself in your hospital bed. It writhes inside you, immutable, unavoidable. Your first night in recovery, even in a haze of painkillers, you don’t manage a wink of sleep. You’re visited by physical therapists on day two. It’s their job to get patients on this floor up and moving around. They say they’re going to assist you on a walk down the hallway. You say you haven’t been able to stand for more than ten seconds without reeling in pain. You say every time you’ve so much as tried to get up and use the toilet ten feet away, you’ve had to double over and sit back down for fear of passing out. You say these attempts take twenty minutes to recover from, so the bed bottle and you have been getting well acquainted. Their reaction tells you they hear the word no a lot. They stand you up. You almost immediately collapse. They frown, one of them writes in her clipboard, and they tell you they’ll be back tomorrow. There is no making it better, but there is making it worse. Even laying perfectly still, each breath is a monumental balancing act. Breathe too deep, and it feels like a full-torso precordial catch. Breathe too shallow, and starve yourself of oxygen — which only makes you breathe harder, which only causes more pain. This is the knife edge on which your every waking hour rests. Your cardiologist visits twice a day. You tell him about the pain, the discomfort, the complete inability to focus on anything else. He tells you the tubes need to stay in until a certain amount of liquid has been drained. He says at this rate, it could be another two days. You stare at him. He looks back at you with an odd mix of pity and patience. He leaves that night with the promise that they’ll be looking to get rid of the tubes as quickly as possible. Even lulled to a near-stupor by pain medication, you don’t sleep. Again. On the morning of day three, the physical therapists return. They’re eager to see if your situation has improved, if they can get you up and moving and walking the hall. You tell them no, no it absolutely has not improved, and it won’t improve until the tubes have been removed. They press. They tell you to focus on one thing at a time. You tell them you already are only focused on one thing. The one with the clipboard frowns at you again. They insist on getting you to stand. You try. You succeed for twelve glorious seconds before collapsing back into your chair. The breathlessness and pain endure for forty minutes, a full thirty-eight longer than the therapists stick around. They promise, of course, to return tomorrow. A nurse enters shortly afterward and notes your cardiologist won’t be around until the afternoon. It’s maybe two hours later when someone new walks in. She’s an RN. You’ve seen her patrolling the halls, but she hasn’t stopped in yet. She introduces herself, then wanders straight over to the drainage box attached to your chest tube. She lifts it up to get a better view and all at once you feel like someone who just heard the phone ring from his seat in the electric chair. She smiles cautiously down at you and says it may, in fact, be time to get rid of the tubes. Thanks to all the wires and electrodes you’re hooked up to, your relief can be measured in real time. She notes they’ve got nursing students on the floor today and she’d like them to see someone getting their chest tubes removed. She asks if it’s okay to bring them in to watch yours come out. She could be telling you she’s about to burn your house down. You’ll agree to anything. You don’t care. She smiles and leaves, promising to return in five minutes with some students and equipment in tow. You spend those five minutes just as you’ve spent the previous few thousand: struggling to ride the line between asphyxiation and incredible discomfort. The RN and students flow into the room more quickly than you expected. The students gather at the foot of your bed as the RN moves a tray into place and undoes the dressing that covers the spot where the tubes meet your torso. Some of the students are completely unfazed, others are already grasping at imaginary pearls as they cast wide eyes on it. You wonder to yourself if those folks are gonna make it on this floor, but the thought is here and gone just like that — because now the RN is leaning over the bed, her face close to yours, her expression warm. She goes over the process: She’s going to remove these anchor sutures holding the tubes in place, then she’s going to make sure you’re ready, then she’s going to pull the tubes out. They’re all coming out at once, she tells you, and it’s not going to happen slowly. It’s going to look a little like you’re being pull-started. You snicker at that. So does one of the students. It’s going to hurt a lot, the RN tells you. You nod and say you read it was like getting stabbed in reverse. She’s apparently never heard that one before, but she agrees with it nonetheless. The RN grabs what looks like a small pair of surgical scissors and gets the show on the road. One by one, the sutures are severed. With each, you could swear you can breathe just a little bit more easily. In no time at all, the sutures are gone. The RN deposits the scissors carefully on the tray. In the future, there will be a you before this and a you after this. You’re going to shower. You’re going to do more laps than any patient has ever done before. You’re going to piss freely. And if those therapists are real nice, you won’t do the last two at the same time. The RN places one hand on the main tube and grips it tightly. Without the anchor sutures, it shifts slightly in her grasp. You flinch. She places her other hand on your shoulder. It’s calming. “We’re going to take a deep breath,” she says, “and we’re going to count to three.”
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Jan 28, 2024 11:34
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the hole 1450w (did not use flash) The hole, dark now in the evening, as it tends to be, is its usual three quarters of an inch in diameter, having not grown or shrunk by the sixteenth or thirtysecond of an inch as it often does (though to be one hundred percent fair and honest I must say I have no way of verifying whether it is indeed the hole and not the various measuring tapes I have used which varies in size) and it has come suddenly and finally to my attention that tomorrow will be the day, tomorrow the twenty-ninth of January twenty-twenty-four, tomorrow, Monday, possibly even exactly as the clock strikes midnight, that is, in only several hours from now, the answer will emerge. Facts about the hole: 1) Time: The hole appeared suddenly on a January evening last year. 2) Place: The hole is in a wall in my home office between two bookshelves and above an end table and would be at about waist height were I to stand next to it, which I would not. 3) Ecology: The immediate exterior is dusted with a black powdery substance (perhaps droppings), and inside glistens with a wetness that I have yet not touched with the skin, and the interior edge is laced with a fine webbing which is nearly invisible to the unaided eye. 4) Psychology: The hole, or whatever resides within, affects the dreams and to a lesser degree waking thoughts of those who spend more than sixty to ninety seconds within the range of a ten to twelve foot long and wide cone pointing outward from the hole. This has been demonstrated multiple times (on myself.) Whether to remove or ‘fix’ the hole: I have for some time been, as one might guess, restricted from my own office due to the effects of the hole, and although I have relocated my workstation I have not and will not remove the bookshelves and books because the shelves are affixed to the walls, and therefor the office remains an unusable library, though of course individual books can still be taken elsewhere with safety and ease. Whether to attempt to remove or to ‘plug up’ the hole in order to regain access to my office is the question at hand. I have tended toward: no. Why the answer to the question of whether to remove the hole is ‘no’: While my life has moved forward over the year since the hole appeared, there has been a growing sense of ‘other’ in the office and indeed in the house, an unavoidable sense of ‘having company’ as one might say, and as one who has lived alone for the better part of twenty years (with the brief exception of a misguided ‘roommate situation’ last winter which did not work out and ended terribly and permanently) I am highly sensitive to the presence of others in my home, one might even say that I can detect the aura of other minds, and I do sense such an aura in my office emanating from the so-called hole. Whether to cut away the area around the hole so as to see what lies behind the wall is out of the question, because what then might spill forth? On the other hand, the idea of plugging the hole with a paste and painting over it is equally impossible, because what might then be angered at this imprisonment? No, indeed, the traces of microscopic trails that glisten perhaps like that of a slug or snail (I have spent long afternoons peering through binocular lenses at the paint around the edges of the hole to detect these shimmering trails) leads me to the unavoidable fact that a being exerts its presence from within the hole, and spreads its feelers or limbs about whenever I am out of the room. To disturb it would be unwise. In fact I have taken to leaving my pistol (which I have certainly never yet had occasion to use) out of its safe, in plain sight, resting on my nightstand where I might reach it at a moments notice. Why now, tonight? The twenty-ninth? Why: Why, you ask, now, after one year why now, why do I expect now that the answer will emerge now? I have proof that it will be exactly the twenty-ninth, exactly, possibly at midnight, even probably at midnight tonight, that is to say: in a mere two hours and some minutes the answer will emerge. You see, this is all due to simple math, and simple, straightforward logic, and also of course due to some clues which needed interpretation, but which are in fact unassailable and true evidence when presented in the order which I shall now present them: THE EVIDENCE: For some months I have been placing various books and other ‘offerings’ as one might call them on the end table beneath the hole each evening and then upon the morning finding whether the hole (or that is to say the being within) was pleased. How, you might ask, could I detect this pleasure or displeasure? As I have already mentioned above, I can detect the mental aura, or, in simple language: ‘I can feel the pleasure or displeasure which emanates from the hole.’ On the very first morning of the hole almost one year ago I sensed that the pile of books on the end table was displeasing to someone or something and so I removed the books from the area. However, I then sensed that the absence of books was displeasing so I began to add back books and remove books only leaving those which caused pleasure. At a point it became clear that any other books added caused displeasure, and so the final pile of books, which has remained for many months, is as follows: The book pile: Crime and Punishment, Dostoyevsky The Haunting of Hill House, Jackson The Stranger, Camus Inferno, Dante Inferno, Dante (a separate edition with a different translator) Inferno, Dante (yet another edition with yet another translator, and further historical notes) The interpretation of the book pile evidence: It was, of course, not easy to determine at first glance the meaning of the books, however, as many hours and many days worth of thoughts combined and swirled in my mind over many weeks and months, the answer emerged. First, as anyone knows, Crime and Punishment was originally published as a serial released monthly over the course of twelve months or, in layman's terms: one year. As for Jackson’s novel, everyone knows the story features four characters, four also being the number of seasons in a year. The Stranger, of course, was written by Albert Camus who died in January. Inferno was the final key and also the most difficult to decipher, but the presence of three versions of the same book was in the end what provided the answer. It was, as I said, simple math, for Inferno contains thirty-four cantos in which are described the nine circles of hell. Thirty-four plus nine is forty-three, which tells us nothing until we remember to multiply that by three (the number of Infernos in the pile) and forty-three times three is one hundred and twenty-nine or, 129, or 1/29, that is, January twenty-ninth, which is (or must be) the date the hole first appeared last year. And so, tonight at midnight will mark one year of the hole. And that must mean something. It must represent something momentous. Something which must be going to happen. An end, oh yes, an end is in sight. My preparations: In order to prepare for the unknown upcoming event I have left a note on my dining table which explains things in case this unknown event might somehow cause my passing. The note is as follows: Everyone, I do not know what has happened to me. All I can say is, if you are reading this, I am sorry it turned out this way. The hole cannot be filled, and cannot be ignored. I’m so sorry. Inferno, Inferno, Inferno. This is certainly clear enough to explain the situation should anyone require an explanation in the small chance that whatever happens renders me incapacitated or dead. To this same end I have also placed my pistol at the ready on the end table beneath the hole, where I may grab it at a moments notice, should the need arise. I have loaded it with only one bullet, for safety’s sake. And now I go, to sit before the hole, and await what will or will not come.
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Jan 28, 2024 23:39
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I can judge!
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Jan 28, 2024 23:53
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The Dance 1932 words flash, which I did use: the big dance Whenever the aurochs herd settled down for the night Piu practiced her dance steps. It wasn’t ideal to practice alone, but one worked with what one had. In the daylight, she practiced the official steps of the ceremonial dance, the ones that were expected of her. At night, by firelight, she practiced the secret steps. The hidden steps. The ones that, if she and her companions danced them correctly, would bring about the end of the gods and usher them into a freer, better world. They are only gods because we pray to them, Piu remembered, sweat dripping from her brow as she swept her wrists high above her head, then dipped low, kicking her right leg out to the side. If we didn’t pray, they wouldn’t have power. This dance will be the opposite of prayer. It was supposed to be, at least. Piu didn’t know enough magic to be able to say. But the resistance to the gods had been building, generation upon generation, until it had reached even the priesthood who knew how to touch the souls of the gods, and who could break their power. If it worked, hundreds of thousands of humans would die in the conflict that followed. Piu and her fellow dancers would likely die very quickly, but by then it would be too late. The gods would be wounded. Shown to be mortal. All those who came after her would have a chance to live in a world where they didn’t have to kneel. If it worked. So Piu practiced every day and every night, with her aurochs and horses and dogs as her audience, until one afternoon she was interrupted by a god. It streaked from the sky like a comet and touched down next to her, eyes blazing gold. Its shape was human, androgynous and beautiful, but the brilliance of the light scattering from its wings was blinding. The herd bellowed and scattered. Piu fell to her knees, prostrating herself before the deity, a gesture half built of habit and half on fear. “Rise, dancer,” the god said. Its voice was musical and full of humor. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I only saw you dancing from the air. You’re very talented.” Piu hoped that the completely natural terror at being faced with a potentially cruel and callous god masked the terror at the possibility of the secret steps being found out. “Thank you, divinity,” she said. Her voice trembled. Her body trembled. The god looked out at her herd, which had stopped some distance away and was watching them with dumb, cautious eyes. “Those are fine creatures. Are you their herder?” Piu nodded. “Yes, I’m driving them to the festival in Sheermount. For the sacrifices.” The god gave her a skeptical look. “You seem very small to be in charge of such a large herd of large creatures.” She’d heard that before. “They’re big, but they’re predictable. You don’t need to be particularly smart to out-think an aurochs. They go where the grass is and where the wolf isn’t.” It laughed, a warm, happy sound that felt like hot wine in Piu’s soul. “Will you be dancing at Sheermount as well?” “Yes.” Piu didn’t trust her voice more than that. It was so painfully beautiful, so bright and shining, and its pleasure made her feel so warm and comfortable… it would be so easy to tell it all her secrets. It probably already knew them, anyway… No. She focused on her memories of her mother and her siblings. No more. The god looked at her, as if expecting more, but Piu kept her mouth shut. It looked up into the sky and saw some of its fellows flying past. “I look forward to seeing the full performance. May I come watch you again sometime?” Oh. No. Oh, no. Piu smiled, weakly. “Of course, divinity. I would be honored.” ____ She continued to practice on the long way to Sheermount, though she was far more circumspect in her dancing of the secret steps. When the god visited her again, it took the form of a golden aurochs. Piu saw it and was instantly suspicious. One heard stories about what gods got up to with humans and shapeshifting. But it was a cow aurochs, not a bull, so it probably just didn’t want to spook the herd again. “I would like to see you dance before the festival,” it said. Its mouth didn’t move, its voice came from everywhere and nowhere at once. Piu hesitated. She couldn’t refuse, that would be rude. But maybe she could stall. “I am a herder, divinity. Dancing is a hobby and a devotion. I don’t understand why you are asking me. There are hundreds of real dancers in the cities, I’m sure.” The god let out an amused huff of breath, whether charmed by her humility or intrigued by the question, she couldn’t know. “I saw you from above, like I said last time. You dance well, and it seemed a shame to have your devotion go unnoticed. I was curious about a human who would dance out in the wilderness. I’m still curious.” “It won’t look right without the other dancers,” she said. “It’s a group performance. I’d hate to show you something unfinished, Lord.” “I understand,” the god said, magnanimously. It reclined on the grass and waved a hoof. “Maybe I’m just impatient and want to see the show before everyone else at the festival does. Please dance for me, Piu of the herds.” It knew her name. It knew her name and her function. She couldn’t let anything slip now. So she danced. As she completed the first movement, she wondered if she should perform the hidden steps. There was only one of her, but there was also only one of it. She’d trusted her resistance contacts when they’d taught her the dance-within-the-dance. She believed that it did something. She just didn’t know what it was for, in the grand scheme of things. Here was an opportunity to find out… Piu hesitated. Then chose discretion. Her heel struck the ground three times instead of her toe. Her hips swayed left instead of right. In some ways it was a more complicated dance, but it was the expected one. The one she’d watched since she was young, the standard “we worship you with all our bodies, have mercy on us,” dance. The “please don’t crush us to dust or burn us alive or eat our flesh, have mercy on us,” dance. Have mercy. Have mercy. Have mercy. Every step rang with the plea. It was making her sick, making her angry. How many humans had begged for mercy before the gods, and had it denied? How many children pleaded for mercy in the face of sickness and had the gods turn away? How many gods looked at humanity the way a human might look at an orange, a thing to suck dry before discarding the husk? They should beg her for mercy. And if things worked as intended, they would. The dance ended, as it always did, with Piu kneeling, arms open, head bowed, ready to receive divine judgment. The god looked on her silently for several long seconds. “You dance beautifully,” it said at last. “Your company must be pleased to have you.” “Thank you, divinity.” “You bring such intense emotion to your movement,” it continued. “I wonder what inspires such rage.” Piu rose a second faster than good manners would permit. “I am sorry, my Lord.” The god shrugged. “It’s fine. I am just curious. I haven’t seen this anger before.” Tread carefully, Piu, she thought to herself. Out loud, she said “You may have noticed, oh holy one, that the order of things does not favor humanity. We are preyed on by demons and commanded by the gods, and between appeasing the two we must also fend off starvation and disease. It is difficult sometimes to find enough food for oneself, let alone offspring.” The god put its head on one side, flicking a perfect, golden ear. Flies did not settle on its flanks, Piu noticed. “The gods are often kind to their favorites,” it said. “And cruel to those they dislike,” she said. She regretted it immediately, but plunged ahead, the words pouring out of her as if from a cracked waterskin. “And indifferent to the suffering of the rest. I care for this herd, but they really belong to you, the gods. If you were to drop out of the sky and take one with you for your own use, I could not complain. And I could only hope and pray that you spoke up on my behalf when I report to the temple, otherwise your priests might stone me to death for stealing your cattle.” The god looked shocked. Or as shocked as an aurochs could look, they were not emotive creatures. “You think we would not speak up for you?” Piu shrugged. “You are the first god to whom I have spoken. I expect you will be the last.” It stood up and paced back and forth, not looking directly at her. “You feel… slighted by the gods.” She’d said too much. She’d let too much show. Her anger was too hot and it would ruin everything. Perhaps she should have done the secret dance, should have drained this gods power or put it to sleep or locked it away or whatever the dance did. Now all she could do was hide her intention in the truth. She let her exhaustion show. “I feel that it doesn’t matter what I feel. The gods take, we give. This is the role we play. I am young, and the young always question things we see as unjust. One day maybe I’ll see the justice in it.” “You are learned, as well as a skilled dancer,” the god said, slowly. “Have you considered the priesthood? To speak to a god who might listen?” Tread very carefully, Piu. “My mother and siblings were members of the priesthood, divinity.” “Were?” “The god to whom they were sworn… chose to bring their priesthood into themself.” This was a terribly, awfully, horribly polite way to describe being eaten alive. Piu had been outside the temple when it happened. She’d heard the screams. The god considered this. “Your family died serving us.” “They did, Lord. As we all do.” She gestured to the herd. “If a snake bites me while I’m following the herd, I’ll have died to feed you as well.” The divinity stopped pacing and bowed its head, bovine eyes lowered to the ground. “We are, perhaps, not as fair as we should be.” Pie did not, would not trust herself to respond. But the god was not a fool, and could read her agreement on every line of her body. “Thank you for being so direct with me, Piu. I’ve been thinking about this for quite some time. There must be a better way for us to shepherd and protect humanity. What’s the point of us, otherwise?” It extended its radiant wings and flew away. Piu watched it go. She wasn’t sure if she were relieved, encouraged, or saddened. The gods knew they were unfair. Maybe they could change. Maybe there was another way, a better way. No. It was too little, too late. The dance would go on.
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Jan 29, 2024 04:24
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The Chasm 721 words Flash:That conversation you really, really didn't want to have. Joanie is sleeping under her sunflower blankets and Eve is struck by a shard of envy. Eve knows she won't be sleeping any time soon, not until total exhaustion sets in and her body shuts down for her. She's not even tired. She once stayed up more than fifty hours, studying straight through to the Organic Chemistry midterm, well past her second wind, then celebrating with her roommates, wild and jumpy with diet soda and coolers, and then with Myles, eager hands fumbling charmingly with her clothes. Afterwards he slept, but Eve did not, stayed up watching him breathe, even after round two in the morning she didn't let her eyes rest, didn't dare sleep lest everything that had happened turn into a dream, not until just after Calculus and lunch and only barely reaching her bed. So that's the limit. Fifty hours. Less, surely. She's not nearly as young anymore. It was a good memory. But she can't enjoy it, feels like if she stops to savor it, even for an instant, it will be gone. Consumed. Replaced with the memory of a memory of a memory of a memory, a regressing hall of mirrors without anything casting the first reflection. She looks at the clock. In a little more than five hours, the alarm will go off and Joanie will wake up. They say you should remind yourself to eat, to drink, at times like these. And also to sleep, but that's a joke. She sets out a sleeve of crackers and a large glass of water at the kitchen table. The water tastes so much like iron, like blood that she worries for a moment that she's bit her tongue off without feeling it. She doesn't remember the crackers tasting like anything, but each time she looks down at the table there are fewer of them, until they're gone. The diodes on the clock on the microwave oven shift. In four hours, the alarm in Joanie's room will go off. She barely remembers the call, and that, she is sure, is a mercy. Myles’ boss, calling from a hospital on the other side of the country. She remembers not quite understanding what was being said, getting halfway through booking tickets on her laptop before the whole message got through. That he was in an accident she got, but that other part, that he died in the ambulance, pronounced on arrival. Something stopped working in her. She can't remember how the conversation ended. Eve wants to talk with people. The EMTs in the ambulance. She imagines one of them holding his hand, at the last. Cute, but unthreatening. A wedding ring on that hand. She wants to find out who was there, to talk to them, but she doesn't have any idea how to even start. And the driver. She thinks Mitchell said he died too, even if she can't recall the words. Did he have family, a wife or a husband or whatever? She wants to talk to them. She wants to talk to the doctor who signed the death certificate, which she could probably find out who eventually. Or her sister. Or Mitchell again. But they're all asleep, and she won't wake them up. She keeps almost falling asleep, then jolting back awake. Five minutes gone. She makes coffee, but the only coffee she can find is the instant Japanese kind that only he ever drank. It smells like him. She can't decide if she'll never make it again or never drink any other kind. It's kind of bad, but not horrible. It gets the job done. She scrolls through the hospital website, finding the parts you never land on by accident. The forms and releases she'll have to go through to have her husband shipped from coast to coast. And more rabbit holes down that one. She spends nearly an hour astonished at how many different funeral homes there are in this town, how desperate each one is to seem different from all the others. It's coming. Minutes, not hours, and she's not ready. The clock keeps adding a minute every minute no matter how hard she tries to stop it. In three minutes the alarm will go off and Joanie will wake up and Eve will have to tell her that her father is dead.
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Jan 29, 2024 08:06
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Submissions are closed. As a reminder, the winner this week will judge week 601. Week 600 may get started before judgement comes out, depending on what The Powers That Be want to do.
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Jan 29, 2024 10:12
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 Welcome to Thunderdome Week 600! For 600 weeks now, Domers have been writing and sharing stories, judgment, and camaraderie. The Dome can be different things to different people, but at its beating heart—held aloft the blood throne to fill the skull-goblets of victory, etc etc—it’s all about getting words out, week after week after week, learning from the critiques and judgment, and becoming a better writer. For all the kayfabe, all the swagger and thrown gauntlets, Thunderdome is for anyone looking to get better as a writer — the only way to improve is to write, and the Dome accepts anyone with the moxy to step up, week after week after week, and get more words out. And why should we keep all those words to ourselves? That’s right: this week, we’re taking this Dome on the road. Prompt One Apex Magazine are looking for stories up to 250 words, on the theme of Strange Locations: quote:Tell us a story while guiding the reader down hidden trails into eerie landscapes, weird biotech gardens, creepy scifi cities, surreal forests, or secret magical places. We’re looking for pieces that reveal intimate stories of loss, horror, or yearning in the voice of the fictional travel writer, or that use specific setting details to show whole new worlds between the lines. Prompt Two Thunderdome favourite, Flash Frontier, are looking for stories up to 250 words, on the theme of QUIET | MARIRE: quote:We are looking for variety and originality. Tickle us, haunt us, gobsmack us. Choose your words carefully and leave our readers wanting more. And do it in a small space. Prompt Three Finally, Gooseberry Pie are looking for stories of exactly six sentences, and while the max wordcount is 400, they say 100 is the sweet spot. quote:We publish stories that are like Gooseberry Pie: tart, messy, and satisfying. … hey, that’s a total of 600 words! How about that. Here’s how this works: Every day, from now until Week 600 submissions close, you’ll get one free Thunderdome submission for each of the three prompts. Post them in the thread as you’re ready, and take advantage of the best writing community on the internet doing what they do best. Want to write more than one story for each prompt each day? You can earn more stories by critting other stories. Crit a story, write a story. It doesn’t matter which prompt you crit, but if you’re writing more than one story per prompt on a given day, you need to crit for the privilege. … okay, so I’ve written and posted some stories. Now what? When do I get published? As much as I’m going to encourage everyone to submit your stories to the publications, this is entirely up to you — entering TD doesn’t automatically submit anything anywhere for you. Write your stories, post your stories, and learn from the feedback you’ll get. Please don’t submit the same story multiple times for this week, but if you want to rework a story and send it out, I’m sure lots of people in the Thunderlounge or in the Discord will be more than happy to help. A reminder also that journals typically only want one story per author per submission window — so submit as much as you can to Thunderdome, and send the single best to each journal. All the best to those who submit! (… and, possibly, special prizes for those who get accepted … ) Usual Thunderdome rules apply, which is to say no fanfic, erotica, google docs. Make sure you also follow the journal submission guidelines if you’re looking to submit! This week, there is no sign-up deadline. Submission deadline for thunderdome week 600 is Sunday 11:59PM PST. Please note the journals have their own submission deadlines. Editorial Committee rohan Thranguy Slush Pile … you?
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Jan 29, 2024 23:30
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Yeah ok.
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Jan 30, 2024 00:05
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Heck yes. In.
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Jan 30, 2024 00:26
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Hell yeah, super in
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Jan 30, 2024 00:44
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In.
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Jan 30, 2024 02:33
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well crap. i gotta be in
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Jan 30, 2024 02:33
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In.
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Jan 30, 2024 04:03
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yeah I'm in
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Jan 30, 2024 04:29
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Symmetry 244 words Apex Magazine / Strange Locations Welcome to Forthright! We're so delighted to have you. To familiarize yourself with our community, please consult the map on the back of this Welcome Pamphlet. In accordance with our innovative community-planning system, all streets in Forthright have been conveniently numbered in ascending order of their distance from Main Street, differentiated by suffix. Use our simple mnemonic to remember: they're Streets to the South, Boulevards towards the Bay, Lanes to the Left, and Avenues towards the Arctic! Travel agents, realtors, and map websites unused to the Forthright System may have given you directions without clear street suffixes. Fear not! For your convenience, every same-numbered intersection in Forthright features the same charming local businesses. Enjoy your breakfast at the Delish Diner on 13th St and 47th Blvd? You'll find the same great meal at 13th Avenue and 47th Lane! Aubree behind the counter will even remember how you take your coffee! She can point you to that antique store just down the street, where the lamp you were admiring on 48th St is waiting patiently for you on 48th Lane. It'll look perfect in your new home, which Realty Row on 49th can't wait to help you find! We've reserved a hotel room for you at the Sunrise Extended Stay Suites, located at 1248 22nd -- whichever 22nd is most convenient for you, of course! Room 303 has a charming view of Forthright's greenbelt. Everything's ready for you, so settle in and let the system work!
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Jan 30, 2024 04:30
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I'm in!
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Jan 30, 2024 06:40
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https://flashfrontier.com/submissions/ Theme: QUIET | MARIRE Title: Moonlit. 243 Words. The shadows cast by the moons were sharp against the wall. Hanna stepped slowly through the sand, her feet slowly sinking as she crept. Behind her, the two Velmar followed about ten steps behind. She was much quieter than they were so they let her take the lead. She peered around the corner and held up her hand. The Velmar froze, their wing covers twitching. She watched as the guard stretched mightily, his unfamiliar musculature rippling under his uniform. Mouthparts spreading wide, he blinked slowly, turned and continued on patrol. After a few heartbeats, Hanna lowered her hand and continued on. Casting her gaze to the sand, Hanna found a small, round stone. It was perfect. She scooped it up and in one fluid motion tossed it over her head. Sailing over the guard, it clattered against the compound wall opposite them. The guard’s head automatically swiveled to find the noise; by then it was far too late. Hanna had taken off across the sand, her legs pumping in the low gravity. She crouched and sprang forward, crashing into the back of the guard. Tumbling to the ground, she slammed his head against the stones until she felt the sickening crack of bone. She snapped her fingers once, and the two Velmar trotted over as she picked up his rifle and identification card. Grinning, she pressed the card against the door he was guarding and it slid open without fanfare. They were out.
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Jan 30, 2024 19:27
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https://apex-magazine.com/apex-blog/submission-guidelines-strange-locations-edited-by-marissa-van-uden/ Theme: speculative microfiction in the form of tourist brochures, travel blogs, and travel guides to the strangest, darkest places you can imagine. 245 Words Title: Memory Lane There was an old comm set hot glued to the worn and shabby door at the bottom of the stairs. I pressed the dirty call button and waited. After two heartbeats the speaker crackled to life. “gently caress you, newbie.” I blinked. Ta’reni had warned me, but I was still taken aback. “Uh, Frankie says that the order is delayed.” I had practiced the passphrase so much that it didn’t even feel like words anymore, it was an incantation that I hoped would grant me access. “Hah” The voice barked a single laugh, and with a loud electric buzz, the door unlocked. The speaker came to life one more time. “You’re out of your element, newbie.” I stepped past the door and entered the Basement proper. I could hear a noise in the distance, almost like the surf. It got louder as I approached until I rounded the corner and my senses were assaulted. It was so loud. Booths had been haphazardly set up in the hall, filled with people of all shapes, sizes, and colors selling… everything really. I swallowed back my fear and tried to wear a face of bored indifference. This was not the palace to look like a tourist. Half way down the alley, right after the person selling stolen ship parts was who I was looking for. She had a hand painted sign above her booth: “Temerity Plague, Memories Bought and Sold.” I finally had a lead on who killed me.
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Jan 30, 2024 22:08
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 Thunderdome Week 599 - Results As always, thanks to my co-judge flyerant. This was a fun week. Some of you really got what I was aiming for with this prompt. I'll keep this short and sweet. No losses this week, in the spirit of Week 600 celebrations! A dishonourable mention goes to Paranoid Dude - a strong effort but just a bit overburdened by worldbuilding. Two honourable mentions go to Thranguy and Chernobyl Princess - two very different stories that both really nailed the prompt. The one and only win goes to the one and only derp - hole hole hole. Congratulations derp, you'll be judging week 601!
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Jan 30, 2024 22:36
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Thunderdome - Week 599 - Crits Beep-beep car is go - The Sixth Siege (Link) Flash Rule: The last train out of the city. I’m about halfway through and struggling to stay afloat in the midst of all the worldbuilding. Don’t get me wrong, I like worldbuilding - and I love this concept of a mirror city in the sky above, tearing a breach through reality to attack - but you’ve got a lot of it and arguably too much for 2,000 words. There’s a hell of a lot of Proper Nouns which makes everything a bit dense to wade through. I’m also a sucker for the Gentleman Magician Bureaucrat archetype, so I enjoyed your protagonist. I just didn’t get much from him in this particular story. I think you frontloaded too much worldbuilding - Hiram doesn’t really do much except enjoy a gentle stroll and have a couple of awkward conversations until he returns to his room, which is almost 75% of the way in. I couldn’t really tell you what Hiram wanted or was trying to do before that point, so the report comes as a bit of a surprise. There wasn’t really much room left to build any tension or anticipation, which left the ending a bit flat. There’s a solid concept at the heart of this story and I’d be interested in seeing a bit more action happen in this world. Paranoid Dude - Lighting the Fuse (Link) Flash Rule: Arriving back home, finally. This is the second story in a row to go heavy on the worldbuilding right from the start. There’s nothing wrong with that but it felt like a lot to be squeezed into 2,000 words. I tripped myself up several times trying to remember which character was which and again, you may have benefited from stripping out or combining some of the less core roles. Your decision to leave the tinker nameless (though I’m struggling to figure out what a tinker would be in the context of someone allowed in a war tent) was a good one and may have been one to repeat. Here’s a concrete example of what I mean: in the third paragraph we are introduced to Shalissa. We learn that she’s wearing forest green, that she is of the Wyld Watchers, that there is another group under the Undefeated Lord, that she is malicious and threatening and impatient. None of that comes up again. Even Shalissa only returns briefly, with a few lines of dialogue that could be reattributed and a throwaway reference at the end. I got the impression that you had a very clear picture of the scene in your head and wrote to match that but I think you could have cut this with no real loss to the reader. After that? I like that you went heavy on the interpersonal conflict here and had a lot of opinionated, clashing characters. It makes for good drama and I could really feel the power-plays back and forth throughout. I must admit, though, that the ending left me a little confused. What I took away was the understanding that the King’s desire to take this city without magic was to protect/reunite with his old love/wife - Karrel’s reaction feels a bit unfocused after that. You put a lot of trust in the reader to piece things together but that can leave some elements feeling rather vague. In particular, the final line is really just an awkward cliffhanger and it fell flat for me. I really liked this interpretation of your flash rule and you absolutely got the idea behind the week’s prompt. It just needed a little bit of refining. Toaster Beef - Tubes (Link) Flash Rule: None I liked this story. Second person can be a bit polarising but I think it worked here, grounding the reader in a specific body with a very specific sense of physicality. I got genuinely uncomfortable at points reading this - not quite phantom pains but close. In addition, I think you did a good job of capturing that sense of suffering through a stretch of time with no clear end. Arguably, I think the story apart from that comes off as a little bit thin on the ground. That might be the double-edged sword of the story concept - a story about just enduring can definitely be captivating but it’s trickier. I didn’t feel particularly engaged until the RN came in - part of building a sense of anticipation is having a relatively clear deadline, which I didn’t feel until that point. Still, you nailed the ending. Good use of the prompt. Derp - the hole (Link) Flash Rule: The first night of the tour (Didn’t Use) Hell yes, hit me with that opening paragraph. That’s a voice. That’s a strong as hell voice. I enjoyed the breaking down of the story into sections and the run-on sentences and the fact that this is all told from the perspective of someone whose brain works A Particular Way and how that influences every section. This is the guy who writes the notes you find in indie horror games who has spent too long around Brand Name Slenderman and I mean that in the best possible way. This is exactly the sort of rising anticipation and ending that I had hoped for with this weeks’ prompt. You tease us with the answer of the hole, anchor the deadline, and then draw back, explaining the run up to the answer of the hole and it getting closer and closer. there is no escaping the hole Chernobyl Princess - The Dance (Link) Flash Rule: The big dance. A dance that can kill the gods? Now that’s a big dance. I love this interpretation of the flash rule. I know I’ve prattled on about worldbuilding a lot with these crits but this is, I think, just the right level of it. There aren’t too many Proper Nouns and even if I wasn’t familiar with aurochs, I could figure out everything about them that mattered to the story from context. The gods are real, they are physically present, they are powerful and they are dangerous. I know all this, I learn all this, without it getting in the way of the story. There was also something about the … cadence (?) of the story that I enjoyed, that gentle back-and-forth interplay between the dancing and the herding and the god. The dancing metaphor writes itself. I was sold on the tension throughout the story; right up until Piu chose, I couldn’t tell which dance she would perform. The ambiguity you wove in around what the dance would even do, let alone performed by a single dancer, made it all the more engaging - even if Piu’s dance “worked”, the odds seemed poor that it would be a happy ending. As for the ending … look, I’m aware that this is a minor and quite petty gripe, but that last second question of “can they change?” felt a little tacked on. I’m not sure how I would have ended the story otherwise but the gods had been written up as so monstrous and other that it didn’t feel like a serious possibility. I enjoyed this one. Thranguy - The Chasm (Link) Flash Rule: That conversation you really, really didn’t want to have. Well that’s a gutpunch. I was in two minds about your opening paragraph when I first read it. My initial impression was that it wasn’t needed (no matter that you came in well under the wordcount) but looking back at it, I think I got something vital from it. It humanises Eve, grounds her in that memory and gives us a starting point, a happier time that we’re then relentlessly moving away from. After that, I think you did a good job of establishing that skipping, never-stopping advance of time. You don’t overplay it (I know I’d be tempted to have a recurring “There are X hours left …” style paragraph opener) and it’s nicely uneven; five minutes here, a minute there, etc. If I had a criticism, it’s that some of the diversions don’t feel as anchored to that core concept of time marching on as perhaps they could have. I’m struggling to put this into words but stay with me: take the website browsing paragraph, for example. We’re told it happens and told that she falls down a rabbit hole and that it takes nearly an hour - but then there’s no connection of that fact to the approaching deadline. As such, in the final paragraph, the “no matter how hard she tries to stop it” doesn’t hit as hard because there’s not really been much to establish that she was trying. I hope that makes sense. That ending works beautifully otherwise. The final sentence is blunt and uncompromising and exactly what you needed.
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Jan 30, 2024 22:41
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In,  for at least three stories.
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Jan 31, 2024 03:35
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Becalming 240 words Prompt: Quiet Ceaseless rocking, an extra ounce of milk, the humming of half-remembered lullabies, and back rubs have finally pacified my tightly swaddled newborn. My steps freeze as Jackie hiccups. In minutes, I’ve backed out of the room and closed the door. I sigh. After an hour of wailing, she’s asleep. It’s quiet. I tiptoe to the living room and curl up on the couch, heaped with meticulously placed pillows. I close my eyes, pop them back open and crane my neck to check the bottle warmer. Off. But how much formula is left? I groan as I reposition my hips and shuffle into the kitchen. Inside the tin is enough for another day but I’ll have to go out soon. I hope they have our brand. I bite my lip. Last time I had to drive 30 minutes to the next store. Maybe we should move closer to the city. Better school district, more support, more options. Will that change in five years? I’d have uprooted us for nothing. What if Jackie needs special schooling? I pace along the counter. I shouldn’t be pacing. That’s not helping her grow up healthy. At least she sleeps longer now. Is she asleep? When did I last hear her breathe? What if… In less than a breath, I stand at her crib again. Jackie’s chest rises and falls. She coughs, waking. She cries again, full-throated. I scoop her up and sigh. Now it’s quiet.
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Jan 31, 2024 20:12
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beep-beep car is go posted:The shadows cast by the moons were sharp against the wall. Hanna stepped slowlythrough the sand, her feet slowly sinking as she crept. Bold emphasis mine. beep-beep car is go posted:Behind her, the two Velmar followed about ten steps behind. She was much quieter than they were so they let her take the lead. Bold emphasis mine. Fix the start, you repeat word choices, and repeat information. I'd suggest combining both sentences into one. beep-beep car is go posted:She peered around the corner and held up her hand. The Velmar froze, their wing covers twitching. She watched as the guard stretched mightily, his unfamiliar Unfamiliar to who? musculature rippling under his uniform. Mouthparts spreading wide, he blinked slowly, turned and continued on patrol. After a few heartbeats, Hanna lowered her hand and continued on. This raises tension. It would help if we had stakes. Suggest pairing down two a few sentences. We are flash, we don't have alot of word count. beep-beep car is go posted:Casting her gaze to the sand, Hanna found a small, round stone. It was perfect. She scooped it up and in one fluid motion tossed it over her head. Sailing over the guard, it clattered against the compound wall opposite them. The guard’s head automatically swiveled to find the noise; by then it was far too late. Hanna had taken off across the sand, her legs pumping in the low gravity. She crouched and sprang forward, crashing into the back of the guard. Tumbling to the ground, she slammed his head against the stones until she felt the sickening crack of bone. beep-beep car is go posted:She snapped her fingers once, and the two Velmar trotted over as she picked up his rifle and identificaion card. Grinning, she pressed the card against the door he was guarding and it slid open without fanfare. Overall: Display of writers skill, but lacking emotional impact. A fun read. Suggest reading magazine to see if this matches their style. Worried this is a bit, well, traditional for magazine.
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Jan 31, 2024 21:50
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My Critiques are fueled by your approval, so send me a ty in the discord. If you want to discuss your crits feel free to hit me up there. Thunder Dome 599 Crits: https://docs.google.com/document/d/19WTuXNUW-2tR_-MKqjCFjARjkxbjvoCMWRanUU8sHI8/edit?usp=sharing
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Jan 31, 2024 22:26
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in I've written nothing in months
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Feb 1, 2024 08:25
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Renewal Apex / Strange Locations Travelling by elephant, one can reach the scared forests from the upper reaches of the Ganges within a month to the place where Hiram James, my mentor late of The Times, met his demise at the hands of a holy man that the natives worship as a god, or so I am told. On my arrival at the village I was greeted with great trepidation by the people, who nevertheless treated me well. I finally gained a audience with the headman, a nondescript elderly native that looked like any other and whom the others treated with no great deference. He told me the story of how this god protected the forest from all harm, and Hiram had inadvertently torn a piece of bark while leaning on a tree, and was slain by the god. The following morn we started into the mountain and reached the forests edge just as the heat reached it's zenith, and I went inside to the place he had been killed. I took out my machete and slammed it into the nearest tree, causing the natives to take fright as I took my navy colt from my pack and stood, expecting a wait, but there before me was the god, a tall older man, naked and covered in white clay. He held aloft a golden sword and charged as I shot the man in the chest. It is strange now to think of it after all these years, how I became the Forest King. For now.
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Feb 1, 2024 08:59
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fergot the wurds, its 250
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Feb 1, 2024 09:13
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Another Sinner Laid to Rest Gooseberry Pie / Exactly six sentences 146 words Now look at that man down there, that seemingly industrious man living a quiet existence as a peaceable tiller of the soil. Much like the man he killed back in Fort Worth in the fall of ‘83, God rest his soul. And as it pertains to souls, I must admit I have delivered many a sinner unto the Lord’s judgement, as decreed by the State of Texas that they be apprehend dead or alive. Being as it were, I prefer to cut out any middlemen. At times before I lay a man to his final rest, I will say a short prayer for his immortal soul should I deem the man’s actions not too disagreeable to the nature of men. But in the case of our sinner here, he was an evil man, and shall gain nothing but eternal hellfire, and I shall shoot him gladly.
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Feb 1, 2024 12:26
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beep-beep car is go posted:RECORD SCRATCH Help Wanted 975 words After what had happened at Vanadium College I needed somewhere to lay low for a while—as well as some time to work out how I could actually make a living without endangering myself and everyone else—and so, when I saw the HELP WANTED sign for a hotel six days to the north offering room and board, I packed up everything I owned and was on the road the very next day. Sorry—that’s an absolutely terrible way to introduce myself. I need you to trust me, and a tendency to cause unspecified trouble and run away doesn’t bode well for my reliability. Let’s just say that what had happened wasn’t entirely my fault, but there was an amount of desperation guiding my actions. Nobody packs up everything they own—which, frankly, amounted to little more than some dog-eared spellbooks, a wand, two cloaks, and a change of underwear—and heads off to the foothills of Alexandrite without a particularly bad reason. It is not somewhere an aspiring wizard travels to seek her fortune. There were circumstances, important only for setting me on the road in the first place; and I tried not to dwell on them at the time, so I won’t linger on them here. All told, it actually only took me five days to get there. I fell in with a band of gnomes headed north on the second day, and for all my concerns I’d outpace them with three times as much leg, they set a demanding pace of their own and I struggled to keep up. We didn’t talk much as we walked, but we shared good beer and filthy stories that night, and when we parted ways the following morning I left with a pair of fresh socks and a promise to visit their taverns when I was next passing through. I travelled alone the rest of that day, but met some itinerant traders that night and traded those same socks for a bowl of hot stew and a place in their caravan. Never underestimate the value of comfortable feet on the road. ‘Where to next?’ their leader asked, after we reached the next trading post and I was ready to strike off alone again. ‘Palades?’ ‘No,’ I said. ‘Alexandrite. Looking for work in a hotel there. Listen, if you’re ever in the area—’ He shook his head, holding his hands with palms toward me. ‘No debts owed,’ he told me. ‘’sides, we’re not ones for that lifestyle of tablecloths and toiletries. Safe travels now, you hear? Make sure you get there ’fore the snow does.’ I looked up; the sky was clear in every direction. ‘Doesn’t seem imminent,’ I told him. ‘Spend enough time on the road like we do, you get a sense of these things,’ he smiled. ‘Now, if you’ll be needing new boots—or an umbrella—’ Despite my increasing doubts about imminent precipitation, I eventually left camp two coins lighter, with a thick scarf around my neck and a pair of thick woollen mittens. I met fewer and fewer people the further north I went; caravans shunned the area for its narrowing, unkept roads, and as the path crept ever steeper, I found myself longing for the cleated hiking boots I’d balked at back in the trader’s camp. Sensible footwear was not something I’d previously had to consider; while I was aware of the varying makes, materials, and modes—Vanadium played host to many non-wizarding visitors, from auroch-herders in tumescent woollen slippers to the nobility in burgundy leather boots, all mirror-shine and maintenance—I’d given as much thought to their relative appeal as they likely would an oak wand to a cypress one. That is to say, it’s more a question of fashion than utility, until you try to light a candle with oak and end up turning it into a frog. And so, I trudged along, cursing the coins in my pocket that could otherwise have been warm and capable boots, my only thoughts being the pint of ale and leg of lamb that would be their eventual redemption. The hotel would have beer, and wine, and food. A fire. And somewhere to hang the boots I’d buy with my first paycheck. I’ll admit, I had other reasons for fixating on a meal by the fireplace that got more grand and elaborate with each passing mile. I couldn’t quite shake doubts about the advertisement that settled heavily on my shoulders, like the trader’s yet-unseen snow, piling higher the closer I got to the hotel. Six days was a long time to travel for a prospective job, and I wondered if they’d exhausted all possible candidates within a closer radius, and what that told me about their demands. Charitably, I reasoned they posted advertisements in the distant city to attract more cosmopolitan eyes; that they figured any help hailing from Calamus could help them adopt the burgeoning trends of the urbane. The ad itself was maddeningly brief, offering no guidance as to what kind of help might be required—but I’d spent nineteen years learning to pick up new skills, paying my way through wizarding school by way of various trades, and it had only gone catastrophically wrong the once. I figured, whatever troubles a hotel nestled in the foothills of an inhospitable mountain pass should face, I could likely tackle after dinner and a strong mug of hot tea. And so, thoughts of new boots, warm dinners, cold beer, hot tea, a roaring fire, and a newfound purpose in life carried me through those last few blistering miles. I knew, deep down inside, that this was exactly what I needed: distance, isolation, and a job where the most I could do to disappoint somebody was fold the sheets incorrectly. Unfortunately, I’d never been very good at premonition.
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Feb 1, 2024 12:27
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In. Also, Posting. Prompt 3, Gooseberry Pie/six sentences Godmother 129 words Threads flow from her gnarled wrists, red as war, thin as hope; each one is a debt, aged like fine wine in the gnarled body of the Godmother. When a task needs doing, the Godmother examines the ledger of her heart, plucks a string, calls forth a godchild who is bound by honor and thread and iron needles to earn the gifts bestowed at their birth. She is not cruel for the sake of it, but a broken promise wounds both ways and her old bones ache so badly already. If they are wise and clever they may escape with their soul unmarred, the crimson thread unweaving from the warp of their bodies when their debt is satisfied. So be wise and clever, godchild. Do not disappoint her.
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Feb 2, 2024 02:25
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Brawl 374: PROLOGUE OFF Brawlers: rohan Albatrossy_Rodent Prompt: Provide the first 1000 (or so) words of prologue to your current WIP novel. Albatrossy_Rodent's title: DAYCARE First Impressions: I am a parent of two kids, both of which are on the spectrum. This felt real to me, but also unreal. The fact that you imply that it's daycare, but also make their thoughts so cogent is at odds with the (assumed) age you have chosen. In the US, daycare is for 6months to Kindergarten or so. This kid could be in their last season of daycare before Kindergarten I guess, but it's still too coherent for me. It took me right out of the narrative. These are the thoughts of a 6 year old, especially one on the spectrum. It might work better to put them in kindergarten - I didn't read anything that happened that wouldn't happen in kindergarten. rohan's title: Help Wanted First Impressions: I think this is supposed to be a more alternate universe "modern" magic series, but the terminology kept changing. The MC is going to work at a Hotel for room and board (I don't think this actually happens in real life, but fine) but is also working their way north with a caravan and talk about having magical paraphernalia - but also didn't do any magic. They remarked about how they felt they should have bought the boots, but then also didn't do any magic to help with their discomfort. It's just me, but if I could do magic, I'd be sure to learn spells that would help with the cold and sore feet (if any existed, I suppose that the MC didn't know them or they don't exist, but it's still a thought I had reading). Technical skill: Both entries did not have any glaring technical errors, nor copy editing errors that I could easily see. I did not prefer the pentameter of DAYCARE, especially the first two paragraphs, but that doesn't make it wrong. Things I liked: DAYCARE: I liked how real it felt. My own children have issue with noises and crowds and have a hard time playing with friends. I think it wound up all being a dream, but that's led in slowly, as the unreality of the situation crescendos. Help Wanted: I enjoyed how easily a rollicking adventure could be made from just "traveling north for a job." It's the kind of thing that I aim to write, but still fall short of. There's a lot of there there, in not quite 1000 words. Things I didn't like: DAYCARE: I mentioned before about how the fact that the child's thoughts seem too old for their assumed age drew me out of the story. I think that could be fixed by changing it from daycare to kindergarten, or even an afterschool babysitter. Help Wanted: The first two paragraphs are awkward. I don't like the narrator interrupting themself to try and explain how they want the reader to trust them. The Winner: I declare rohan the winner of this brawl. I want to read more of their story. beep-beep car is go fucked around with this message at 03:52 on Feb 2, 2024 |
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Feb 2, 2024 03:50
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a friendly penguin posted:Becalming I think this is pretty great, it really rings true, all the hopes and fears towards what I'll assume is a first kid. It gives me single mother vibes. I can't really fault it, maybe the comma after 'lullabies', but I'm not really the guy when it comes to literary technical stuff. Oh, maybe it could show how tiring it is, the lack of sleep, better? But given the limitations of the prompt, it's a minor thing. Ya done good.
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Feb 3, 2024 00:32
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Prompt Two/QUIET | MARIRE/Flash Frontier Lungs 249 words There's a broken scream at the edge of the ocean. An indentation like a lower jaw stretched down beyond the limit of flesh, bone and sinew. It cuts into the coast and shapes the waves until they roar into a deep throat in the red sandstone. The eroded roar swallows everything; the ocean and the rush of the ocean and the shape of the ocean and the idea that this bight can be anything other than a moment of peace shaded by cliffs on the rough coast. The water looks quiet, still. You stand upon the cliff and know that beneath that placid lie, there is a desperate inhalation, a hidden current that will take you into the dark red throat and deeper to some strange subterranean realm beneath the headlands. But the water on the surface laps softly against the cliff face and asks "Do you know something I don't? Do you see something others fail to notice? Why are you looking at me like that?". - "Like what?" "Like I can do something. Like I can tell you whatever you want to hear." He meets your eyes for a second and then looks away, down the driveway where the setting sun lights the thousand golden leaves like sky lanterns. Wētā murmur your smoldering grief into the pitch black between the trees. A few miles away along the coast, a scream drags memories down to the deep places of the earth, and you are there to welcome them.
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Feb 3, 2024 02:35
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