|
In with Onism: The Awareness of How Little of the World You'll Experience https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IrBlmpqh8T0
|
#
¿
Jan 2, 2024 13:05
|
|
|
|
| # ¿ May 14, 2024 17:43 |
|
|
Prompt: Onism: The Awareness of How Little of the World You'll Experience boxes 1,293 words The call came from a neighbor. Cassie was curled up with her laptop, scrolling posts from friends she couldn’t remember vacationing in places she couldn’t conceive, when the phone vibrated to life on her coffee table. It made her jump. She didn’t recognize the number, so she just let it go — but then there was a message. It was her mother’s neighbor. There was an ambulance at mom’s house. Cassie drove ten minutes to the docks and took the next ferry out. The funeral reminded her of the get-togethers her mom threw in life: small, densely packed, and populated with faces she couldn’t quite place. She stood by the closed casket and greeted the strangers who shuffled by, accepting their kind words, nodding, smiling, the whole nine. It felt as though the entire town dropped in to pay their respects. That’s the way of things in islet communities. Losses are magnified. Neither of her sisters had bothered to show. Not unexpected, but some part of her had held out hope at least one of them would make the trip. Things weren’t acrimonious between any of them, really, but even the little bit of distance her sisters put between themselves and Byrne Harbor might as well have been a test facility wall. They’d slipped the bonds of this place’s orbit a long time ago and had no intention of reentering, lest they find themselves unable to leave again. None of that made it into the eulogy. Meredith Slate was born and had three daughters and died and did it all from the same saltbox house on Euclid Street and that was fine. The funeral was one of many things flitting through Cassie’s head now — here, in that small house on Euclid, in the corner of the living room, standing between the small dining table and the curio cabinet. Kitschy knick-knacks stared back at her from inside their glass enclosure. Cassie turned away from the curio and looked over at the end table on the far side of the couch — dad’s part of the couch, despite his having passed eight or nine years ago. A small wooden container kept a set of thick coasters neatly in place in the exact spot where he would, over mom’s protests, keep a stack of whatever three or four pulp paperbacks he was digging through at the time. “Far-out adventures in far-off lands,” he’d say. The stack was gone a week after he died. Littering the walls of the living room and reaching down the short hallway into the bedrooms were dozens of photographs: shots of the whole family taken around the house and Byrne Harbor; friends here on the islet; what few photos of the grandchildren her sisters had provided, all taken during visits here, when that was still a thing. Countless faces, most smiling, some not, all peering out from inside their rigid wooden frames. Try as she might, outside of the family shots Cassie struggled to name more than a few of the people in these images. The photos made her think of the one small vacation they ever took as a family — the one vacation she’d ever been on, come to think of it — and how her mother’s anxiety hung over it like a pall. It seeped into everything, made every step on every leg of the journey more emotionally draining than the last. They’d only ventured a couple of hours west to relax in a cabin and watch the leaves change for a few days, but by the time they returned, the five of them shared an unspoken understanding: We will never do anything like that again. And they didn’t. And when Cassie’s sisters went away to college, their mother mourned, and when they settled down in places that weren’t Byrne Harbor, their mother mourned, and when they had children of their own and took those children on adventures, their mother mourned. Having watched all this unfold from her vantage point a good handful of years behind her sisters, Cassie shared in their exhaustion. But when it came time for her to spread her wings and leave the nest, she found herself paralyzed. The result was a cramped studio apartment on the mainland — a ten-minute drive from the ferry, should one of mom’s neighbors ever call. Down the hallway off the living room were the bedrooms, three in all. Side by side were the daughters’ rooms. The oldest got the smaller one to herself. The year she graduated, the second-oldest fought to claim it, but mom insisted on leaving it as it was should the wandering oldest decide to return home. She never did. By the time mom accepted that, the second-oldest was gone, too. Standing just outside the doors to both rooms, Cassie marveled at how small everything looked. Thinking of all the arguments these miniscule spaces housed over the years made her face hot with embarrassment. Now, these rooms were relegated to storage. Mom had, at one point, moved her puzzle desk in front of the window in the larger room — a surprising decision that gave Cassie some hope things were changing — but it wasn’t long before the puzzle desk itself sank into abandon and her mother just started doing her puzzles on the coffee table in front of the television. After that, the boxes came. In any sufficiently old home, boxes spread like moss. The daughters’ rooms were lost to the boxes. Books, documents, old photographs, clothes nobody had worn in years or would ever wear again — all of it here, sorted and stored like Chinese takeout. For as much as mom fretted over losing her daughters to the world outside Byrne Harbor, that loss did pave the way for the scratching of a primordial itch: everything neatly contained, everything in its place, everything safely tucked away. Cassie stared at those organized piles of boxes for a while. The slow, meandering pace of this forlorn trip down memory lane was giving way to the hurried present. She thought about all the cleaning that had to be done, all the digging and sorting and tossing and keeping and donating and selling and calling and meeting and signing and filing and paying and forwarding and moving. It was getting difficult to breathe. Images flashed by: a tense and deathly quiet car on the way back from a horrible vacation, screaming arguments magnified by low ceilings in small rooms, a cramped studio apartment, a closed casket. She stepped quickly away from the bedrooms, back down the hall past all those framed, peering faces, and outside onto the front stoop, which virtually opened onto the street. Around the side of the house was a small yard bordered with a low, unkempt wooden fence. Cassie hugged the wall and made her way there, desperate for space. The day was cold and misty. She realized she’d been sweating. She focused on faraway things she could just barely see from here: the high rises on the mainland, backed by small, distant hills barely peeking through the gray. Slowly, she caught her breath. The people in those vacation photos, the ones she was looking at when she got the call, looked happy. Like they’d spend the ride back reminiscing and concocting the plans for their next adventure. They looked like people who’d leave home and do things and see things and make memories and live lives you couldn’t put into boxes and stack in empty rooms. Cassie thought about how, in a remote corner of the small, untidy cemetery a twenty-minute walk from here, six feet under a pile of freshly upturned dirt, her mother might finally be happy with the living space. Standing alone in the yard, she battled with her phone’s dim signal to book train tickets.
|
|
#
¿
Jan 6, 2024 18:28
|
|
|
All right, gently caress it, I'm in.
|
|
#
¿
Jan 12, 2024 02:29
|
|
|
From Scratch 1,205 words Molly, This is going to be one of those things where I seem to take forever to get to the point, but you’re going to have to trust me. You need to learn how to make pancakes. I know what you’re thinking: The recipe’s right there on the back of the box. And sure, if you want to use a boxed mix, I guess there’s nothing stopping you. But you shouldn’t. You should do it from scratch. It’s important. Here’s a little not-so-secret about your mother: She doesn’t cook. She’s never cooked. She’s the smartest and most talented person I’ve ever met and she does a great many things better than you or I ever will, but cooking just isn’t one of them. So the cooking has — for better or for worse, as you’ve come to know over the years — always fallen to me. Thing is, when your mother and I started dating, there just weren’t many things I could cook. But I could drat sure make pancakes. And I did. We had these pancakes twice every weekend for the better part of a decade. When your mother was finishing up her classes at NYU and taking the train two hours down every weekend, we were eating these pancakes. When we were struggling to make things work with near-nothing salaries in a lovely one-bedroom in Nowhere, New Jersey, we were eating these pancakes. When we were just trying to catch our breath in the first few years of marriage — between terrifying elections, my first health scare, and some heartbreaking goodbyes to some beloved family members — we were eating these pancakes. When we were navigating a pregnancy that, frankly, wasn’t always the easiest, we were eating these pancakes. We never had tests done, but you’re probably about 80% pancake. You might think I’m exaggerating. Okay. I know most kids don’t ever really go back to look at photos from their parents’ wedding, but if you ever find yourself browsing our old Facebook albums and happen across the pictures from that day, remember this letter and keep an eye out for the cakes. One of them was a perfectly normal creation from a bakery over in Haddonfield. The other was a gift from your grandmother, who dedicated a whole lot of time and energy to making us a wedding cake that looked exactly like a stack of pancakes. Like I said, it’s important. Anyway, here’s the recipe: Pancakes: White all-purpose flour - 1 cup Baking soda - 1 tsp Sugar - 1 TBSP Cinnamon - 2 tsp Salt - Pinch Milk - ¾ cup Oil - 1 TBSP 1 jumbo egg Butter - for griddle Compote: Frozen blueberries - 2 cups Sugar - ⅓ cup Lemon juice - 2 tsp Water - ⅓ cup Heat the griddle on low-medium. Mix the dry ingredients well, then dump in the egg, oil, and milk. Don’t overstir — lumps are good. Leave the batter to sit for a bit while you get the compote going. For the compote, toss half the blueberries into a saucepan with the water, sugar, and lemon juice, then cook over low heat, stirring frequently, for about 10 minutes. Add in the rest of the blueberries and cook for another 5-10 until you’re at the right consistency (a little thinner than syrup). Keep it warm off to the side while you get the pancakes ready. Spritz some water onto the griddle. If the droplets dance around a bit, the pan’s ready. Drop two small pats of butter onto the griddle and let them sizzle away for a few seconds before dropping about ¾ of a cup of batter onto each one. Let the batter spread out, then leave everything be. In about three minutes, when you start to see little pock marks forming and the sides of the pancake are looking cooked, flip ‘em over and give them another two or three minutes. You know how pancakes look, so eyeball it. Drop them onto a plate, drizzle with the compote, and serve. Powdered sugar really sets it off, but that’s up to you. -- That’s really all there is to it. Whole thing shouldn’t take you more than about 20 minutes, once you get good at it. Maybe you’ll even figure out a better order to do everything in. Knowing you, you’ve already hopped online to look up the boxed stuff — the ingredients, the recipe on the back — and you’re holding this up against that and you’re wondering why it’s so important to make these from scratch. I’m not going to pretend to know the science behind it. Maybe it’s the way no unpacked cup of flour is exactly the same as any other unpacked cup of flour, or how some teaspoons get heaped instead of leveled off, or maybe your baking soda is a different level of freshness, or maybe your pinch of salt is way bigger or way smaller than someone else’s pinch of salt, or maybe you eyeball ¾ of a cup of milk instead of using a ¼ cup measure three times, or maybe you let the batter sit for an extra minute, or maybe your griddle’s a little hotter or cooler than someone else’s … you get the idea. When you’re making things from scratch, there are a lot of variables. Those variables are huge. They become you, they make your pancakes your pancakes and nobody else’s. And if you’re using the box, you’re making the same exact pancakes everybody else is making. Anybody could make those pancakes. There’s nothing unique about those pancakes, nothing that tells the world, “I am Molly, and these are my pancakes.” And that might not matter a whole lot to you right now, and that’s fine — but one day, if you find someone like I did, and he or she is everything you could ever ask for, and you want to cook something for them that nobody else could, being able to put a plate down in front of them that says, “I am Molly, and these are my pancakes” is going to mean everything. So I’m giving you this recipe in the hopes that you’ll discover some fun new variables for yourself — that you’ll build on it and make something special and unique to you. Something befitting the incredible girl you are and the incredible woman you’re going to be. But, if you’ll allow me a second of hypocrisy, I’m going to ask that you hold onto the original. It’s important. Because one morning, long after I’m gone, your mother’s going to be looking a little down, like she did right after I got sick. And on that morning, I need you to make your mom some pancakes. These pancakes. You’re going to surprise her with them, and you’re going to sit down with her at the kitchen table, and she’s probably going to cry, but in a good way, and you’re going to let her tell you some stories, and it’s going to mean more to her than you could ever imagine. It’s going to mean everything. And that’s why you make them from scratch. Thanks, Mol. Love, Dad PS: The pancake batter also works for waffles. Worth a shot. But I have no idea where I left the waffle iron, so you’re on your own there.
|
|
#
¿
Jan 14, 2024 17:55
|
|
|
Thunderdome Week DXCVIII: Small Towns with Big Secrets I have the good fortune of living in a proper-rear end small town. Think Stars Hollow, from Gilmore Girls, except without that kind of money. There's a walkable main drag with a bunch of locally owned shops, a park in the center of town where lots of events are held, there's a miniature village (literally an entire section of town where the homes are super small and it's all connected by sidewalks), a town lake, the whole nine yards. It's adorable. And I want you to flip it on its goddamn head. Maybe it's a little cliche, but it's what I wanna read, so: For this week's Thunderdome, I want you to write about a lovely, tiny little town with a big, big secret. Don't feel constrained: You've got all the wiggle room in the world for this. If your tiny town's big secret is that it's sitting on top of a government lab running zombie experiments, so be it. If your tiny town is a generational starship and the engines have failed but only the engineer knows it, hell yeah, go for it. All this is to say that going big and outlandish shouldn't be considered out of the question. That said, maybe your tiny town is just a normal ol' tiny town and the big secret is someone's running a brothel. I dunno. Whatever the secret, it's gotta be something that would, in the scope of the story, be A Big drat Deal if it got out. Who it would be a big deal to and why is entirely your call. You know the drill re: poetry, erotica, fanfic, etc. — nothing special there. Flash Rule: If you're not sure where to start, request a flash rule and I'll give you a secret to inflict upon your tiny town. Maximum Word Count: 1,500 words Sign-ups Close: 11:59 p.m. ET on Friday the 19th (that's 8:59 p.m. WT and 4:59 a.m. Saturday over in Jolly Ol', I believe) Submissions Close: 11:59 p.m. ET on Sunday the 21st (that's 8:59 p.m. WT, 4:59 a.m. Monday in the UK) Judges: Toaster Beef curlingiron Uranium Phoenix Entrants: beep-beep car is go The Cut of Your Jib Staggy (Flash: Your tiny town's lake has a mermaid and it's killing local fishermen.) Lord Zedd-Repulsa (Flash: Local teens have discovered a complicated series of seemingly natural tunnels under your small town.) Also:  because they failed to submit last time.CaligulaKangaroo (Flash: Your tiny town's antique store has a hidden back room that sells Things You Ought Not be Able to Buy.) BabyRyoga (Flash: Your tiny town's new librarian is on the run from the law for doing some really, really unsavory stuff.) Vinny Possum (Flash: There's a room above a restaurant in your tiny town where powerful people convene to do ghastly things in secret.) SurreptitiousMuffin (Flash: Your tiny town's high school is straight-up haunted.) cptn_dr (Flash: A beat reporter in your tiny town is about to discover what's behind a sudden and markedly large uptick in suicides.) Also: because they can't be trusted otherwiseThranguy (Flash:Your tiny town's levees are about to break.) Flyerant Slightly Lions rivetz Toaster Beef fucked around with this message at 08:11 on Jan 20, 2024 |
|
#
¿
Jan 16, 2024 00:52
|
|
|
Staggy posted:In, give me a flash rule please. Your tiny town's lake has a mermaid and it's killing local fishermen.
|
|
#
¿
Jan 16, 2024 01:19
|
|
|
Lord Zedd-Repulsa posted:In, flash please? Local teens have discovered a complicated series of seemingly natural tunnels under your small town.
|
|
#
¿
Jan 16, 2024 01:39
|
|
|
CaligulaKangaroo posted:In! Your tiny town's antique store has a hidden back room that sells Things You Ought Not be Able to Buy.
|
|
#
¿
Jan 16, 2024 01:56
|
|
|
BabyRyoga posted:I'd like to get in on this, with a flash rule if possible! Your tiny town's new librarian is on the run from the law for doing some really, really unsavory stuff.
|
|
#
¿
Jan 16, 2024 02:50
|
|
|
Vinny Possum posted:In, flash please There's a room above a restaurant in your tiny town where powerful people convene to do ghastly things in secret.
|
|
#
¿
Jan 16, 2024 14:34
|
|
|
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
|
|
|
Sign-ups end in about 12.5 hours! Also: In search of two other judges. Anybody wanna volunteer?
|
|
#
¿
Jan 19, 2024 17:24
|
|
|
We've got our judges! Thank you to curlingiron and Uranium Phoenix for hopping on.
|
|
#
¿
Jan 20, 2024 02:49
|
|
|
Sign-ups are closed.
|
|
#
¿
Jan 20, 2024 08:11
|
|
|
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
|
|
|
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
|
|
|
Pays to be an Eagles fan, our season was over two months ago
|
|
#
¿
Jan 23, 2024 03:13
|
|
|
All righty, I"m in.
|
|
#
¿
Jan 26, 2024 22:13
|
|
|
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.”
|
|
#
¿
Jan 28, 2024 11:34
|
|
|
In, flash
|
|
#
¿
Feb 13, 2024 08:29
|
|
|
Week: 602 — (Un)familiar Places Flash: “You in a Kentucky aquarium, talking to a shark in a corner” Exhibit 1,490 words The aquarium opens early for me, a perk of the program mom’s in. The staff mostly know me by now and greet me by name as I walk the dimly lit corridors through gorgeous, idle exhibits and find my normal spot. Most folks come around here with the rented whiteboards, but mine is my own. I reach for the marker in my pocket, eyes cast on the ethereal waters of the mermaid tank. I was in the office with mom when the doctor gave her the diagnosis. I started crying, but mom just nodded. For her, the doctor’s confirmation was nothing more than a formality. His voice was low, solemn, comforting. “I know we’d been holding out hope, but I’m afraid the tests confirm what we were thinking. I wouldn’t say you’re an advanced case, but all the same it’s important you understand things are going to progress rapidly.” It started one idle afternoon with some stiffness in her legs. When she told me about it, in the same breath she wrote it off as just another concession you make as your body ages. But I remembered mom telling me about Aunt Lynnie. How she watched her parents — her father holding her sobbing mother tight — release Aunt Lynnie to the crashing waves one gray, misty morning. She swam out into the vast expanse, never to be seen again. And if I remembered that, mom did, too. So it had to be on her mind when her hair started growing faster and tougher, or when her fingernails began to shine without polish. She decided to make the doctor’s appointment when she awoke one morning and looked in the mirror to find her pupils had narrowed slightly. By the afternoon of the appointment, the webbing between her fingers had started to climb. Mom’s taking a while this morning. She’s been taking longer and longer. That’s not unexpected. All too expected, actually. I do my best not to think about it. Way down the hallway, one of the staff is vacuuming in preparation for the opening rush of schoolchildren. “The stiffness in your legs is going to get more pronounced, and in time they’re going to fuse entirely. Usually we tell patients to wear dresses — something loose and flowing, without legs — just for comfort’s sake. There’s a lot about your daily life and friendships that is going to change very quickly, and we have support staff here to help guide you through the more difficult parts.” For a little bit, she could still go out in public without anybody noticing. Getting around without assistance wasn’t quite as easy as it had been, but it was still possible, and the nascent scales and fins were small and still only in places we could cover with normal clothing. She took to wearing sunglasses everywhere. She normally wore dresses, so at least that part of things still felt a little routine. One by one, her friends started piecing things together. It didn’t take long before word got around. About a dozen of them got together and held a tiny banquet in the local VFW hall to raise money and, though it was never spoken aloud, say their goodbyes. Mom never liked being the center of attention, and this was no different — but you could tell she was grateful to have had everybody in one room again. She stayed seated through most of it, but took the opportunity to do a lap around the room during dinner. I suspected it was mostly just to show people she could still get around without a wheelchair. Within a few days of the banquet, walking just wasn’t a thing she could do anymore. Once she stopped using them every day, her legs fused faster and faster. I helped her donate her shoes. The first few mermaids finally swim into view. Mom’s not among them. They haven’t come close to me yet, but I can tell just by watching they finished changing a while back. They navigate the water with effortless grace and beauty. The newer ones, mom included, always struggle to keep up. Odd as it may sound, it has been a small comfort to watch her battle with that for the past month or so. It means she’s still in there. “Something you both should start thinking about now is what care looks like when your condition advances past what can be dealt with at home. We used to just advise families to release patients into the ocean, and obviously that’s still an option, but it’s not the only one. We’ll give you some brochures, and I encourage you to research other possibilities.” I sat down at the kitchen table with mom one night and asked her how she wanted to do things. She didn’t want the release to be in the ocean like with Aunt Lynnie. We started looking at the brochures. One was for the local aquarium, widely considered to be the nicest in the tri-state area. Their mermaid program was relatively new but came highly recommended both by the support staff at the doctor’s office and by a few of mom’s friends from the banquet. The benefits were obvious: She’d be safe, she’d be well cared for, and I could visit regularly. It was expensive, yes, but not prohibitively so, and we decided to make the call the next morning. After a tour of the facilities — an interesting thing, seeing behind the scenes at a place like that — mom and I agreed she would be plenty happy there. A bunch of paperwork later, we had one less decision to make. The whole thing happened quickly, but it had to. Mom’s condition was accelerating, just as the doctor had said it would. The sharp fin running down her spine had made it difficult to use seats with backs or dress in much more than overly large robes. Her fully formed tail left her without the … conventional setup, anatomically, and it required some ingenuity when it came to using the toilet. Public restrooms rapidly became a no-go, which was less and less of a problem because public spaces in general also rapidly became a no-go. I finally spot her, and she’s off in the distance with a group of the others — a few I’d seen her trying to swim around with on previous visits. Communicating through the glass via whiteboard with her mouthing and gesticulating her responses isn’t the easiest thing in the world, but I’d discerned the others in the group were about her age when they began their transformations. They’re all further along and frequently leave her in the dust, so to speak, but something unspoken — or at least not spoken in a way humans can understand — helps her feel a sense of community with them. This time around, I notice she’s keeping up fairly well. “Some families decide to downplay the release, while others decide to turn it into something of a ceremony. I can get you in touch with the support staff I mentioned if a ceremony is something you want to pursue.” Mom didn’t see much point in making a big to-do about her release day. The banquet had been enough, especially since things had progressed so much. She didn’t want the pity. I wasn’t going to fight her on it, so the release itself didn’t feature much in the way of fanfare. I wheeled mom in through the back entrance, took a large elevator up into the staff-only area, and met with a few staff around the enormous tank mom would be calling home from here on out. When it was time, I helped her slip off her robe and assisted her over to the edge of the tank. I told her I loved her. She said it back. The rapid deterioration of her voice box made it raspy and weak. Still, there was life and heart and depth behind it. She pushed herself into the water, and that was that. “It’s important to note that even when the transformation is complete on the outside, there’s still a lot of change happening on the inside. You’re going to hold onto your personality and memories for some time after the physical changes have manifested. But eventually, those are going to fade. It’s different for everybody. Sometimes it’s a few weeks, sometimes it’s a few months. But it’s unavoidable.” I begin writing on the whiteboard, the normal “Hi mom, how are you doing?,” but I’m mid-sentence when I look up and notice she’s not making her way over. She’s still with the others. I freeze in place. The last time I truly lock eyes with my mother, she’s passing by at a good clip and it’s just the briefest of moments. But that’s all I need. There’s no recognition, no familiarity. She’s gone. I drop the marker. In the distance, the doors open and the screaming of schoolchildren begins to flood the hall.
|
|
#
¿
Feb 18, 2024 21:44
|
|
|
Week 603: Framed Something I've always had a real fondness for is a good framing device: a story within a story. I love how it lets authors play around with voice and detail and the reliability of narration. And it has me thinking. This week, I want to see framing devices. Stories within stories. But here's the rub: You've gotta make that device worth the time. Is your narrator sitting around the campfire telling a creepy tale? Awesome. I wanna hear that tale, and I wanna know why they were telling it and how it all ties together. Is your narrator testifying in court? Sweet. What's the tale they relay — and what are they doing on the stand in the first place? Be careful with this one, because if I feel like you shorted either the storyteller or the story they're telling, you're gonna get dinged for it. If you want a flash rule, let me know and I'll tell you who your storyteller is and where they're telling their story. The rest is up to you, and you'll get another 250 words to mess around with. Word limit: 1,250 words, unless you use a flash, then it's 1,500. No fan fiction, no erotica, yadda yadda. You know the deal. Sign-up deadline: Friday, February 23rd 11:59pm Pacific Time (US) Submissions deadline: Sunday, February 25th at 11:59pm Pacific Time (US) (Note that unlike last time I offered a prompt, the sign-up and submission deadlines are on PT instead of ET. Sorry about that other week, west coasters.) Judges: Toaster Beef Slightly Lions ??? Entrants: beep-beep car is go (Flash: Your narrator is a police detective speaking at a deposition.) Obliterati The Saddest Rhino (Flash: Your narrator is testifying as a witness in a murder trial.) Thranguy Black Griffon Toaster Beef fucked around with this message at 20:53 on Feb 24, 2024 |
|
#
¿
Feb 19, 2024 21:21
|
|
|
beep-beep car is go posted:In and flash me Your narrator is a police detective speaking at a deposition.
|
|
#
¿
Feb 19, 2024 22:06
|
|
|
The Saddest Rhino posted:In and flash Your narrator is testifying as a witness in a murder trial.
|
|
#
¿
Feb 20, 2024 14:26
|
|
|
Sign-ups close in a little under 40 hours, and thus far we have four (4) entrants and one (1) judge. Gonad up, you bums.
|
|
#
¿
Feb 22, 2024 19:19
|
|
|
your terms are rough but acceptable
|
|
#
¿
Feb 22, 2024 19:45
|
|
|
Signups closed about six hours ago; looks like we've just got five entrants. Happy to welcome on other judges, if anyone's interested! Seems like a light week.
|
|
#
¿
Feb 24, 2024 14:57
|
|
|
this contract is sealed
|
|
#
¿
Feb 24, 2024 20:54
|
|
|
Submissions closed as of like almost four hours ago
|
|
#
¿
Feb 26, 2024 12:41
|
|
|
Week 603: Results Real talk, this was a tough prompt. No two ways about it. So I wanna thank the folks who tossed their hats in the ring, because this week's stories were, as a group, quite drat good. Not a bad story to be found, and that was really great to see. So: no losers or DMs this week. We did have one soul toss their hat in the ring and not submit anything — looking at you, The Saddest Rhino — but poo poo happens, life gets in the way, waddayagonnado, etc. Anyway, onto the fun stuff: With every story being some level of good-to-very-good, the judging this week actually came down to "who really stuck to the prompt?" This week, there were two stories that stuck to the prompt more thoroughly than all the rest. So first, congrats and an Honorable Mention go to Thranguy with Frame Shift, a deeply ambitious and well-written piece. Finally, our winner this week is beep-beep car is go with Straight on Until Morning, a story that might need a little polish but has a ton of heart, adheres to the prompt, and hits hard in spite of its breeziness. Just a fascinating read. I truly do mean it when I say everybody did a good job this week. Thank you sincerely for your entries, they were a lot of fun to go through. Seems as though crits will be coming from both judges later tonight. In the meantime, the floor is beep-beep's.
|
|
#
¿
Feb 26, 2024 22:53
|
|
|
Week 603: Crits Thranguy — Frame Shift I liked this quite a bit. It's a great use of the prompt, and very much the sort of thing I had in mind: a story told within a story, but for a reason. In a week where sticking to the prompt turned out to be key, that'd be enough to elevate this, but you also delivered a fascinating little detective story anchored around an ambitious idea that painted a whole drat world. Slightly Lions dug into what shook them a bit about this piece, and I'll echo their concern, but something that stuck out to me was this felt as though it could benefit from a tighter scope. You cover a lot of ground very quickly, and I wonder if maybe you'd focused instead on one moment or one scene — perhaps the confrontation with Franz — and let some of the exposition flow out of that, it would feel a little less like a bigger story crammed into a smaller story's shoes. Honestly though, I'd happily read a longer version of this where you explore the concept further. It's really, really good stuff. Obliterati — Interstellar Visions III: Guest-Editor’s Notes The absolute precision with which this targets me and my interests is kind of astounding. On top of that: We all know writing funny is crazy hard, and this succeeded in spades. I do like that you’ve painted a whole universe (with interesting circumstances) here in very short order. If I have any reservations about this piece, they center around a) does it lean a little too heavily on the ‘alien doesn’t understand or care about human civilization, drops casual references to species and events and locations we’re unfamiliar with’ trope and b) how well does it actually stick to the prompt? I think the answer to (a) is I couldn’t care less because it works well. The answer to (b) may not be so cut and dry. Which kills me a bit, because I adore this thing. Black Griffon — 17738 Ooh, fun. I’m a sucker for epistolary stories, and this one is very well done. I adore the foreboding creepiness that you developed over the course of this, and while part of me wishes it were a little more explicit with what's going on, that could very well suck some of the magic right out of it. If I'm gonna pick nits (and I am, because, well): I think there’s maybe some work to be done in differentiating the voices a little bit more, as Heerst and Henkel blend together. And as much as I like this, I do have questions about how well it adheres to the prompt. Unfortunately, in a week like this, that second one's a little bit of a dealbreaker. I'll reiterate what Slightly Lions said, though: In another week, this could walk away with a win. beep-beep car is go — Straight on Until Morning Huh. This was charming, in its own little way, and a surprisingly fun read with a unique mix of breeziness and heaviness. I felt that a few times throughout this, actually. For example, I appreciate the juxtaposition of this emotionally and philosophically weighty story being told over what amounts to a board game.There are a few spots here and there where I think there’s a bit of work to be done structurally (specifically when Telemachus enters the conversation — while I know it was meant to be a little jarring, I do think it can be done a bit more cleanly) but it’s engaging and sticks to the prompt extremely well.
|
|
#
¿
Feb 27, 2024 01:20
|
|
|
Okay yeah, in and hit me with all three o' them flashes
|
|
#
¿
Feb 27, 2024 02:55
|
|
|
The Last Ride of Captain Crash K’yaggins 2,075 words “You should go with my men quietly, Captain K’yaggins,” Peck said. “To die on the carpet in front of my distinguished guests would be an end unbefitting a man of your accomplishments.” It was nice carpet. A bold but dignified red, trimmed with gold, much like the rest of the room. Percival Peck spared no expense, and the Histories Dome was, after all, the most lavish space in his entire lunar estate. Those distinguished guests of his were Peck’s fellow lunar mining trillionaires — an impossibly wealthy collection of fat cats who donned cashmere gloves to cover the blood on their hands and party uproariously in a space removed from the human wreckage their capitalist greed left in its wake. Tonight, they were offering Peck a lifetime achievement award. His ModuLine AutoMiners were finally rolling off the assembly line, ushering in a brand new era of prosperity across the solar system — an era “free of the toil of manual mining.” Captain Crash K’yaggins — decorated fighter pilot in the Orbital Conflicts, leader of the local miners’ union, and proud head of the citizen militia that kept Lunar District IV safe from Peck’s rowdier goons — tightened his grip on the vintage Anton Mk. II pistol he had trained directly at Peck’s rotund face. “Well, I hate to mess up your carpet,” Crash uttered. He cast a quick nod to the flame-retardant foam and finger foods littering the ground. “But, hey, in for a penny.” The room was frozen in silence. Two dozen of the richest people the universe had ever known stood dead still in shock and fascination at the scene that had unfolded in front of them. Crash had swept in like a bull through a china shop, setting off alarms and raising hell all the way through the complex. Peck, convinced his men had things well in hand, brought his security feed up on the Histories Dome’s viewing screens so they could watch the drama unfold. They spectated with increasing unease as Crash cut through trained guard after trained guard, dodging their laser pistol blasts with something approaching precognitive skill. And suddenly the doors had flown open, a haze of smoke and sizzling flesh and burning uniforms and wrecked electronics flowing into the room like a toxic fog, as Crash burst in. Chaos unfolded. Security in the Histories Dome itself had been somewhat meager, since Peck thought hired muscle detracted from the gilded beauty and unethically obtained historical objects. Crash had demolished them without much trouble, scrambling adeptly between columns and planters and display cases to fire off well-placed bursts, but soon found himself overwhelmed by the forces piling in from elsewhere around the estate. At one point, his trusty laser pistol took a shot directly to the cooling vent and was rendered inoperable. Thinking on his feet, Crash had tossed a tray of canapés at one of the dome’s fire suppression nozzles and set off an enormous spray of white foam. He’d used the ensuing confusion to grab a replacement weapon off the wall: the Anton Mk. II, one of Peck’s prized possessions and a darling of his Histories Dome exhibit. Peck had screamed unintelligible commands at his men, but they seemed to mostly be ignoring him and doing as they were trained. They just weren’t up to the task. As the flurry of activity came to an end, Crash dove and fired five shots, injuring or ending five guards in the process — but more were coming, and Crash had someone very specific in mind for the pistol’s final round. He’d hit the ground hard, gun aimed directly at Peck. All at once, the guards, Crash, Peck, and the other partygoers froze. And that’s how the room arrived at this uneasy standoff. “I would ask, Captain K’yaggins, how you found your way past my security’s outer perimeter, but I suspect I already know the answer,” Peck said, the smug smirk never leaving his face. “I imagine you’ll tell me I should have paid those low-rung idiots a little better, and then maybe they wouldn’t have been so sympathetic to you and your pitiful ‘revolution.’” “Nothing pitiful about the people taking what’s theirs, Peck,” Crash growled. “Nothing pitiful about a man getting his fair share.” That sent a small ripple of laughter through the partygoers. The absurdity of this man. Are we sure he isn’t part of the evening’s entertainment? “Tonight is a night for celebration, Captain K’yaggins. Regardless of what you might have heard rumbling among the ranks of your union friends and militia compatriots, the AutoMiners will be a boon to everyone — owners and miners alike.” “Is that right, Peck? Because word is the moment those machines are activated you’re putting all your miners and their families out onto the street.” Another ripple of laughter, this one a bit louder. Crash tensed slightly. It made the dozen or so of Peck’s goons, their weapons raised, flinch inward and tighten the circle they’d drawn around the adversaries. Peck raised a hand, and they stopped. “That’s simply ridiculous, Captain K’yaggins, and I thought you knew me better. Those miners and their families won’t be cast out into the street.” He took a beat. “They’ll be ejected forcefully from the Lunar District airlocks. Because that’s how we dispose of trash. These people have lived out their usefulness, Captain, and I won’t shed a tear for getting rid of useless things.” Crash smiled. It caught Peck off guard. “I’m sorry to hear you say that, Percy,” Crash said. “And I imagine the four billion people who just listened to it would agree.” Peck chuckled. “What are you even—” Crash took one hand off the gun to display his wrist — and the SatCast module strapped to it. “Direct line to your propaganda array here at casa de Peck,” Crash said. “Hacked into it on my way in. Kudos to your network: I just transmitted this little chat across every single screen on the entire goddamn moon.” For maybe the first time in his entire life, Peck seemed to be short of words. “How many folks would you say you’ve got on your lunar security payroll, Peck? And are you sure it’s enough to push back four billion?” The crowd murmured. A few of the fabulously wealthy suddenly started looking around the room, as though trying to determine a method of quiet escape. Not just from the dome, but from the moon itself. Keeping the gun raised, Crash glanced down. Some woman’s gaudy but expensively constructed purse had fallen right near one leg of Peck’s antique mahogany sofa. Quickly, subtly, he tucked his foot into the purse string and nudged the purse into a fixed spot under the heavy couch. Peck wasn’t a stupid man, and followed Crash’s eyes with his own — but he still wasn’t sure what was happening. “You insolent son of a—” Peck was sputtering, furious, unsure what to say next. “One great thing about working in your mines with your lovely equipment, Peck?” Crash said, pistol trained directly at the man’s head. “You learn how to improvise.” With one quick motion, Crash slipped a hand to the collar of his militia suit and tapped a button. Instantly, his head was encircled in a FibraMesh SpaceFarer helmet — not the sort of thing you’d go for a long jaunt on, but enough to do what he needed to do. With his other hand, Crash aimed the pistol a few inches to the right. Peck’s eyes went wide as he realized what was going down. Too late. Crash fired. The bullet hit the pristine glass of the dome, shattering one panel and creating a seam for the indifferent vastness of space. It was a tremendous noise followed by an eerie silence hanging over a scene of pure madness. The whole structure decompressed violently with a thump that Crash felt in his organs. The dome’s gravity pumps shut down immediately, and the panicked rich and their gilded accoutrement became airborne projectiles. They gasped and flailed and struggled and clung to what they could, but Peck’s precious Histories Room had nothing to offer them anymore. Crash, meanwhile, was pulled only so far before the purse string snatched him back into place by the ankle. He wasn’t going to be joining everybody on their sudden little skyward adventure — but, all the same, he did need to get the hell out of here. He freed his leg and used the other to push off the ground and take one giant leap, catapulting himself through floating jewelry and canapes and drink straws and cocktail olives and pieces of the dome. Some of it he was able to dodge gracefully, his years as a pilot in zero-G serving him well. Some of it, not so much. Regardless, he knew where he was going: From his approach, he’d seen that the dome’s escape pods were kept in a small annex just outside where this chaos was unfolding. It was undoubtedly accessible through a tunnel, but he didn’t have that kind of time. Pulling himself up the wall and out of the dome through one of the massive, jagged holes his stunt had created, he half-crawled, half-slid his way along the outside of the collapsing structure and over toward the escape pod lot. As he ran for a pod, a laser blast sizzled over his shoulder and into the distance. Crash snuck a glance as he kept moving. Just now climbing out of the same hole in the dome was one of Peck’s men. Shame he had to be late to the party, but so long as his aim didn’t improve, he wasn’t going to matter. Crash made it to a pod and, in one swift motion, hopped in, slammed the cockpit door shut, and pounded the ignition sequence into the control panel. He could hear laser pistol shots plinking off the outside of the pod as he got it into the air. Automatically piloted, it wavered to and fro a bit, bouncing off a few adjacent pods before finally getting oriented and exploding forward. It prioritized escape, so its systems were still coming to life one by one. The moment its oxygen scrubbers activated, Crash brought his helmet down and took in a giant gasp of air. He looked into the escape pod’s rear camera feed and worked to get his breath under control. His blood coursed through his veins, his heart wanted to leap straight through his ribcage. In the feed, he saw the guard running to grab a pod of his own outside the shattered remnants of the dome. To give chase? To get away? Who knew? Littered around what remained of Peck’s estate was invaluable detritus, including the bodies of a bunch of people who probably, up until a few moments ago, thought money was more important than oxygen. The whole scene grew smaller and smaller as he flew. For a while, the adrenaline meant he didn’t even really register the alarm. In the din, he hadn’t picked up on the damage to the pod’s rear-based navigation array. It probably took some errant shrapnel from the dome in just the wrong spot. Or maybe one of those shots from Peck’s goon hit home. The bumpy takeoff almost certainly didn’t help. Nobody could say. Didn’t matter much anyway. It was what it was. This pod was going somewhere, for sure, but it wouldn’t get there for millions of years. Crash looked down at the gun, which he’d somehow held onto in all that mess. He realized only now that it could have easily just been a replica. Would’ve been a different night, for sure. But while it may not have been a replica, it did only come with six rounds. Crash shifted his gaze forward, out the escape pod window into the speckled, infinite blackness, and marveled at its beauty — at how lucky he’d be to spend his final moments, however long they might be, drifting off into it. The job was done. Somewhere behind him, the revolution — in all its chaotic glory — was likely getting underway. Billions taking up arms, moving en masse to destroy machinery and grab vital resources in the sudden power vacuum. “Shame to ruin a party like that … but, hey, in for a penny,” Crash said to absolutely nobody, his eyes fixated on some random point of light untold billions of miles away. “Let’s go see what the neighbors are up to."
|
|
#
¿
Mar 4, 2024 03:12
|
|
|
gently caress it, i'm in
|
|
#
¿
Mar 13, 2024 01:45
|
|
|
Week 606: cool forest bro peach 1,165 words You have to duck under the brush to get there. It’s all the way toward the rear of the park and set back a ways off the running trail, just past the groundskeeper’s shed where a cop on walking patrol caught Lucas Reilly with his hand down Cynthia Bennett’s pants. You duck under the brush and you follow the rough path through the pineland forest until you come to an old chain link fence, then you walk along that for a little bit and it drops you right there: a small patch of the old Jackson farm where forest has taken over but the peach trees still grow — oddly. “Shelly didn’t like it,” Evelyn said, raising her voice over the noise from the open window. She dangled her arm out, letting her hand catch the wind now and then. “She said it felt weird.” “Shelly doesn’t like anything,” said Aiden, eyes fixed on the road, elbow resting lazily in his window. “Pete thought it was great. Guess it just hits different folks different ways.” The drive from Evelyn’s to the park wasn’t very long because no drive in a small town is. When they got there, Aiden got out first and opened Evelyn’s door for her. She stepped out with a smile, and together they walked into the park and began following the trail. It was a twenty-five-minute walk from the entrance of the park to the chain link fence the other kids at school told them about. About halfway in, Aiden’s hand met the small of Evelyn’s back. It stayed there for a minute or two, then wandered briefly downward — Evelyn met that move with some side-eye and a smile — before pulling away and reaching for Evelyn’s hand. They walked like that until they got to where they had to duck under the brush. It was early summer, and the shade of the forest kept them cool enough as they wandered along the chain link fence. The fence was a relic of a property line that, for all intents and purposes, existed now only on paper. It looked wildly out of place. Around it, the trees bustled with life, from the birds chittering overhead to the squirrels hurriedly rushing to and fro. The path Evelyn and Aiden followed was discernible, but only just so, and it filled them with a powerful blend of confidence and excitement to see that others — but not too many others — had been here before. Back at school, the other kids whispered about it when teachers weren’t around to hear. It was a rite of passage: You’d either tried a peach from the abandoned Jackson farm or you hadn’t, and once you had, things were just different. The energy from it coursed through your body. You saw the world a little differently. Like you’d unlocked new colors. You knew someone at school had been to the farm over the weekend when they showed up Monday morning like someone who’d been disassembled and put back together. Best anyone could guess, old man Jackson had been treating some small, hidden portion of his farm with something a little less than legal and selling the resulting fruits and their jellies to local enthusiasts. Jackson was long gone and his farm fell into complete abandonment years and years ago, but — much to the surprise and delight of some curious teens who’d been wandering the forest a few years back — those affected trees still put out some version of the fruit the old man originally concocted. Evelyn hadn’t been interested. She didn’t think herself a prude, but all the same, the prospect made her nervous. She wasn’t sure what to expect. It had taken some convincing from Aiden to get her out here. As they pushed through some of the final underbrush to make it to what used to be the secluded peach field, her hesitation gave way to wonder and excitement. The sun filtered lightly through the canopy, illuminating the leaves of the low-set peach trees, giving each fruit a warm glow. “This looks like it’s the place,” Aiden said. He moved closer to her, shoulder to shoulder, letting her hand go and wrapping his arm around her waist. His hand touched her bare skin right where her shirt met her jeans and it gave her goosebumps. “Looks like,” she said with a smile. Together, they walked up to one of the trees a little further away from where they entered, as the ones closest had mostly already been picked. # The walk back to the car was long and mostly silent, though not for lack of trying on Evelyn’s part. Aiden was just … somewhere else. She was already going over all of it again in her mind. The look on his face, so soft and inviting as he asked her, voice as low as a whisper, if she was ready. She nodded and smiled and closed her eyes, and together they each bit into a peach. Slowly, she lowered herself to the ground. The peach was somehow cool and warm at the same time, juicy and sweet and impossibly fresh, and the sensation of it batted away whatever trepidations she’d been holding on to. Still, she didn’t really feel any different. It was just a really nice peach. And when she opened her eyes and looked over at Aiden, it confirmed what he’d said in the car: It just hits different folks different ways. He’d joined her on the ground, but that was where the similarities in their experiences ended. His eyes were rolled back in his head, his mouth agape — a bit of juice had trickled out, and it glinted in the sunshine. His arms hung limply by his sides, and his peach, with one perfectly shaped bite taken out, sat in the loose grip of his relaxed hand. Evelyn looked at him with a mix of fear, excitement, and jealousy. This felt like the culmination of a series of increasingly daring transgressions, a forbidden treat for them and them alone, on this day, on this forest floor, and that had her blood racing — but all the same, she couldn’t help staring down at her own peach with a measure of disappointment. Maybe her and Shelly had picked one from the same branch or something. He was pretty well wiped after the experience, and Evelyn noticed something different about his eyes. They were darker, less welcoming. He was quiet as they started the walk back to the car, and remained that way despite her prompting. “Do you feel any different?” she asked. “Was it good?” “It was great, yeah,” he said, the lack of energy and conviction in his voice just impossible for her to ignore. “Really great.” At one point on the walk back, she sidled up next to him, wrapped her arm around his. He kept his hands in his pockets. They continued like that all the way to the car, where she had to open her own door.
|
|
#
¿
Mar 17, 2024 21:37
|
|
|
Week 607: Moral of the Story I'm about to become a dad. Like, it could happen this week (so lol, judging might get wild). And it has me thinking about stuff like Aesop — where you're telling a story but also imparting some wisdom. I love that kind of thing. Something about a simple story well told that leaves you with a little life lesson just tickles a very specific part of my brain. So this week, I'd love to see stories that teach morals. Do these have to be moral morals? Not at all. The moral of your story can be heinous. Make it "It's best to burn the entire village instead of just the barracks," if you want — just make sure that by the end of your piece the reader knows exactly the lesson you're teaching. You'd also be wise to keep in mind the aforementioned idea of "a simple story well told." Word limit: 1,500 Flash rule: If you'd like an extra 500 words to work with, I can provide you with one of Aesop's morals to chew on. You can do whatever the hell you like with it, but it's gotta come through in your story. Sign-up deadline: 11:59 PM PDT Friday (3/22) Submission deadline: 11:59 PDT Sunday (3/24) Entrants: beep-beep car is go Chernobyl Princess (Flash: "Children are not to be blamed for the faults of their parents.") Thranguy (Flash: "There is no believing a liar, even when he speaks the truth.") Albatrossy_Rodent shwinnebego (Flash: "It is too late to prepare for danger when our enemies are upon us.") Judges: Toaster Beef Toaster Beef fucked around with this message at 21:56 on Mar 22, 2024 |
|
#
¿
Mar 18, 2024 19:25
|
|
|
Chernobyl Princess posted:In and flash please Your moral is "Children are not to be blamed for the faults of their parents."
|
|
#
¿
Mar 18, 2024 19:57
|
|
|
|
| # ¿ May 14, 2024 17:43 |
|
|
Thranguy posted:In and flash "There is no believing a liar, even when he speaks the truth."
|
|
#
¿
Mar 19, 2024 11:01
|
|