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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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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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Submissions are closed! Crits are still welcome and encouraged. Take us into week 601, derp!
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Feb 5, 2024 09:06
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Judgment for Prompt 1 of Thunderdome Week 600DRED The judges have conferred and have come to a decision! In the interests of getting crits out and any editing done before Prompt 1 submissions close on February 15, results will be staggered per prompt. For prompt 1, which called for “guiding the reader down hidden trails into eerie landscapes, weird biotech gardens, creepy scifi cities, surreal forests, or secret magical places”, we had a number of well-written stories, many of which deserve to be submitted to Apex Magazine. But the Dome is less generous, and the blood throne less accommodating. The Saddest Rhino takes the win for The Food Truck At the Corner of The Street Where I Live that Everybody Says is Overrated But Eats at Anyway, which narrowly beat out the other contenders by virtue of a strong voice and a compelling narrative told entirely through monologue. Antivehicular earns an HM for A Walk Down Emberley Road, which we found the strongest narrative in this week’s apparent genre of not going home again. Finally, Yoruichi takes an HM for Welcome to Foxton, which has an excellent sense of place and an unnerving lurch into magic realism at the end. Crits to follow!
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Feb 11, 2024 08:34
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Crits for Week #600 - Prompt 1: Apex / Strange Locations Antivehicular - Symmetry: It’s a neat idea that maybe needs exploring in a longer format, or some other note to really sell the story. Right now there’s an implicit tension in the narrative that doesn’t quite land — e.g., what happens when the symmetry is inevitably disrupted? How is symmetry maintained in a world where entropy exists? etc. This is the fancy brochure that belies something nastier, that I’d love to see explored further. beep-beep car is go - Memory Lane: First: I love the name Temerity Plague. I would read the sci-fi series she belongs to. This is a strong opening to a sci-fi/cyberpunkish narrative. The ending isn’t so much a conclusion as a hook to keep me reading. And I would keep reading, even if the conceit hinted at by the final line reminds me a bit too much of Altered Carbon. For the prompt, there’s also not a whole lot of time and detail spent on the place. Likely this was the result of trying to tell both the opening to a cyberpunk revenge yarn, while also describing a location alien to reader and character alike. Fat Jesus - Renewal: This was one of the weaker stories of this prompt, for me. There’s less detail spent on the place and setting, and too much time spent telling what results to a fairly pulpy take on ignorant, non-descript “natives” and a protagonist who outsmarts their “god”. The Saddest Rhino - The Food Truck At the Corner of The Street Where I Live that Everybody Says is Overrated But Eats at Anyway: Love this one. Strong voice, storytelling and sense of place entirely through dialogue. The Saddest Rhino - You are Not Benevolent: Nice sense of growing dread, but ultimately the voice just becomes a bit too much for this piece. The Saddest Rhino - gently caress Goddamn poo poo I Hate Haunted Highways So Much: Love the idea but ultimately doesn't work for me, the voice and tone feels a bit too inconsistent and it feels like, unlike Foodtruck with its fairly direct and focused narrative, this story tries to bring in too many elements for the haunted highway and it comes out a bit muddled. Armack - Waylaid by The Quarrell: I’m not sure I get the prompt adherence here, but I was invested in the story and its strange, otherworldly events — I just wish there was a bit more to it. I’m fairly certain I’m missing something, some significance that might make the story, but without that context it’s just unsatisfying. Sitting Here - BUSTED: Dispelling Five Myths About Integration: Strong sense of worldbuilding, and the punchline of "distributed biocomputing network" is perfect. Not sure the footnotes add to the piece — they’re a bit distracting during the read, and I’m not sure they pay off if you wait and read them at the end. Maybe this would work better in a longer piece that had more space for formal creativity. SurreptitiousMuffin - Residency VISA application form for Cuono 3 and Affiliated Systems: Sci-fi worldbuilding and impenetrable bureaucracy, two great flavours together at last! I really enjoyed this. I think opening with “compliance” and “neurophilitic” before seguing to “income” works, and sets the tone perfectly early on. The rest doesn’t quite climb to the same heights, and it toes the line of wearing out its welcome, but I think the absurdity of the language works without devolving into what could otherwise be a fairly on-the-nose lolrandom parody of bureaucracy. Anomalous Blowout - Long Weekend: Absolutely loved this, but it lives or dies by its reference, and maybe I’d rank it higher if it didn’t come in the wake of the recent Clarkesworld piece or all the subsequent Bluesky memes? sebmojo - I’m not really a tourist I’m more of a traveller: Enjoyed this, but not convinced the title and the story perfectly match: there's this sense of indictment of cultural appropriation etc that the story then takes in a much more interesting direction, so the title itself seems a bit on-the-nose. Yoruichi - Welcome to Foxton,: Excellent sense of place, fantastic lurch into magic realism at the end. What starts as a story with fantastic specificity—the near vertical stairs and solitary streetlight really setting the scene for a hostile environment—leans into a more magic realist escape, difficult choices, and a real sense of the character’s history. Solid work. Vinny Possum - The Thicket: This is a decent story, if a bit familiar. The opening is a bit confusing in terms of timeline—the shift from present to past implies the “we” are still together at the time of the story’s telling, but the ending implies the narrator is now alone, so the chronology gets muddled. Antivehicular - A Walk Down Emberley Road: Absolutely loved this, continuing an apparent weekly theme of how time changes everything. Opening is fantastic and the story builds off that premise. Minor critiques, because overall I thought this was lovely and would highly recommend you send it off: - I don’t love “enter none of them” followed immediately by an explanation of what awaits you there. The former line might work better if the consequences were left unsaid, as a sort of threat. Right now, the warning and subsequent explanation slow down the narrative somewhat. - “where you spent your first year” doesn’t quite work for me—there’s less to grab onto from that description, and while it’s easy to imagine a young couple’s first apartment with baby crib unceremoniosly jammed into a tiny bedroom, I can’t imagine it would have resonance for the narrator. Violet_Sky - Memories of a Birthday Party: Similar themes to the last, but don't work quite as well. Feels a bit too dream-like, without truly committing. I’m also a bit unclear about where exactly the setting is—you’re talking about pizza, and playgrounds, and birthday cake, so I can picture some sort of party space for hire, but I think it’s missing some specific details to work for someone like myself whose own birthday memories mostly involve bowling alleys and Daytona. Captain_Person - Kaboria-7 Black Hole Memorial: Finally, some science fiction! Neat premise told well, not revelatory but works. This feels like something that would work nicely in a longer piece, but as a standalone story I think there are a few too many details all vying for attention. My Shark Waifuu - Excerpt from "The Fish of A-Declercq Bay": This story’s full of character, and the tone and language work well at bringing the setting together. On a first read, I thought the transition between paragraphs was a bit jarring, and wondered if that was due to the “excerpt” being taken from two different parts of the original — but on checking, it seems that’s the same segue as the original. I think it worked better then because, in a longer piece, it works as a conclusion—whereas here, it feels a diversion. curlingiron - Welcome to the Omniveritas Museum of Extant Realism!: This is delightful but also possibly a bit too much. There’s a lot of details to love here—the “art is subjective” line, the idea of an existential anchor—but the frantic back-and-forth between jokes and straightforward narration mean there’s not enough time or space to really appreciate the details. cptn_dr - What to do in Asterism Delta: Neat premise, one of the more successful takes on tourism this week, feels like it's missing a sting though. The line about “now that all surface ylem is exhausted” almost works for that, but the effect is ruined a bit by the earlier assertion that Earth is one of the most lucrative sources remaining. Antivehicular - An Introduction to East Montane For Travelers: Love the inversion of the tourist brochure, the twisted logic behind the seemingly terrible tourist advice, and the implicit tension of the population controls. It’s this tension and unanswered question of what “by any means necessary” constitutes that drive this story beyond an admittedly neat premise, and elevate it above your first story this week which operates in a similar space. The Saddest Rhino - Even Gravity Can’t Bring Us Together: Liked the ending, but the rest of the story doesn't really deserve it. It all feels a bit one-note until a decent ending. The Saddest Rhino - Spoilers for Final Imaginary Friend in Hidden Stage and What I Learnt: As a kid who loved videogames but didn’t really have many, I spent a lot of time reading walkthroughs and guides in magazines for games I’d never played, as a way of experiencing at least part of the game. (I guess these days I’d just watch a Let’s Play.) This story reminded me strongly of those memories, and the sensation of reading a walkthrough that namedropped characters and enemies and places I had no real understanding of, but ultimately it’s a bit unsatisfying as it doesn’t really go anywhere beyond that.
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Feb 11, 2024 11:41
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Judgment for Prompts 2 & 3 of Thunderdome Week 600DRED The remaining results are in! Thanks all for your patience  For prompt 2, Flash Frontier are looking for stories on the theme of QUIET | MĀRIRE. This was a more open prompt than the first, and the stories reflected this with varying interpretations on the theme. First, Fat Jesus takes the week’s only loss for Primates, which was unpleasant to read, relied on cheap and inaccurate stereotypes, and didn’t adhere to the prompt whatsoever. On the upper ends of the scale, the two captains delivered strong stories which both earned HMs: cptn_dr for Anahera, a delightfully otherworldly event handled with the clinical detachment of the mundane to good effect; and Captain_Person for Rano Pano, the quiet dissolution of a relationship across years and continents all too familiar. Finally, the judges agreed that July 6th, 9:12 PM was far and away the best story for Prompt 2, and Antivehicular takes the win. … which brings us to prompt 3, in which Gooseberry Pie were looking for stories of exactly six sentences. Let’s cut right to it: Antivehicular takes a trifecta of mentions this week, earning an HM for Scene From A Fast-Casual Restaurant. Congratulations! May you have as much luck with your submissions. Finally, the winner of prompt 3 is All tires bring farmers all farmers bring dogs by Anomalous Blowout, which was beautiful and poetic. That’s all! Thanks to all who entered, and best of luck to all who submit!
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Feb 12, 2024 04:47
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Crits for Week #600 Prompts 2 & 3 beep-beep car is go - Moonlit.: This is a scene that would work better in a longer story. The blocking etc is all fine, but I don’t have enough context as to who the characters are or what they’re trying to achieve, so any tension falls a bit flat. It’s not till they get out at the end that I realise that’s what they were intending to do; until then, I was imagining more of a break-in / heist scenario, not a break-out / escape. a friendly penguin - Becalming: A lovely scene that feels real and lived-in, and there’s a lot of character details and concerns packed into a neat little scene. I would have liked to explore some of those a bit more — the uprooting of their life, in particular, is a bit confusing because I’d expect moving closer to the city would be better for special schooling, unless that’s a non-sequitur. I can’t quite tell if “will that change in five years” is a positive or negative thought, e.g., will their current environment get better, or will the city get worse? I think, when cleaning this up for submission, I’d also lean toward less directly stating “it’s quiet” — difficult since the repetition forms the throughline for the story, but seems a bit on-the-nose for the prompt. Fat Jesus - Another Sinner Laid to Rest: This felt like one sentence of story told over six, where the challenge wasn’t so much condensing something down to fit, but rather stretching it out to fill. I didn’t really get anything out of this story besides some vague vigilante justice. Chernobyl Princess - Godmother: I really enjoyed this. The language is lovely and the ending lands nicely, and there’s a good undercurrent of tension and menace through the piece. If anything it’s possibly a touch too familiar, dark fairytale by way of the Godfather, and I’m not sure that’s enough on its own. Black Griffon - Lungs: I’m not entirely sure what to make of this one, to be honest—in my judge notes I wrote that I “enjoyed the subtext”, but right now I’m not actually sure I could tell you what’s happening. I’m reading some kind of past tragedy, the “he” who meets your eyes a memory of someone who’d drowned years earlier, but I think there needs to be a bit more clarity for the emotion to fully resonate with the reader. It’s a bit of a struggle, otherwise, even if the language is quite lovely. kaom - Prior Experience Not Required: This needed some more escalation; I think it lands the tone and tension in the first line, but then doesn't take it anywhere unexpected. There were a few stories this week running on similar themes, and I think—maybe due to the enforced structure of the six-sentence story—the pacing is a bit off on this story, partly due to less variation in sentence length making the whole thing feel a bit slower. sebmojo - How is what you are doing right now better than what you were doing before?: Strong visual and tactile imagery, specificity of “use your thumb” elevates it from what could be too pat, sticks the landing. Sitting Here - Proof: I enjoyed the language in this, there’s a really strong sense of place and lovely detail, and while the sudden turn at the end works on a first read, there’s no revelation at the end to give a second reading more meaning. It’s lovely, but inscrutable. Anomalous Blowout - All tires bring farmers all farmers bring dogs: I’ll admit I didn’t love this piece on a first read, and now I’m not sure what past me was thinking, because reading (and re-reading, and re-reading) it now all I can offer is that it’s beautiful and perfect and lines like “it thought the hills rolled endless” are such great examples of flash fiction’s economy of language expertly wielded. kaom - False Fungus Friendship: I didn’t particularly enjoy the pacing in this one, though I can sort of see the cinematic jump-cut approach you were likely aiming for. I think it has the effect of making everything in the story feel a bit slight; you mention the dangerous fall but it seems more an afterthought than a sign that these mushrooms took effort and risk to acquire. Maybe this would work better as a single scene. Or if you elided the intermediate steps entirely and went straight to “At home, the mushrooms tumbled into a hot-oiled pan and then to her plate, her fork, her tongue” which reduces the jump cut of the middle (here I can’t help but be reminded of Aronofsky, which lends a different angle to this foraging) while maintaining a visual imagery of the mushrooms falling from the tree to her pan to her mouth, etc. Antivehicular - July 6th, 9:12 PM: I really enjoyed everything about this one. Even the title, which I initially found a bit inscrutable (save the helpful context clues that these were July 4 fireworks), re-inforces the theme of time that’s ever-present in the narrative; there’s a conflict here between the still quietude of this moment, and the encroaching march of time that can’t leave the gravel pit untouched forever. The contrast of time weathering mica smooth, to the hotels cropping up along the river, works well. Fat Jesus - Love Gone Wrong: I didn’t care much for this at all. Domestic violence would be a tricky subject to handle in a longer story, and here it just feels like shorthand, an easy way to establish the narrator’s character before she gets her revenge at the end. Nothing about this fit the theme. Antivehicular - Scene From A Fast-Casual Restaurant: This is short and effective, a whole lot of character expressed in what might well be the shortest story of the week. cptn_dr - Not from here: I think I like the idea of this story more than the story itself; it opens strongly, but the connective tissue through the rest of the story wears thin. Are the different paragraphs meaant to be separated by passing time? The use of “still” and “gone now, too” hint toward this, but it’s otherwise fairly oblique. Captain_Person - Late, Again: Another one that didn’t quite land for me, in this case I think because the ending’s trying to be a touch too clever and falls apart. He wants to be late to her funeral because … he’s at home with her and she’s still alive? It’s distracting from what’s otherwise quite a lovely little relationship study. Captain_Person - Rano Pano: This is solid, and uncomfortably relatable. There’s a universality to this experience that’s well served by the choice of second-person narration. On a first read, though, I was confused and taken out of the story by what I can only assume is a misplaced “her” in the second line. I’m also wondering if having someone “already lying in bed next to you” in the second paragraph happens too quickly for the story, and I’m a bit confused by “I pretend not to enjoy. I don’t see how it ends”. It’s a line that sounds good, but falls apart under interrogation; why are they pretending not to enjoy the movie? I mean, obviously they’re upset by this new development, but to me that feels like the narrator wouldn’t be able to enjoy the movie, or might feign enjoyment of the movie not to make things weird. I actually preferred an earlier intepretation I had, which is that it’s a movie “you” and the narrator have watched before, and the narrator secretly enjoys it because it reminds them of time spent together, even though it’s, like, a trashy 90s rom-com or something, and this is now a double-betrayal, in that the narrator’s losing that shared movie to somebody else … but that falls apart with “I don’t see how it ends”. Fat Jesus - Primates: I hated this story. I don’t know why you’ve chosen to frame the story as an ethnic joke that relies upon an ignorant, outdated portrayal of people on the spectrum, but there’s nothing to like about this piece. cptn_dr - Anahera: I love stories that take otherworldly events and focus on the mundane realities of response, volunteer firefighters and bystanders treating this with no more reverence than a shipwreck (or a beached whale, which I suspect is the analogue, though they probably usually involve fewer firefighters). The note about being only “three successful reassumptions since 2003” lands at the perfect place in the story, underscoring that this has all happened again, if perhaps not in this small town (poor Foxton, at least the angel missed the windmill). rivetz - Family: I dig the idea behind this, and love the sting at the end, but given this is (I think?) the longest story of the week, I can’t help but feel it would benefit from an editing pass to cut down the length of each sentence and help keep the pace high. quote:The
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Feb 14, 2024 03:06
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in, flash flash flash
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Feb 27, 2024 02:54
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in,  , three cards please
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Mar 26, 2024 04:16
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Witchwork 1500 words Six of Cauldrons, King of Cauldrons, Five of Cauldrons After nine years of waking before dawn and sleeping after midnight, of painting sigils in blood and burning fingers on potions, I’ve finally reached the day of my final examination at Vanadium Tower. Soon, I will be a court witch, sent to expose the secrets and treacheries of foreign lands as sorceress and spy nonpareil. Forget tales of elaborately-armoured knights, or the wizards with their ostentatious robes and hand-waving folderol; the truth is, us witches are responsible for the peace, prosperity, and fortune of our kingdom. Our trade is spycraft, wetwork, the poison-tipped dagger to a wizards’ bludgeoning hammer. That you can name no famous witches—that we are, in your mind, covens of identical nameless hags brewing noxious concoctions, alike down to each bristling wart—speaks to our true power. There’s only one thing in my way; and, of course, it’s a man. ‘Empress,’ Roisin murmurs, crouching down beside his body. ‘And you’re sure you got the right one?’ ‘Yes, I’m sure,’ I say. We’re in the examination chambers, three hours before dawn; and I’m trying not to panic that the culmination of nine years’ careful study is tied to a wooden chair, head lolling to one side, skin the pallor of last week’s milk. At least he hasn’t started to smell, yet. ‘The assignment didn’t mention any allergies.’ Roisin shakes a hand free of her robes, and clicks her fingers before his nose. A small spark of flame emanates from the air above her thumb, pale green smoke winding its way up through his nostrils and then streaming out again through his unblinking eyes. I cough from the fumes. The man, notably, doesn’t. ‘You need Claudia,’ Roisin surmises. ‘No,’ I tell her. 'Absolutely not.’ She shrugs. ‘A gravedigger, then. He’s gone, Eve.’ ‘I’m sure you could—’ She shakes her head, emphatically. ‘It’s too late for an antidote. Even if I could brew one in time—no sure thing—he’s past the point of returning with herbs alone. What did you do to him?’ ‘Nothing that should kill him,’ I say. ‘He was drinking lager by the pint. I dropped a thimblefull of lyrebane in his glass, followed him to the privy, and collected him when he collapsed halfway. To anybody else he’d have just drunk overmuch. It can’t have been too strong a dose—I mean, look at him.’ We both take in the man tied to the chair before us. I’d been assigned to locate, subdue, and retrieve a Witch Hunter half a day’s travel away. This man, all two-hundred pounds of muscle, fit the description: from close-cropped auburn beard to gryphon tattoo on half-bared chest. If he wasn’t a Witch Hunter, he’d find good coin playing at one. ‘I am,’ Roisin muses, biting her lip. ‘All of him. How did you get him back here?’ ‘As a frog,’ I tell her. ‘As a frog.’ ‘I mean, I turned him into a frog, and left the tavern with him tucked away in my rucksack.’ Roisin squeezes her eyes shut, and then raises her head, opening them with a beseeching look to the ceiling. ‘Empress look after you,’ she mouths. ‘You gave him lyrebane, and then turned him into a frog.’ ‘I don’t see how else I could have—’ ‘You know about non-transitive thaumaturgy,’ Roisin interrupts. ‘Of course,’ I tell her. It’s one of the main tenets of magic, that every student learns in their first year. They make it sound more complicated than it actually is—I spent three months translating ancient theorems proving it, which at least instilled in me a love of language—but in short, magic cannot affect magic. It’s why you can’t cast one spell to light a fire and then another to douse it afterwards, which would make most magical battles otherwise quite trivial. ‘Lyrebane is magic,’ Roisin says, with the patient tone of a professor lecturing a prentice. ‘When you transformed the man—’ she nods to the body, as still and silent as ever—‘the transformation didn’t affect the lyrebane. A thimblefull of lyrebane is one thing to a man of his size and constitution, but quite another to a mouse.’ ‘Frog,’ I correct, my mouth dry. She shrugs. ‘We learned about it on mice. Honestly, Eve. I know you’re all about playing cloak-and-dagger, but you would have done well to take at least one elective in practical potion-work. I’ll say again—you’re going to need Claudia.’ ‘They’ll be able to tell,’ I murmur, reaching for a defensible objection. ‘Only if you play your part poorly,’ Roisin retorts. ‘Claudia’s magic won’t yield to theirs, after all.’ ‘I hardly think the adjudicators won’t—’ ‘Eve,’ Roisin interrupts, gripping my arm. ‘Why do you want to become a witch?’ ‘To—to serve my realm,’ I begin. She twists my arm, and I wince. ‘No,’ she says. ‘You want to be a spy in foreign courts. You want to lie, manipulate … deceive. If you can get this past the adjudicators, you’ll deserve the best posting offered. If you can’t … well, the better to find out now.’ ‘Fine,’ I relent. ‘She can try.’ # ‘That’s it?’ Claudia asks, incredulous, after taking in the dead man with the air of a surgeon inspecting a sprain. ‘You could have fetched a first-year.’ Roisin frowns. For all her insistence on fetching Claudia, she’s no more keen to spend time in their faculty than I am. ‘Experience seemed prudent,’ she demurs. ‘Given the circumstances.’ ‘Either of you could have managed this,’ Claudia continues, ‘if you’d bothered to take a single elective, rather than waste time on potions or—’ she casts an eye on me, ‘—“etiquette”.’ I swallow hard. ‘I’ll be in your debt,’ I manage. ‘And that’s what you learn in “diplomacy”?’ she scoffs, glowering before her twinkling eyes betray humour and she breaks out into a grin. ‘Very well! I’ll call on you the next time I need help telling spoons apart at dinner.’ She rolls up sleeves, turning back to the body. At once, the candles extinguish and the temperature plummets, my neck breaking out in goosebumps as a glow radiates from Claudia’s outstretched hands. Roisin tightens her own gown, nervous breaths puffing out before her. I’m not sure what she’s so worried about : her future as a witch isn’t now dependant on the elder magics of the necromantic wing. Claudia begins a steady, rhythmic chant, low and sonorous, and I watch as she beckons the dead man to awaken. His cold flesh impossibly obliges, eyelids snapping open even as Claudia ceases her chant and lets threads of thaumaturgy flow toward the man’s parted mouth. All the light in the room follows the rivulets, a luminescent tributary rushing to fill the space left by death; and then Claudia snaps her fingers and the candles re-light, the man as awake and alert as I’d met him. ‘I wouldn’t advise speaking to him,’ Claudia says, closing the distance to inspect her work. The Witch Hunter takes this scrutiny without complaint, eyes focused only on the far wall. ‘But his memories are intact.’ ‘Thank you,’ I say. That won’t be a problem: only amateur witches rely on vocal interrogations. ‘Oh, and table settings are outside-in. You work toward the centre with each course.’ ‘Ah,’ Claudia smiles. ‘And here I’m used to working from the inside out. Well, good luck!’ # The interrogation goes as well as anyone could hope. My spellwork deftly silences his lips while projecting latent memories: incipient conspiracies to invade Vanadium splayed against the brickwork. The adjudicators question my theory, inspect my legerdemain, but not once raise a question about the man’s mortality. I realise, for all I’d shunned the necromantic arts as lifeless puppetry, there was something of a beauty in it—or maybe I’m only grateful my future as court witch escaped its own bloodless end. Finally, at the end of the hour-long session, the adjudicators call an end to the proceedings. ‘Congratulations,’ the Dean of Spycraft announces. ‘You’ve performed an exemplary interrogation—’ I beam, hardly believing the deception worked. Roisin was right—for all of Claudia’s handiwork, it was my own talents that sold the show. I’m halfway to profuse thanks when the Dean continues: ‘—although, in future, I’d advise against dalliance while a dead man’s shade has free reign of the grounds.’ An arch smile spreads across her face. ‘Especially one who knows exactly where to find and wake the sleeping Dean.’ My stomach drops; visions of my future replaced by earning my keep forever as a tower servant, harried by the vengeful ghost of my failed exam. ‘Now, if he weren’t on the payroll,’ the Dean muses, ‘we may be having a very different conversation right now. As it stands, he actually rated your performance quite highly,’ she smiles. ‘With a few suggested improvements … but, well, there are always critics. He did commend your problem-solving and co-operation, however. ‘Which will be important in your new role,’ she concludes. ‘Welcome to the coven, Yvette. We look forward to your reports.’
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Apr 1, 2024 00:35
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I am judge
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Apr 22, 2024 04:46
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Crits 3rd Rock Amusing. Feels like the premise had a lot more potential — as it stands there’s not a lot tying the aliens and the “vampire” together besides their both being there, and it might’ve worked better if these two storylines weaved in a bit tighter throughout. “Interstellar aliens try to pose as regular people with funny results” is well-trodden ground and I was hoping the vampire flash would play more closely into that. But there are plenty of funny moments, and it’s surprisingly brisk for its length. This Very Moment lol eat your heart out, ann leckie Surprisingly strong, if I don’t think too hard about why a toilet has a speaker in it. I’d rather think about it just communicating telepathically than have some attempt at realism. At least that would explain why nobody else can hear the other side of the conversation. Well-written overall, a ludicrous premise played straight to good effect. Everyone’s Weird in Private Takes a long time to get going and relies on far too much exposition. There’s no tension in the chase if I don’t know the stakes, and the punchline isn’t strong enough to carry the story. I’m also not sure the title fits the story; it seems to insinuate Docent is only weird in private, whereas the entire story is launching from one weird anecdote to another. Besides missing the prompt adherence, this story would have benefited from some more mundane elements to contrast Docent. Deal of a Lifetime This relies far too much on hiding what’s really going on and just being needlessly oblique, with no real pay-off at the end. So, what, people sign their souls away when they turn 18 to be immortal? And then try to kill themselves to … get out of it? Why? I’m not clear on anyone’s motivations here. Seems to me if you’re worried about having sold your soul for immortality, nobody’s ever going to actually collect it? I like the voice in this story, I just wish it was clearer about what’s happening (or happened). When the narrator says “the internet sucks out here”, for instance, is that significant? It feels like you’re keeping too many secrets from the reader, so I’m latching onto what could just be insignificant lines for meaning. Customer Service oh I see, it’s our old friend ea-nasir Honestly the punchline to this would probably work better if there was more sense that the “calm man” was ripping the other man off somehow. That’s Ea-Nasir’s whole shtick, isn’t it? Whereas here he just seems like a generic rich man with a mysterious (and suspiciously long) past. I get that a certain amount of ambiguity is necessary for the landing to stick, but I’m not convinced the reveal (which is itself, IMO, fairly ambiguous if you’re not terminally online) is worth sanding all the interesting edges off the character. I’m also not sure why they’re in Paris, but I do like a Kir Royale, so I’ll let that slide. This Guy “to the ground to the greedy ground” sounds kinda cool but was most likely just missed in the edit. Overall this feels a bit meandering, the final line is trading on significance that the rest of the story doesn’t build to. I think overall it might be stronger if the scene with the taser was moved to after he first left the office? Having the “swim” occur later in the story might work better for the ending, and I think the references to Excel would work better with more separation. Right now it all just feels a bit unfinished.
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Apr 23, 2024 06:26
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rohan posted:I am judge
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Apr 29, 2024 00:47
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May 1, 2024 00:47
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A Quite Unexpected Delivery Badgers, Hounds, Post, Eggnog 1616 words Most of the time, Barry loved his job. Long walks, interesting smells, plenty of friends to talk to along the way. It was a humble life—he was never going to achieve greatness like his athlete cousin Graydon, or solve crimes like his cousin Wolfrick—but his was a job that needed doing just as much as anyone else’s, and some days even moreso. After all, nobody could read about Graydon’s results without the form guide, or assist Wolfrick’s inquiries without a summons. Sometimes, though, he didn’t love his job quite so much; but not for the reasons anyone might expect. It was neither rain, nor snow, nor sleet, nor hail that sometimes stilled his stubby legs and made him pause at the bottom of a particular gate on his round. He could handle inclement weather just fine; he had an umbrella and bright yellow galoshes against the worst of it, and stormclouds often precipitated warm mugs of milk and chewy, oven-warm biscuits as gratitude for his deliveries. But not at this gate. Never at number nine Chancery Lane, home to Brock the Badger. He rubbed the envelope between his paws. One letter. He could deliver one letter, and then be back on his way. For once, it wasn’t even a bill. Summoning his courage—reminding himself that Wolfrick certainly faced more terrifying creatures without complaint—Barry pushed open the gate and walked up the stony path toward the burrow. He briefly considered simply leaving the envelope on the poorly-named welcome mat and scarpering before the badger’s keen nose caught his presence. But that would only give the grouch an excuse to ignore it, and Barry knew Brock’s neighbours were keen for a reply. Barry reached up for the knocker and struck twice, hoping maybe Brock might be out for the morning—even as he couldn’t imagine where the badger might go. Nobody had seen him out in town for months. The door opened a notch, Brock’s beady little eyes appearing at the end of a black-and-white snout to squint up at the post-hound. ‘Don’t know why you’re here,’ Brock muttered, whiskers fluttering. ‘I’ve paid my bills for the month.’ ‘It’s not a bill,’ Barry said, pressing the letter towards Brock’s paw, still gripped tight to the round door. ‘It’s an invitation.’ ‘Hah!’ Brock spat. ‘And how would you know that? Have you been reading my mail, pup?’ Barry resisted the urge to correct the elder badger. Pup? He’d just turned seven, and the entire town had celebrated his birthday outside the post office, with caramel fudge and lemon tarts and cheesecake, but of course Brock hadn’t bothered to attend. For his part, Brock seemed not to have aged a day more, his ornery nature keeping time itself at bay. ‘It’s from your neighbours,’ Barry pressed. He didn’t bother emphasising the pun, as he might have otherwise. ‘The Shetlands.’ ‘Feh,’ Brock muttered, reaching up with his other paw to take the letter. ‘What do those nags want?’ He slit the envelope open with one sharp claw, delicately extracting the heavy paper and unfolding its thirds. Despite his grumbling, Barry knew the badger was invested: curiosity, he found, always bested obstinancy, even if only to provide a new source of complaint. ‘Fie!’ the badger swore, holding the paper to the edge of his snout, his eyes narrowing upon the ornate cursive writing. ‘Whoever needed to write so tiny? I’m not fetching my spectacles for this. You’ll need to read it for me, pup.’ Barry resisted the urge to roll his eyes: the badger’s shortsightedness was well-known, but seemingly inconstant. ‘Ahem,’ Barry started, turning the page toward him. ‘To: Brock Boarcomb, number Nine Chancery L—’ ‘Yes, yes, I know it’s for me,’ Brock muttered, waving Barry on. ‘Leave off the guff and folderol. What’s the message?’ ‘The Shetlands,’ Barry continued, moving his eyes further down the page, ‘would appreciate the honour of your company at dinner on Friday evening, to celebrate the third anniversary of their marriage.’ ‘“Dinner”?’ Brock scoffed. ‘Oats and hay, I expect.’ ‘They’ll be cake,’ Barry said. ‘Viola’s quite good at baking.’ ‘Feh,’ Brock said. ‘Carrot cake, I expect. You can send my congratulations and my apologies, thank you.’ Barry waited, hands still clutching the half-read letter. ‘Well?’ Brock said, waving him off with a paw. ‘You’ve got your message. Go on, then!’ ‘I—I’ll need it written down,’ Barry said. The badger’s nose twitched. ‘Well,’ he muttered. ‘You’ll have to come by tomorrow then, I suppose. I’ll have it for you then.’ The door slammed shut in Barry’s face, and he stuffed the letter back in his pocket before walking back up the hill toward his bicycle. # The next morning, Barry knocked at the badger’s door. Brock, eye-glasses so far down his snout that Barry wondered how they did any use at all, opened the door on the first knock with a folded letter clutched in one paw. ‘I haven’t any stamps,’ the badger said. ‘That’s okay,’ Barry said, smiling. ‘It’s only up the hill, and I’m going there anyway.’ The badger peered up at Barry’s bicycle, loaded with parcels. His eyebrows raised for a moment, before returning to a scowl. ‘Well-wishers sending gifts, I expect,’ he muttered. ‘Fiddlesticks. Lived with myself twelve years and don’t expect bells for it.’ Barry bit back his immediate response. ‘Only eggs and cream from the dairy,’ he said. ‘For Viola’s cake.’ ‘Of course,’ Brock said, shaking his head. ‘The gourmand. Well. If you could—thank you,’ he said, pressing the letter into Barry’s hands. Barry was halfway through thanking the badger when the door closed in his face again. # The next morning Barry reached Brock’s door, his hand hadn’t even met the knocker when the door flung open. ‘You again,’ Brock snarled, or tried to—it was hard for the badger to seem affronted when Barry had seen the drapes flutter from the gate, as if somebody had spent some time watching and waiting for his arrival. ‘The Shetlands replied,’ Barry said, handing the badger an envelope. He noticed, again, the lack of eye-glasses. ‘Would you like me to—’ ‘I suppose you’d better,’ the badger said, peering at the cursive. ‘But—’ he sniffed the air, whiskers trembling, and then scowled toward the sky. Clouds moved in over the hill, thick and grey like Barry’s favourite blanket, only much less warm. ‘Perhaps not out here. Perhaps you should, um—’ Brock paused, clutching the envelope between his two little paws, and Barry realised that they were trembling. ‘No,’ Brock muttered, shaking his head. ‘That would keep you from your rounds. You’d better—’ ‘I have time,’ Barry told the badger. His own nose was now picking up the unmistakable scent of jasmine tea from somewhere within the burrow. ‘The parcels will keep.’ Barry followed the badger inside, closing the door quietly behind him. # It only took a minute to read the letter. When he’d finished, they still had most of a mug of tea sitting before them, and they sat in silence before each taking a sip of the scalding liquid. ‘Well,’ Barry said, looking about the kitchen for comment. ‘I thought that was a lovely letter.’ ‘Hm,’ Brock muttered, taking another delicate sip. ‘It’s a rote reply, I’m sure they wrote several.’ Barry didn’t tell him that only one of the letters he’d taken to the Shetlands in the past three days had been an apology. Instead, he took another sip of tea, mindful that he still had a morning’s bikeride ahead of him and that, while his cousins may have been comfortable using latrine pillars... ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I suppose I should—’ ‘Oh, yes, your deliveries,’ the badger said, rising quick enough to clatter his teacup upon its saucer. ‘You’d better—I’d better show you—dark in here for your eyes, I expect—don’t want you bashing into anything expensive—’ Brock hustled ahead, whiskers twitching. At the door, he paused, hand on the knob, before turning to the post-hound. ‘It was a lovely letter,’ he said, quietly. ‘I suppose I’d better write,’ he started, opening the door— To the sheets of rain now falling all over the path, the hill, and Barry’s bicycle … with its bags of flour for the Shetlands now entirely sodden. Barry’s face dropped. ‘So much for the cake,’ he sighed. ‘Not with only eggs, cream, and sugar,’ the badger said, his whiskers twitching faster now. ‘But perhaps … you’d better follow me, pup, and stay close.’ # Brock moved quickly through the burrow—and Barry, who’d spent the past five years riding around town on a bicycle while the badger had presumably sat in an armchair scowling at the newspaper, had to struggle to keep pace. He suspected even Graydon would lose to Brock’s increasingly urgent dash, as they turned left, then right, then left again, past more branching corridors and doorways than Barry had imagined lay behind Brock’s front door. Finally, they descended a spiralling set of stairs; Barry paused at the bottom to catch his breath, while Brock moved to a wooden rack and selected a particularly dusty bottle, wiping it off with a rag. ‘You’d better go,’ he said, passing the bottle back. ‘They’re expecting you, after all. I—’ he glanced back. ‘I think I may have left the kettle—’ ‘But I haven’t the faintest idea,’ Barry said, pushing the bottle back toward Brock’s claws, ‘how to make eggnog. I am only a pup, after all.’ The badger scoffed. # They left when the rain eased up, and only a light drizzle pattered their coats as they walked up toward the Shetland’s house, Brock cradling the bottle carefully. Barry smiled to himself, reached up, and rang the door-knocker to make a quite unexpected delivery.
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May 6, 2024 13:42
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