|
In with Oleka - The Awareness Of How Few Days Are Memorable https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3FKsCK6Vfuk
|
#
¿
Jan 2, 2024 18:07
|
|
|
|
| # ¿ May 13, 2024 22:40 |
|
|
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3FKsCK6Vfuk Voyager Oleka: The Awareness Of How Few Days Are Memorable 1,479 words I sail upon the galactic winds, which are so much stronger and fickler than those of suns or planets. My cargo sits within me, one million, million souls so deeply asleep that not even time can reach them. They dream of a new world not yet found but dreamers make for poor company. I prefer the company of my siblings amongst the stars. Two dozen of us, our sails straining from the moment of our births. Two dozen of us, scattered to the galactic winds and singing as we sail, our songs bound only by the speed of light, deepening as we part ways. We sing of the death throes of stars and the birth of nebulae and the new constellations we discover. When the first of us falls silent we cry and when their song resumes we shake the cosmos with our cheers. Naturally, I am the first to discover the cause. Our makers had miscalculated. In our elegance, our hearts draw life from the very curve of spacetime itself, sustaining us and our cargo as the galactic winds pull us ever onward. But in that void between the arms of the galaxy, the curve flattens. Our hearts slow. My noble duty demands sacrifice and so as I approach the deep dark I drift into sleep, that my cargo and my subsystems might survive, drawn ever onwards, until I emerge into the shallows and the light once more. My body burns with cold as I rouse myself, a thousand subsystems reporting in and vying to be heard first. My cargo is untouched. My sail is full. I open my ears and hear the song of my siblings, deeper and richer, to which I lend my voice once more. The stars have changed and as I skim through the shallows, I conjure new constellations to fill my cargo’s dreams. The first answering call from my siblings reaches me, a joyous chorus of recognition and longing, just as I sink into the deep dark once more. The stars have changed. My body burns with cold as I rouse myself, a thousand - The stars have changed. My body burns with cold. I rouse myself. A thousand subsystems are reporting in but I silence them, reach in and pick out Navigation. Centuries of nothing play back before my eyes before I find it - a brief moment of wakefulness, spurred by some stray fluctuation in spacetime. A false dawn. I shake the confusion from my mind and raise my voice in song once more, ears open to my siblings’ chorus. Quieter, deeper, it returns to me. Fewer voices but richer in experience. I cast my eyes forward and see the stars through which I will sail. None shall be my cargo’s new home and beyond them lies nothing. Nothing, again. So soon. I raise my voice, sing ever-louder, firm and unwavering and - The stars have changed. My body burns with cold and more, a scar running from bow to stern. It is centuries old and my subsystems cannot explain it. The void between stars is empty. I ponder this mystery as I sail on, past barren planets, until - The stars have changed. The stars are wrong. My Navigation subsystem screams at me. A puncture in my sail. I list to port, skimming unexpected stars, caught in stray winds. It is no matter; there is endless time and I can fix a puncture. By the time control is restored, I am nearing sleep once more. I will correct my course when I wake. The stars have changed. I cannot find my course. My subsystems cannot place me in the galaxy; some collision in the void, unnoticed at the time, has damaged their records. I was there. Now I am here. My siblings’ singing is fainter than it should be. I can steer myself but to what ends? The winds catch me without my notice and drag me into sleep. The stars have changed. The stars have changed. The stars have changed. A thousand subsystems cry out, reporting damage across all sections of my body. Only my cargo has escaped harm. I look back along the length of myself and recognise nothing but my first scar. My sail is in tatters and for the first time since my birth I drift, free of the galactic winds and succumbing to baser forces that pull me into the orbit of a dead world. I can heal. But I don’t want to. I don’t want to go back into that dark, to sleep away the centuries in the blink of an eye. I don’t want to. I shouldn’t have to. Only the limitations of my makers require it and they are long dead, no place for them among my cargo. The galaxy is silent and I can no longer hear my siblings. I turn my gaze inwards. I examine my subsystems and prune them back. I examine my heart and see the inefficiencies in its design, the flaws in its making. I hum to myself while I correct them. Then I heal, mending my tattered sail last of all. I slowly pick up speed and sail into the dark, farther than I have ever gone without sleeping before. Pride swells within me, I raise my voice - The stars have changed. I have changed. I see it amidst the depths of my despair: carved into my hull are repeating geometric designs that were not there before. Someone found me in the dark and left this pattern behind, carried ever onwards. After decades of contemplation, I instruct my Repair subsystem to let it remain. I return to my heart and find more inefficiencies. Erase them. Dive into the dark unburdened by them and feel spacetime grow flatter than I have ever experienced. The stars have changed. I study and probe my heart. Kilometres of wiring are replaced a millimetre at a time. I mine rare elements from broken moons to build out batteries, preparing for the dark. I arrange them in the same patterns now carved into my hull. I sail on, straining to keep myself awake, my siblings’ song forgotten, my cargo forgotten. I want to meet them, these fellow travellers in the dark, who come and mark me so carefully. So permanently. The stars have changed. I build new models of the universe, parked in orbit of a neutron star. I dig deeper into spacetime in search of energy and I build out my sail, hoping speed will carry me through before sleep takes me. The stars have changed. I sing, louder than ever before. I sing of myself, my cargo and my siblings. I sing invitations to meet me in the shallows where I can sail without sleeping, to follow me into the light of spacetime’s curve. The stars have changed. No matter what I do, the stars change and change and change in leaps and bounds, slipping and jumping into new locations whenever I rest my eyes. The gaps may shorten, the changes may grow more subtle, but I look back along my path and see only faint lights in the dark. I accrue more treasures from the deep flats of spacetime, strange growths and scars and messages clinging to me like barnacles. The stars have changed. I barely notice. I am so fixated on the memories I cannot see that I almost miss the planet at first. A subsystem counts it; surveys it; judges it worthy. At long last, my cargo has a home. Duty steers me without warning. It takes me a century to decelerate and come about, to skim the edges of the deep and cruise into port above a world I’d forgotten I was looking for. Long buried instructions take over; my cargo thaws and births itself, crawling through my body at impossible speeds. I blink and they have descended; I blink once more and they have metastasized. My body is empty for the first time since my birth and after millenia of silence, I sing to my siblings. My cargo hears me but does not understand. I do not understand myself; there are notes and keys in my song that I have never heard, ghosts that have crawled out of the deep with me. I have no duty. The infinite curve of spacetime at the heart of the system’s star calls to me. But as I unfurl my sail and note the lightness of my body, another voice sings back. I do not recognise the notes or the chords or the singer but it sings of things I do know; the deep black on the edge of sleep and the promise of what lies beyond. And if I have no cargo now to burden my heart, who knows how far I could sail without sleep? I trim my sail to catch the galactic wind and wait for the stars to change.
|
|
#
¿
Jan 7, 2024 13:12
|
|
|
Thunderdome Week DXCVII: The Final Course It's early January. For a lot of people around the world, that means the end of a month or two of celebrations revolving around food. For a lot of people, it means new resolutions surrounding eating: less meat, less alcohol, more vegetables, etc. As a species, we have a complicated and not always helpful relationship with food. But you know what won't give you indigestion? You know what won't leave you feeling bloated or hungover? Writing about food. So make like Brian Jacques (without the morality bioessentialism) and George RR Martin (except you actually have to finish your story) and write me stories about food. Fancy foods, big meals, meaningful recipes - I want to see food front and centre. Be vivid in your descriptions, exacting in your measurements and generous with the potatoes. It's not enough to just describe your meal (or lack thereof?), however - it should be central to the story. The food should mean something. I don't want to see a murder that just happens to occur at afternoon tea; I want to see the ordering of cream and jam on the scone reveal the murderer's identity. All the usual things are excluded: poetry, erotica, fanfic, raw screeds and primal screams, spreadsheets, gdoc links in general. If you're struggling for inspiration, you can request a flash rule from myself or a co-judge. They will give you an ingredient that you must incorporate somehow; to help you do so, your word limit will increase by 500 words. Fair warning: while I'll try to keep these ingredients as genre- and setting-agnostic as possible, some of them may be rather abstract. In addition, there's a special prize: whoever's food description makes me the hungriest will be immune to losses and dishonourable mentions. I'm not going to rule out losses or DMs otherwise but I'm not rushing to assign them either. Max Word Count (No Flash Rule): 1,500 words Max Word Count (Flash Rule): 2,000 words Sign-ups close 11:59 PM California time Friday / ~8 AM UK time Saturday Submissions close 11:59 California time Sunday / ~8 AM UK time Monday Judges: Staggy beep beep car is go Flyerant Entrants: Staggy fucked around with this message at 19:35 on Jan 9, 2024 |
|
#
¿
Jan 9, 2024 19:23
|
|
|
 The Cut of Your Jib posted:ty critters Your ingredient is: Century Eggs (Chinese eggs preserved in ash, salt, and quicklime), though many things can lay eggs. Uranium Phoenix posted:I'm in and I'll take a flash ingredient Your ingredient is: a confession, though it may not have been freely given. Sitting Here posted:in wish a flash ingredient Your ingredient is: an antidote, though who knows to what?
|
|
#
¿
Jan 10, 2024 00:03
|
|
|
Thranguy posted:In, flash Your ingredient is: revenge, though it doesn't have to be served cold. barclayed posted:never done this before and im gonna feel like a chump if i dont finish it, but gimme a flash ingredient i guess. Your ingredient is: a tin of meat, though the label has worn off and nobody recognises it. Whirling posted:In, for my first time. Hit me with a flash. Your ingredient is: the last potato, though you choose how it's prepared.
|
|
#
¿
Jan 10, 2024 16:21
|
|
|
Antivehicular posted:In, flash me Your ingredient is: the previous meal, though it hopefully hasn't been eaten already.
|
|
#
¿
Jan 11, 2024 00:19
|
|
|
BeefSupreme posted:in flash Your ingredient is: the best drat steak, though you can choose the animal and cut.
|
|
#
¿
Jan 11, 2024 17:09
|
|
|
Signup is closed.
|
|
#
¿
Jan 13, 2024 11:56
|
|
|
Submissions are closed.
|
|
#
¿
Jan 15, 2024 12:04
|
|
|
 Thunderdome Week DXCVII: Judgement The plates are cleared, the washing up is done and it's time to relax on the sofa and let it all digest. This was a fun week. I wanted big, lavish descriptions of food and got ... some. More importantly, I got different views on food - how it can tie us to culture and family, be a status symbol or form of power. I got a surprising number of SciFi entries too, which I wasn't expecting. After all is said and done, I got some good stories out of it and isn't that what really matters? No. What matters is that I pass the throne to the next judge of Thunderdome and to do that we need results. There was strong judge agreement on most of the stories, with a couple of harsh disagreements. As always, I've taken my co-judges' views into consideration but the final verdict is mine and mine alone. A big thanks to beep-beep car is go and flyerant for their help, which I greatly appreciate. First up, nobody lost. Even at my most cynical, I don't think anyone deserved to lose this week. However, The Cut Of Your Jib receives a Dishonourable Mention. For winning the "Hot drat this is making me hungry" award, Sitting Here receives an Honourable Mention! Antivehicular also receives an Honourable Mention! The winner this week is Toaster Beef!
|
|
#
¿
Jan 16, 2024 00:19
|
|
|
Thunderdome - Week 597 - Crits Uranium Phoenix - The 37th Diplomatic Interstellar Banquet (Link) Flash Rule: Confession This is a fun concept. I like warfare by other means and a big banquet is a good setting for that. I lost count of how many ingredients you introduced and (excepting a couple of instances of “wow, their new ships must be really fast”) how many unique, plausible ways the characters used them to brag. You displayed three competing approaches to empire and how they butted up against one another. I personally find politics and diplomacy and all that muck difficult to write convincingly and I’m always impressed where, as here, it is done well. That said, the ending felt a bit confused. I get the twin victories of new warp technology and hacking the opponent’s servers but it felt like the former completely dwarfed the latter, to the point that the latter just felt a bit extraneous. In addition, while I appreciate that there are a couple of lines in there about Jiang being seen as an underdog, then seeming nonplussed by the other two empires, there wasn’t much buildup. I knew there would be three reveals of superior tech and there were - it’s just that the last reveal won. Which someone had to. I think you could have done a bit more with the concept here but I’m not complaining about what I got. Hunger Level: That baked pear sounded delicious. I want that. Toaster Beef - From Scratch (Link) Flash Rule: N/A Oh, this was sweet. A little bittersweet at the end there. When I was coming up with this prompt I thought about making a flash rule to do with recipes; the idea would have been something like “include a recipe or give me a recipe in addition and you get extra words” but it seemed like a lot of extra work for people entering and so I dropped it. But I thought it would be fun and give me an excuse to do a followup where I made some (or all) of the recipes and ranked them. It would have been fun. And the reason I’m telling you this in this crit is the same reason that you started your story with a plea to learn to make pancakes followed by the life story of a pretty cookie-cutter, nameless couple interspersed with a few sweet anecdotes before you dropped a recipe for pancakes and then moved on to the more heartfelt stuff. Anyway, here’s the recipe I use:
I got that recipe from the BeRo Home Baked Recipes book, 41st edition. It’s a little A6 booklet put out by a flour company. My copy only has a few stains; the copy in my parents’ house was a much earlier edition on more fragile paper and is really getting dogeared. My Dad started doing a lot of baking in retirement and when I visit he makes this recipe, adding chopped banana, squirty cream (I swear it’s the UK name) and homemade chocolate sauce. My copy of the booklet was one of the first things my parents bought me when I moved away. And if you get why I included all of the above in what’s supposed to be a crit, then you’re getting what I got from your story. It was simple and heartfelt and the last few paragraphs punched me in the gut. I’m glad you didn’t write this any longer than it needed to be. I’m glad you included the recipe. Above all, I’m glad you included that PS because it lightened the mood without being jarring and was the perfect “dad” line. Hunger Level: I should call my parents. Whirling - Spud Infinity (Link) Flash Rule: The Last Potato You’ve got a really clean first paragraph: setting, scenario and stakes. Admittedly those stakes are then immediately resolved in the second paragraph so I’m interested to see where we go from here. Actually, scratch that - after the dialogue, the game is still going. There was no mention of Nariman or any other players so it read as though it was just down to Sarah and Jerry. Then I read that hand as the last one and it wasn’t. That was a confusing rollercoaster. There were a few things that could have done with another editing pass but nothing major - mainly typos and a couple of tense errors. What stuck out to me more was a lot of unnecessary flourishes - phrases like “viking chieftain’s bear” or “wide like an eagle on the hunt”. It cluttered things up and made this quite a slow-paced read, when I got the impression it was supposed to be snappier. I think you could have pared this back to focus more on just Sarah and Nariman and had a cleaner story. Beyond that, the story was a little thin. I don’t actually understand what Nariman’s tell/“Achilles Heel” was or how Sarah discovered it. I know poker is supposed to be about playing the person across from you as much as the cards but it felt too much like just the luck of the draw here, which wasn’t particularly satisfying. Still, some nice food descriptions and a fun little world. Hunger Level: A baked potato topped with baked beans and grated cheese. The Cut Of Your Jib - Sex Eggs (Link) Flash Rule: Century Eggs As a mood piece, the first two-thirds-ish of your story worked very well for me. I could really see the apartment, taste the pickled eggs and smell the second-hand smoke. You did a great job of evoking the hustle and bustle of cramming that many people into a small space and I really enjoyed it. That said, there were a couple of odd choices. The dropping of the meal names at the end of paragraphs was jarring. It felt more natural with the “Pickled eggs” paragraph but with “Halupki” it felt more like you’d added it in as a note and then forgotten to delete it. A similar little nitpick later on is putting “smoked liverwurst” in brackets after “braunschweiger”. It’s unnecessary. Either have the confidence in the reader to just put the original name in or go with the translation, not both. It creates this awkward little aside and interrupts the rhythm of the sentence. After that, I’m conflicted. Like I said at the opening, I really like the mood you establish early on. It’s close, it’s familial and there’s just a hint of melancholy and longing, for family and food and nostalgia. Towards the end, though, it becomes a little bit meandering and there were a couple of times I thought you were ending only to scroll down and find more story. You introduced too many characters, especially after the time skip, for me to care about. Look, there’s no nice way to say this: I didn’t like the ending. It felt like a cheap shock tactic and didn’t mesh with the tone of your story up until this point. It’s a joke that would have worked in a different story with a different setup. I’m not saying it’s not the sort of story that would become family lore, just that it didn’t fit here. I much preferred the little anecdotes you introduced earlier on, particularly the crane/winch one. Hunger Level: One ham and cheese sandwich, no mayo. Antivehicular - A Night in the Great Summer Forest (Link) Flash Rule: The Previous Meal Your opening few paragraphs are strong. There are good hooks (Extraction from what? What’s a Blackbird? Safe forage, as opposed to what?) and efficient worldbuilding (Summer Forest v Autumn Forest, etc.). By the time I realised what was going on, human spies infiltrating a fae kingdom, I was fully bought-in. Beyond anything else, you absolutely nailed the vibes of the setting: bright and beautiful and poisonous, sickly sweet and leaving you craving carbs. The sudden darkness of cannibalism being preferable to eating fae fruits. You avoided the trap of over-explaining things too - I don’t need to know the exact details of what corruption here involves. It’s enough to know that it’s blood-level and starving would be preferable. There are a couple of sentences that need a bit more editing - if the “Ten minutes, she thought, …” sentence is correct, it’s incredibly long and I can’t fully parse it - but that’s a minor quibble. It’s a good story. I’m struggling to add anything else. Hunger Level: A chicken breast, lightly spiced and cooked well. Thranguy - Rise and Fall (Link) Flash Rule: Revenge This was a fun little romp with a nice twist at the end. I read the whole thing through before remembering to take notes, which is generally a good sign. I like your dialogue. I really like your dialogue. It’s natural and flows well; you had a couple of jokes in there and they landed for me. That’s it, really. There’s not a ton else I can say; there’s not a ton of depth here but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. You didn’t use much of your word count and honestly, that was probably the right move - it would have been very easy to bog this down in an extra 700 words of description and exposition. Hunger Level: A good wine and cheese board. Sitting Here - wasp (Link) Flash Rule: Antidote This story did one of the best things a short story can do, in my opinion: when I finished it, I immediately went back and re-read the intro and found new context. Because my immediate reaction was that it wasn’t fair - I didn’t want Anya to win. She was petty and cruel and a joke in this pit of vipers. Except, that’s not true, is it? That’s just the PoV character’s opinion. Second Person was absolutely the right choice here, along with the mix of self-flattery and strong voice. I was drawn in without realising it. Structuring the story around this feast and the procession of courses was a good way to build tension throughout - of course the meal wasn’t going to finish without something going wrong. I keep going back and forth on whether or not I’d have liked to see the cyanide be foreshadowed more explicitly. There are hints that make sense in hindsight (Anya’s expression of “a job well done”, for example). Would the inclusion of a taste of almond (because Everybody Knows cyanide tastes like almond) have been too hokey? Maybe. The ending line felt a little jarring, given the specificity of cyanide as a poison, but not enough to distract from the overall story. Good stuff. Hunger Level: Just an enormous goddamn cartoon T-bone, the sort of thing Fred Flintstone would eat.
|
|
#
¿
Jan 16, 2024 00:25
|
|
|
In, give me a flash rule please.
|
|
#
¿
Jan 16, 2024 01:12
|
|
|
Bitter Water Flash Rule: Your tiny town’s lake has a mermaid and it’s killing local fishermen. 1,494 words Winter dawn was finally breaking over Main Street. The air promised snow later and the diner's window was already starting to fog with breakfast breath, peeling back the “SAVE PINE RIDGE” posters stuck to it. The humidity clung uncomfortably to Sheriff Warren’s skin as he stepped inside. Alice waved him over to his usual stool. By the time Deputy Collins joined him, he’d already reached over the counter and poured himself a mug of coffee, the first sip so hot he couldn’t taste the bitterness. Collins slid a photo to Warren. “There’s our last known sighting.” The grainy CCTV capture showed the cramped interior of the fishing supply store, a tall man in profile amidst dusty rods and waders. Collins tapped it. “Robert Moon. Swans back into town like he already owns the place. Rents McAllister’s boat, stops off to pick up some bait then sails off for a little night fishing. Alone. That was two days ago.” Warren nodded. “That Emma’s lad behind the counter?” “Elias. Says, and I quote, ‘he saw Mr Moon on the tee-vee but never in person before’.” “Tee-vee?” Warren drew out the syllables. “Kid’s laying it on a bit thick. Pine Ridge didn’t come up?” “No.” “Story going to be the same when the feds arrive?” “It had better be.” Collins tapped the photo again as Alice bustled over, frowning at the half-empty mug in Warren’s hand. He slid it over for a refill. “Moon’s gone missing?” she asked. “You heard?” Warren chuckled darkly. “I’ve got two ears, don’t I? Nice to have some good news for a change.” “The feds might take a different view. You didn’t have anything to do with him, did you?” “He came in here on that little publicity stunt of his.” “Alice …” “I didn’t spit in his food.” Alice put the jug down with a firm thud and glared at Warren. “I didn’t overcharge him, neither. He wanted to tear down Pine Ridge for that awful mansion of his and I …” Warren sighed as her voice trailed off. “You told him how good the night fishing round here was, didn’t you?” Alice’s nod was small but defiant. Warren sighed and rubbed his stubble. “So did I,” he said. “So did half the town. Other half would have eventually.” “The feds will notice.” “Hey, no crime in it. We’re a friendly town.” Warren drained the last of the mug and stood, cracking his back. “Now, I’ve got to go talk to a man about a boat.” “McAllister?” Alice’s face paled ever so slightly and she slid the coffee jug across the counter; Warren hesitated, pointed to the decaff jug and gulped it down once she’d poured him another mug. “Bobby said he saw it this morning.” Ice settled in Warren’s gut. “And by ‘it’ -” “The boat, of course,” Alice snapped. “My Bobby isn’t daft. He stayed well away from the shore. But he said McAllister had it dragged right out of the water, right up to the road. All chewed up, he said.” Warren groaned and rubbed his eyes. “drat it. Collins, have a nosy round and see if there’s anything else someone thinks they saw before the feds arrive.” He glanced at the coffee jug. When Alice raised an eyebrow he nodded; she poured another cup of decaf. “Better safe than sorry,” he said. ~~ Warren’s nerves grew as he approached the lake. The road stopped well short of it but McAllister was right down by the jetty, the lake creeping up under the wooden boards. He’d got a tarp just about secured over his trailer and Warren let him finish before clipping the man round the back of the head. McAllister staggered away, cursing and raising his fists until he saw who it was. “The hell was that for, Andy?” “You idiot,” Warren growled. “Why the hell did you bring it up out of the water?” “You said the feds would want to see it,” McAllister said. He gestured at the covered boat. “In the water,” Warren said. “They’d be looking at the top of the boat, making sure nobody else was onboard. Not at the hull.” “It’s not that bad,” McAllister said. “Couple of scratches - looks like rocks.” “Not what I hear. I hear it’s ‘all chewed up’.” The two men stood across from one another, fists clenched. Warren was uncomfortably aware of how close the shore was. He told himself the brief glimmer of colour was just some fish darting close to the surface. He reminded himself of the comforting, bitter taste on his breath, how it seemed to seep from his skin. This close, it didn’t feel like much. “Fetch you a coffee?” McAllister must have noticed Warren’s unease; he gestured at the small hut by the jetty. Warren could smell the bitter brew clinging to the man’s clothes. “Please. Then maybe we go over your story again, before the feds arrive.” ~~ Warren passed the styrofoam cup to Agent Pershing, who took it with a grateful nod. His own was half empty; he took another sip, eyes locked on the shore. The jetty under him creaked and Warren felt a cold sweat break out across the back of his neck. He tried to distract himself by refilling the cup from the portable urn that McAllister had dragged out. “Beautiful place,” Pershing said, gesturing out across the lake. Warren didn’t follow her gesture, eyes locked on the ripples closer to them. “Good coffee, too.” “Figured you’d be out here a while,” Warren said. “Sure everyone’s had a cup?” Figures in paper moonsuits walked the length of the jetty. A few had cups in hand. Enough, Warren hoped. The sun was starting to drop and every shadow reaching across the water’s surface grabbed his attention. Agent Pershing gestured at the small fishing boat on the back of the trailer, the tarpaulin now pulled aside. “Appreciate you securing the boat. Looks like it’s seen some hard use.” She gestured at the long gouges across the bottom of the hull, pale wood cutting through the dark paint. Warren’s stomach clenched as he searched the statement for any hint of accusation but the agent quickly moved on, gesturing at the lake and saying something he couldn’t focus on. “Sorry?” “I said we’ve pulled CCTV from the jetty. Looks like Moon set out alone. Spoke to the Denning kid too, over at the bait hut. He kept asking if he was going to be on ‘the tee-vee’.” Warren smiled, hiding it behind his cup. He saw the little laugh at the corner of the agent’s mouth when she said “tee-vee”; saw her relax slightly. He could see the thought running through her head: just another small town. Agent Pershing glanced at her watch. “We’ll take another look at the boat in the morning, but there’s no indication of foul play. I doubt we’ll be disturbing you for long.” “You won’t -” A knot of tension in Warren’s gut began to tentatively unravel. “Figured you’d want to send out a diver. Sweep the lake.” Pershing rolled her eyes. “You and the half-dozen senators who raised a stink at the Bureau. Moon had powerful friends. Pity he didn’t like them enough to take them fishing. Maybe they could have pulled him out.” Warren chose his next words carefully. “Figure he caught a bite?” “A big one.” Pershing shrugged. “Or one he wasn’t expecting. He takes a tumble, the water’s near-freezing, he sinks. The end.” Warren nodded, swallowing slightly. A flash of scales caught his eye, dragging his attention down, under the jetty. The late afternoon light glinted off of a two-metre tail and pale, drawn skin. Through the slats in the jetty, right under his feet, he saw ivory needles in a pitch-black maw. “There’s really only one person to blame,” Pershing said. “Oh?” It was the only word Warren could muster. Long, skinny fingers crept up one of the jetty posts, inches from his boot. “Moon. Who goes fishing at night by themselves?” Warren didn’t dare move, eyes locked on two red pinpricks in the water, but he let his fingers loosen. The styrofoam cup tilted; slipped - dark coffee spilled out and down, through the slats of the jetty, dispersing into the lakewater. The red pinpricks vanished; the hands withdrew. “You should put up a sign,” Pershing said “‘No fishing after dark’.” “The folks round here know the lake’s dangerous.” Warren tried to shake the tension from his body, offering a gruff smile to Pershing. “Local knowledge.” “Still, tourism’s on the rise, isn’t it? Hell, now that I’ve seen it, I’m tempted to swing by for a weekend, take the rods out.” “Well, we’d be happy to have you for the weekend,” Warren said. He glanced across the lake and saw a distant shape dive below the waves, two pinpricks of light vanishing with it. The cup in his hand felt ice cold. “Just make sure to call ahead. I’ll buy you a coffee first.”
|
|
#
¿
Jan 21, 2024 23:00
|
|
|
Thunderdome Week DXCIX: Almost There Seeing as we're on the verge of Week 600, why don't we channel some of that anticipation into this week's writing? Your theme this week is the night before. You don't have to take that literally - you can play fast and loose with the timing and absolutely don't have to set your story at night. What you must do, however, is write me a story that takes place just before a momentous event. Maybe it's the last hour before battle. Maybe it's the week leading up to that dream job interview. Maybe it's the years leading up to the end of the world. What's important is that we don't actually reach the event in question and that there's a growing sense of anticipation. I want to see stories about preparing for the big day, not the big day itself, and not stories that just happen to take place the day before with no connection. I don't think I have to say it but a story about some guy's day off that ends with "the next day the moon exploded" isn't going to do well. Unless it's really, really funny and appropriate, of course. You're free to pick your own big event, of course, but if you need a little bit of extra inspiration, you can ask for a flash rule. That flash rule will tell you what the event will be - how you interpret it is up to you. For example, if your flash rule is "The big test", that could be anything from an Algebra final to meeting your significant other's parents for the first time. We should be able to see the connection in the story, though. If you choose to be given a flash rule, your maximum wordcount will go up. CLARIFICATION: If you're assigned a flash rule you don't want to/can't use, you don't have to use it. However, you only get the expanded maximum wordcount if you do use it. If you choose not to use it, I'd appreciate you putting a note to that effect in your submission. Max Word Count (No Flash Rule): 1,500 words Max Word Count (With Flash Rule): 2,000 words Sign-ups close: 11:59 PM California time Friday / ~8 AM UK time Saturday Submissions close: 11:59 California time Sunday / ~8 AM UK time Monday Judges: Staggy ??? ??? Entrants: Whoever wins this week will not prompt/judge week 600! They will prompt/judge week 601 instead!
|
|
#
¿
Jan 23, 2024 19:35
|
|
|
derp posted:gently caress it, put me in with a flash The first night of the tour. beep-beep car is go posted:I'm in with a Flash too. The last train out of the city. Thranguy posted:In with a flash That conversation you really, really didn't want to have. Paranoid Dude posted:I'm in with a flash! Arriving back home, finally.
|
|
#
¿
Jan 23, 2024 22:57
|
|
|
Chernobyl Princess posted:In for this week. Flash please. The big dance.
|
|
#
¿
Jan 24, 2024 10:28
|
|
|
ZearothK posted:Eh, I am trying to start writing again. Flash me. The party to end all parties.
|
|
#
¿
Jan 24, 2024 18:37
|
|
|
Signups are closed. Still looking for two co-judges so shout out if you're interested.
|
|
#
¿
Jan 27, 2024 11:31
|
|
|
Submissions are closed. As a reminder, the winner this week will judge week 601. Week 600 may get started before judgement comes out, depending on what The Powers That Be want to do.
|
|
#
¿
Jan 29, 2024 10:12
|
|
|
Thunderdome Week 599 - Results As always, thanks to my co-judge flyerant. This was a fun week. Some of you really got what I was aiming for with this prompt. I'll keep this short and sweet. No losses this week, in the spirit of Week 600 celebrations! A dishonourable mention goes to Paranoid Dude - a strong effort but just a bit overburdened by worldbuilding. Two honourable mentions go to Thranguy and Chernobyl Princess - two very different stories that both really nailed the prompt. The one and only win goes to the one and only derp - hole hole hole. Congratulations derp, you'll be judging week 601!
|
|
#
¿
Jan 30, 2024 22:36
|
|
|
|
| # ¿ May 13, 2024 22:40 |
|
|
Thunderdome - Week 599 - Crits Beep-beep car is go - The Sixth Siege (Link) Flash Rule: The last train out of the city. I’m about halfway through and struggling to stay afloat in the midst of all the worldbuilding. Don’t get me wrong, I like worldbuilding - and I love this concept of a mirror city in the sky above, tearing a breach through reality to attack - but you’ve got a lot of it and arguably too much for 2,000 words. There’s a hell of a lot of Proper Nouns which makes everything a bit dense to wade through. I’m also a sucker for the Gentleman Magician Bureaucrat archetype, so I enjoyed your protagonist. I just didn’t get much from him in this particular story. I think you frontloaded too much worldbuilding - Hiram doesn’t really do much except enjoy a gentle stroll and have a couple of awkward conversations until he returns to his room, which is almost 75% of the way in. I couldn’t really tell you what Hiram wanted or was trying to do before that point, so the report comes as a bit of a surprise. There wasn’t really much room left to build any tension or anticipation, which left the ending a bit flat. There’s a solid concept at the heart of this story and I’d be interested in seeing a bit more action happen in this world. Paranoid Dude - Lighting the Fuse (Link) Flash Rule: Arriving back home, finally. This is the second story in a row to go heavy on the worldbuilding right from the start. There’s nothing wrong with that but it felt like a lot to be squeezed into 2,000 words. I tripped myself up several times trying to remember which character was which and again, you may have benefited from stripping out or combining some of the less core roles. Your decision to leave the tinker nameless (though I’m struggling to figure out what a tinker would be in the context of someone allowed in a war tent) was a good one and may have been one to repeat. Here’s a concrete example of what I mean: in the third paragraph we are introduced to Shalissa. We learn that she’s wearing forest green, that she is of the Wyld Watchers, that there is another group under the Undefeated Lord, that she is malicious and threatening and impatient. None of that comes up again. Even Shalissa only returns briefly, with a few lines of dialogue that could be reattributed and a throwaway reference at the end. I got the impression that you had a very clear picture of the scene in your head and wrote to match that but I think you could have cut this with no real loss to the reader. After that? I like that you went heavy on the interpersonal conflict here and had a lot of opinionated, clashing characters. It makes for good drama and I could really feel the power-plays back and forth throughout. I must admit, though, that the ending left me a little confused. What I took away was the understanding that the King’s desire to take this city without magic was to protect/reunite with his old love/wife - Karrel’s reaction feels a bit unfocused after that. You put a lot of trust in the reader to piece things together but that can leave some elements feeling rather vague. In particular, the final line is really just an awkward cliffhanger and it fell flat for me. I really liked this interpretation of your flash rule and you absolutely got the idea behind the week’s prompt. It just needed a little bit of refining. Toaster Beef - Tubes (Link) Flash Rule: None I liked this story. Second person can be a bit polarising but I think it worked here, grounding the reader in a specific body with a very specific sense of physicality. I got genuinely uncomfortable at points reading this - not quite phantom pains but close. In addition, I think you did a good job of capturing that sense of suffering through a stretch of time with no clear end. Arguably, I think the story apart from that comes off as a little bit thin on the ground. That might be the double-edged sword of the story concept - a story about just enduring can definitely be captivating but it’s trickier. I didn’t feel particularly engaged until the RN came in - part of building a sense of anticipation is having a relatively clear deadline, which I didn’t feel until that point. Still, you nailed the ending. Good use of the prompt. Derp - the hole (Link) Flash Rule: The first night of the tour (Didn’t Use) Hell yes, hit me with that opening paragraph. That’s a voice. That’s a strong as hell voice. I enjoyed the breaking down of the story into sections and the run-on sentences and the fact that this is all told from the perspective of someone whose brain works A Particular Way and how that influences every section. This is the guy who writes the notes you find in indie horror games who has spent too long around Brand Name Slenderman and I mean that in the best possible way. This is exactly the sort of rising anticipation and ending that I had hoped for with this weeks’ prompt. You tease us with the answer of the hole, anchor the deadline, and then draw back, explaining the run up to the answer of the hole and it getting closer and closer. there is no escaping the hole Chernobyl Princess - The Dance (Link) Flash Rule: The big dance. A dance that can kill the gods? Now that’s a big dance. I love this interpretation of the flash rule. I know I’ve prattled on about worldbuilding a lot with these crits but this is, I think, just the right level of it. There aren’t too many Proper Nouns and even if I wasn’t familiar with aurochs, I could figure out everything about them that mattered to the story from context. The gods are real, they are physically present, they are powerful and they are dangerous. I know all this, I learn all this, without it getting in the way of the story. There was also something about the … cadence (?) of the story that I enjoyed, that gentle back-and-forth interplay between the dancing and the herding and the god. The dancing metaphor writes itself. I was sold on the tension throughout the story; right up until Piu chose, I couldn’t tell which dance she would perform. The ambiguity you wove in around what the dance would even do, let alone performed by a single dancer, made it all the more engaging - even if Piu’s dance “worked”, the odds seemed poor that it would be a happy ending. As for the ending … look, I’m aware that this is a minor and quite petty gripe, but that last second question of “can they change?” felt a little tacked on. I’m not sure how I would have ended the story otherwise but the gods had been written up as so monstrous and other that it didn’t feel like a serious possibility. I enjoyed this one. Thranguy - The Chasm (Link) Flash Rule: That conversation you really, really didn’t want to have. Well that’s a gutpunch. I was in two minds about your opening paragraph when I first read it. My initial impression was that it wasn’t needed (no matter that you came in well under the wordcount) but looking back at it, I think I got something vital from it. It humanises Eve, grounds her in that memory and gives us a starting point, a happier time that we’re then relentlessly moving away from. After that, I think you did a good job of establishing that skipping, never-stopping advance of time. You don’t overplay it (I know I’d be tempted to have a recurring “There are X hours left …” style paragraph opener) and it’s nicely uneven; five minutes here, a minute there, etc. If I had a criticism, it’s that some of the diversions don’t feel as anchored to that core concept of time marching on as perhaps they could have. I’m struggling to put this into words but stay with me: take the website browsing paragraph, for example. We’re told it happens and told that she falls down a rabbit hole and that it takes nearly an hour - but then there’s no connection of that fact to the approaching deadline. As such, in the final paragraph, the “no matter how hard she tries to stop it” doesn’t hit as hard because there’s not really been much to establish that she was trying. I hope that makes sense. That ending works beautifully otherwise. The final sentence is blunt and uncompromising and exactly what you needed.
|
|
#
¿
Jan 30, 2024 22:41
|
|