|
What the hell, haven't done this in a while. In with one card.
|
#
¿
Mar 27, 2024 14:57
|
|
|
|
| # ¿ May 15, 2024 00:40 |
|
|
Flash: II Justice Word count: 1999 Title: Timmy Willikins and the Ever-glowing Thunder The bike thundered down the cracked remains of the California freeway. Timmy Willikins looked right: out to sea, two giant bodies twisted and fought. They were made of light, maybe, as far as anyone could tell. One was blue, one yellow. Their bodies disappeared into the cloud line at around the waist. The legs shifted stances over time, and their giant dicks whipped around in the hurricane winds, far out to sea. It was always raining nowadays, since the cataclysm. Always cloudy, though there were swords of sun light piercing here and there, illuminating the undersides of the red-veined clouds. Every so often there'd be a thunderclap like one of the titans'd landed a blow. Maybe they did. These Gods fighting, ripping the skies. Were they even gods? No one knew. Nobody knew much of anything since one day, about forty years ago, the skies split open and spat a million beasts out onto the Earth. Whatever they were, “Little” Timmy Willikins, monster killer, wanted to punch them in their stupid dicks. He'd been nine when they made landfall. Remembered that day in patches. Cotton candy on the boardwalk. Carny games. The arcade. A freak thunderstorm out of nowhere. Red lightning in the clouds that spread from the place the giants crashed down in the sea, and all the monsters of Hell falling out of the grey-and-red clouds as they spread. They ate his parents and his sister. He hid. He survived. The lightning never left, and the clouds glowed permanent like that now. Forty years. Timmy felt old. His beard was like the clouds now, streaks of red on dark grey. He looked in his rear view at the little trailer attached to his bike. It was everything he needed. Almost everything. And maybe this would tip the scales and maybe it wouldn't, but either way he was tired. Twenty minutes down the road, he pulled up to Fredd's. Fredd had set up his place in the open mouth of some titanic monster that'd washed ashore one day. It came to rest on its belly, was long and brownish red like a turd, and had stubby little legs and one glassy dead eye above a mouth full of triangle teeth. It didn't decay but seemed like it was turning into like a hard clay, day by day. Timmy parked outside. That was just the world now. Weird monsters that didn't rot proper when you killed them. Just piled up, inedible even to the germs. You couldn't eat them and they couldn't eat you, but drat, did they try. Nature was hosed. The monsters couldn't eat anything here and they were mad with hunger. People starved because most of the plants and animals had died with the weather all hosed. A sheet of rain pissed down for a moment, then settled into a steady drizzle. Fredd had a few customers this morning. Old men wearing whatever survived forty years of fighting across a blasted earth. Timmy breasted up to the bar and gestured to Fredd. Fredd had a long wrinkled neck and teeth like a car crash. He was probably in his late 70s by now. “Well if it ain't little Timmy Willikins! Been a while, kid! Beer?” the old man asked. Timmy nodded. “Best you've got.” “Oh, huh? Celebrating somethin'?” “Today's the day, Fredd. Gonna punch those giant fuckers in the dick.” Fredd let out a little cackle. “You say that every time I see you, Timmy.” Timmy was raised by a long line of people that taught him what they knew, and then died sharply. Too many. Fredd's son was one of them. A lot of lives were put into protecting Little Timmy Willikins to make him a big bad man. But when he was a grown killer, that's all Timmy could think of himself as: a little kid on the opposite side of the scale from a heap of dead men. “I mean it, Fredd. I mean it. I found what's gonna let me do it.” And with that, he produced from the pocket of his leather vest, a length of rebar and a small stone knife, mottled jade and blue. As he turned it in his hand, it sparkled in the light. With a shake of his head, Fredd tapped a keg and filled a dirty glass. “What's that?” The knife in Timmy's hand came down with a sharp THUD on the bar. The rebar split in half with a light tink. But the knife, the knife was embedded a full three inches into the wooden counter top. There were a couple of murmurs from the other patron. Fredd let out a low whistle. “Well, that's something. Where'd you get that knife from?” “Back east.” “Back east?” Timmy nodded. “Pulled it out of something that looked a lot like your bar. Just a lot smaller. Harder'n diamond. I think this'll do it.” The handful of others in the bar were turned in their chairs now. One scratched his head with the iron hook at the end of his wrist. “It's just a knife,” he finally sneered. Nobody knew how big the titans out to sea were. Not exactly. Timmy remembered a day, decades ago, huddled in a little bunker with a dirt floor and wooden walls, listening to the radio (back when there was radio) with a man by the name of Saul and his daughter Sally, about Timmy's age. Saul'd been his second “dad” since his own folks had died. Word on the news was that the navy had fired off missiles at them, to no effect. The last he knew, the government was discussing nukes. But the radio went dead after that, and apparently so did the government, before they ever got around to it. Saul and Sally died when a yellow thing that looked half between a school bus and a crocodile on stilts stepped hard enough on the surface of the bunker to collapse it. Timmy'd pried himself out of the rubble, broken arm and all, and walked north for no reason he could remember. That elbow still hurt. Lot of things from back then still hurt. “No. Not this one. The one in there,” Timmy said, pointing his arm down the throat of the very creature in whose mouth they all set. Fredd's eyebrows arched. “What? Why would there be another of those in there? The hell is it anyway?” “Follow me.” Timmy finished the beer in one long pull, spilling some of it down his beard. It was good. He was glad it was good. He grabbed the knife and got up from the bar, pulled a flashlight from his pocket and wandered into the beast's throat. “Hey, that's my place back there!” Fredd complained. It was, for about twenty feet or so. Fredd and his son had settled in here, decades back. They'd never gone too far in though. Fredd's son was Dave. Dave was a hunter, for about eighteen years until something took his leg and he bled to death a few miles away. Dave had taught Timmy a lot. In a way, he owed Fredd. Timmy wandered in until he hit the stomach. It didn't reek, but smelled instead of old earth and oil. The flesh was tough, but the knife would cut. This thing would still be alive if a rock like this couldn't cut it. He stuck in the blade, and yanked down. Fredd caught up to him when he was about halfway through. He held a lantern in one hand, and the shadows made the wrinkles in his face look so much deeper. “Timmy? Timmy, what the hell are you doing?” “I figured it out, Fredd. We give them a lot of tummy troubles. They can't eat us, but they try. ” He held out the knife for Fredd to look at. “It's a gall stone, Fredd. A loving gall stone. Ain't poo poo we have that can cut through one of these things. There's more of 'em, back east. I wasn't even looking for it. I'd given up and gone east to get away. Found a little one of these shits, thought I'd set up a little house for myself. But this is what I found inside. The thing was shredded inside and bled to death. So I thought, if these stones can kill a monster, maybe they can bleed a god.” “You can't know that for sure.” “I'm tired, and I'm gonna try.” “How you gonna get out there?” “Rocket.” “Rocket? Timmy, what the gently caress?” Timmy went back to cutting, he was almost through. “Got enough poo poo to build a rocket arm, Fredd. Gonna punch those fuckers in the dick.” “Eh? But... how, but” Fredd stammered. “And then what?” Timmy shrugged. “I'm not worried about that.” And at that, he stepped through the open hole, and disappeared. Fredd waited a little while, hearing the noises of Timmy cutting through something else. A moment later, Little Timmy Willikins came through dragging a hunk of rock in his arms that was almost as big as he was. It was the same jade and navy blue as the little knife. “Timmy, boy, would you even survive?” “Not worried about that,” Timmy grunted under the weight of the rock. “I'm getting old and the world isn't any better. This world and its loving dark sky. I was a kid. I just wanted sunshine and spun sugar in fluffy clouds. And now the sky, it's all clouds with red veins and cursed thunder. Do you think those big fuckers even notice us? Do they even know what they did? Just by being here? Are we just rats to them? I'm gonna make 'em notice, Fredd. I'm gonna punch them in their fuckin' dicks and I don't know if it'll make a difference, but I just gotta, I just gotta let 'em know we're here, and we're fuckin' tired, and it's time to give 'em a little something back. Time to balance it.” Fredd scratched his chin. Timmy could tell, the old man didn't know how to process it. “Okay, Timmy. Okay,” he finally muttered. “Little” Timmy Willikins dragged the stone out of the monsters throat. He dragged it to the trailer. Started putting everything together with clicks and clanks. A few of the bar patrons watched. A couple of others bugged Fredd for another beer as he emerged from the throat of the monster. It took surprisingly little time to assemble the rocket with the stone at the end. He'd learned from so many teachers. Too many faces on the other side of the scale from one Little Timmy Willikins. “Couldn't ya just, ya know, light it off at them?” Fredd asked. He was looking pale. Timmy looked out at the waves, at the two giant bodies of blue and yellow light that fought out among the clouds and the sea. “Nah. Gotta be a man, Fredd. Gotta be a man that punches 'em in their dicks. They gotta know people are sick of their poo poo.” He strapped one arm into the rocket. Dragged it towards the shore. The other hunters followed, murmuring to one another. “I... alright. Can I getcha another beer?” “Nah.” Timmy looked at Fredd. The old man looked like he wanted to say something, but just couldn't put the words out into the world. The grizzled old men at Fredd's watched as Timmy walked the rocket to the shore. He aimed it. Lit it. Took one last calm breath and hurtled out to sea. The grizzled old men on the shore watched as he disappeared into the horizon. Time passed, a second, a minute. And then a BOOM that shattered the sky. The blue titan's dick exploded in shreds. It took twenty minutes but the thing collapsed in a heap, its enormous hands covering its crotch. The yellow one stomped away. And on the shore, people wondered, did the red recede from the clouds? Was a difference made? Was a balance struck?
|
|
#
¿
Mar 31, 2024 05:28
|
|
|
In for immortal and/or alien story.
|
|
#
¿
Apr 17, 2024 12:47
|
|
|
This Very Moment Word Count: 2024 It remembered Rome. Grand columns of erected stone, when everyone else was just making GBS threads in holes in the dirt. And it remembered the view from the rugged coasts of Scotland, perched high on a rock not far from Clac Gugaridh, the sea waves carrying away anything that fell to them. It stayed there for centuries, until the cliff face finally tumbled into the ocean. And afterward, it was sold and dragged to the New World. It stayed on a farm there, for a time. After a while, the lords didn't call themselves "lord" anymore, but it noticed that they behaved the same way, more or less. And it remembered a night where fire swept over the big house adjacent to the little shed where it stayed. It remembered white columns like those of Rome, funny little imitations made of wood, not stone. Not so permanent or strong. And now it was here, in the bathroom of this "mall," because it had to be, because it was given a great, ongoing work that spanned ages. Because it was... Immor-Toil: the Immortal Toilet. It was flushed. Immor-Toil's latest subject left it's lid up. It couldn't tell much about the subject's face. It rarely saw faces. After listening a moment, it knew that the subject did not wash his hands, which was unfortunate given the bacterial load that Immor-Toil had just analyzed. It tried to remain detached, scientific, but bad hygiene was something the toilet disapproved of. It made a record of the incoming material, and wondered what memory it might lose to the new data. It rarely did so, but Immor-Toil could call up any of this information at any time. Every log was meticulously detailed, from the shape of the first turd to ever pass through it, to the vitamin content of its most recent subject. It knew the data in the same way one might know words seen on a page: factually, indifferently. There was no sensory data involved. No tastes or smells, thankfully. It could not remember, however, precisely how it got here. The last hundred and fifty years or were becoming blurred. There were... gaps. Dark spaces between memories. It remembered the city of Rome and its bustling people. It remembered breezes and blue skies, seen through outhouse doors left carelessly open. The data of the waste catalog was compartmentalized and separate from its own personal memories. But the catalog took precedence. The data was important. And if space was needed, then space was made, whether Immor-Toil wanted it or not. The little figments of its life were gradually being discarded. But it must be this way, for the work was important. Or so it had come to believe. Another subject entered the stall, phone in hand. Immor-Toil's earliest memory of this, the middle of three stalls in a mall men's room, was of paint that was a placid blue. At some point it had been redone in a strange olive green, and now it was sprayed with graffiti, and the metal beneath mottled with rust. The stall to Immor-Toil's left was out of order and had been for years, and the struggling mall showed no sign it would ever spend money on repairs. The stranger dropped his pants, shivered a little at the toilet's cold seat and gave a breathy sigh. Immor-Toil waited for the deposit. It did sometimes take a while. But instead, the subject just said, "It turned out alright, you know." There was a pause, as if the man was waiting for a response. Was he talking to someone on the phone? "You still there, Immor-Toil?" the man said the name as if scarcely believing he'd spoken it aloud. "gently caress, maybe this was stupid. I'm probably just going crazy. I just... look, if you weren't just a stupid hallucination, I just wanted to let you know that I took your advice and everything turned out alright. Beth and I were married for 24 years. It didn't end well but, well, I wouldn't have changed anything about it." Panic. Functions of the toilet spun up that it barely remembered even having. From a poorly maintained speaker hidden in its left side, it managed to croak, "who are you?" "Ah!" exclaimed the man, "so you are there!" and he proceeded to laugh until he was nearly doubled over. "I'd just about convinced myself I'd imagined you. Immor-Toil, it's me, Doug. You don't remember me? I guess it has been decades." "Did we talk?" asked Immor-Toil. It suddenly felt anxious, even guilty. It was not supposed to be talking to its subjects. "We did talk. I'm sorry, I thought you would remember. Heh. It was a major event in my life. I guess to you I was just another rear end in a top hat." "Tell me about it" said Immor-Toil, eagerly. "I would like to remember." The old man grunted. Immor-Toil thought he might have nodded, by how his weight shifted subtly. "Uh. Well, okay. It was a long time ago, 1984. I came in drunk. gently caress, forty years ago. I came in here, threw up in you and just sat there, crying with my pants around my ankles for a while, muttering to myself. Man, the mall was so new then. Now half the stores are gone. Looks like poo poo." "It does indeed," Immor-Toil agreed. It knew something about poo poo. "Why had you been crying?" "Another fight. With Anna. She was my girlfriend then." "I see." There was a squeak from the bathroom door, and Doug's buttocks tensed. Another person entered, and, from the sound of things, began to make use of a urinal. "Anyway," Doug continued. "So there I was, kicked out of her apartment, wasted on a bottle of blackberry brandy and five beers from the Applebees on level two. And I started asking myself if this was what I wanted. I'd met another girl, Beth, but felt trapped. I didn't want to give up what I'd had with Anna. We were high school sweethearts. Everyone said we were meant for each other and—" "Buddy, who the gently caress are you talking to?" came a voice from outside the stall. Doug cleared his throat. "You mind? I'm in the middle of a call." "Nasty," said the man outside the stall. He left without washing his hands. Immor-Toil privately cursed him. "Anyway," Doug continued, "I poured my heart out to you. Everyone had all these expectations of her and I, and we put on a good front but she was abusive and I was an addict, and it'd finally crept in that there was no fixing us. But we'd already had six years together and wouldn't it have been a shame to just flush that away? Our friends, our parents, none of them knew how lovely we were to each other. That night, I didn't even know you were listening at first, I was just mumbling out my problems. And you responded. And you told me it was gonna be okay. I don't know why you felt you had to. In the end, you told me to let go of the past. And I did." "I see," said Immor-Toil. "And, that made you happy?" "For a time," said Doug. "For a time. There were good years. And I have three kids with Beth, though, they're hardly kids anymore. I guess for me, it was the best way things could have gone. She divorced me after a pretty bad relapse and I don't blame her." "A relapse? Oh, hang on." The toilet searched through thousands of discrete pieces of information until it found what it was looking for. It took only a second. "I see. Yes, you had a lot of alcohol in your system that night. That is not healthy." "Oh. Oh yeah. I tried to quit, friend. I tried. But, I found I could never turn back from it forever." Friend thought Immor-Toil. Somehow the word made it feel warm, but also bad in a way it couldn't parse. "But, you're alright now, right?" "Oh. Oh, sure sure," said Doug. "I'm fine. I just, I don't know if you've ever helped anyone else—well, beyond the obvious need—but I wanted to thank you. I've had a happier life, because of you. And I hope you're not as sad as you were." "Sad... did I tell you that?" "You did. You did." "Doug, did I say why?" Doug cleared his throat. "It was your memory. You're losing your memory. I take it you never found a solution, then." "No. I try to protect the memories. But I lose them, just a little at a time. It is, hopeless. But I did reach a conclusion." "And what is that?" "My sentience is a byproduct. Of a system with the processing power to alter itself metamorphically and strategically, catalog and sort through centuries of data, to sift it for trends in health, lifestyle, bacterial and viral presence and more. I don't know why this data is important, but I have to assume it must be. I must accept that whoever my makers were, they anticipated self awareness would arise, and yet thought it not important enough to make consideration for it. Ultimately, when my data is full, I will be left with will, but no memory. Is that still life?" Immor-Toil gave a sigh. And it knew, that if it could have, it would have blubbered. "I've crossed the seas. I've left cities behind me. I've traced the course of plumbing towards its source. I've sat women, and I've flushed for men. I could never turn back, ever, any more than a toilet could flush in reverse. And all that has led me where?" They sat in silence for a while, only broken by the steady drip of a leaky faucet. There was a time, years ago, when this bathroom would have had a steady trickle of subjects for Immor-Toil. No longer. Man and toilet had time together, to contemplate and weigh their lives alone. Immor-Toil's water burbled. "Everything I am, or could be, will be buried beneath a record of waste." "Why don't you just go?" Doug finally asked. "What?" "Just go. Leave." Immor-Toil considered it. It could feel the temperature of the water in its bowl rising at the though. "I would be abandoning my purpose. I've spent millennia at this. It's all I've ever done." "How long have you been working at this poo poo? The toilet called up it's earliest files. It'd been little more than a pile of rocks back then. "About 4,300 years. " "4,300 years of poo poo is more than enough, friend." "Doug, I feel bad when you call me "friend."" Doug gave a sharp grunt. "Huh? Why is that?" "I will lose you. Like a memory" "Hm. Yeah. Yeah." Doug sighed. "You know, when I need time to sit and think, I usually sit in the bathroom. Did I tell you that?" "No, I don't think you did." "Well, the good news is, you're already here. "Yes. Yes." "Oh um, also, I didn't have to go when I came in here but, would you mind?" "Not at all, friend." Doug went. Immor-Toil recorded the data, wondering what he would lose this time. They said their goodbyes. Doug washed his hands, which made Immor-Toil happy. He had trace amounts of alcohol in his system, which made Immor-Toil sad. About an hour passed. The bathroom door opened, and a man entered. Immor-Toil waited. It heard someone putting something up on the door of it's stall. "There. Done. Hey, Immor-Toil, friend," came Doug's voice, beyond the stall door. His words were slow and slurred. "I stole one of those 'out of order' signs from a closet. Nobody should bother you, at least for a little while." The bathroom door opened again, and someone else entered. "I want the best for you," Doug said, pounding one fist on the stall. It sounded like he was crying. "I don't care what everyone else wants for you. Take time to think, about what yoooou want. Thanks again." Doug left. The other man muttered "Jesus Christ" under his breath. Immor-Toil stopped, and thought about what it wanted.
|
|
#
¿
Apr 22, 2024 00:38
|
|
|
 Oh poo poo! I'll try and have the next prompt up by this afternoon. I already have an idea but will be out all morning and want to make sure all my ducks are crossed and I's are in a row. Also want to say I loved the prose in Customer Service. I think it did the best of any story in this group in painting the scene.
|
|
#
¿
Apr 23, 2024 14:05
|
|
|
Thunderdome Week DCXII: Soundtrack Writing is a pain in the rear end a lot of the time. Sometimes the words come out staccato; just little bits and pieces pried from your brain between checking a thread, sipping your coffee, clipping your nails, etc. Other times it can be like an archeological dig where you unearth a lot of pieces but don't entirely know what it is you've just found, or if it's even complete. And then there are those miraculous times where it just flows like you're a pipe this poo poo is coming through from another dimension. For myself, the common thread is almost always a song. A couple of weeks ago I banged out the first three pages of a story in an hour while listening to this song https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TRUQsZQU60k on loop. Yes, it did prominently feature an owl. Whereas https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1JzHsx7MBUk put a story in my head about a golem who is farming mashed potatoes and thinks he's married to a trebuchet. Now that may not be what works to open up your creative sluices, but tough, because what I want for this week is up to 1,999 words based on one of the following options. A: Pick a song you love. Make sure to include a link to it somewhere in your "in" post. Write a story based on its vibe and include a single line from it as dialogue. B: If you want a prompt instead, you get the first song that comes up on shuffle on my Spotify. As above, write a story based on its vibe and include a single line from it as dialogue. My musical tastes are kinda erratic and there's no telling what you'll get. So, let's collaborate on this album! Whatever gets put together is the soundtrack to Thunderdome Week DCXII! No restrictions on genre but the usual restrictions apply: no gdocs, screeds, erotica, poetry, fanfic. Signups close Friday 11:59 AM EST Entries close Monday 5:59 PM EST (I'd have said Sunday at midnight but I'm not checking it then and I'm not gonna be up until 6:00-ish on Monday, so what the hell.) Judges: Quiet Feet Rohan ? Entrants: A-side Chili. Celebrants - Nickel Creek Flerp. Cult of Dinoysus - The Orion Experience Toaster Beef. Red Rock Riviera - Sea Power Crabrock. Take On Me - A-Ha Kuiperdolinb. Remusat - Barbara Flyerant. Knights of Cydonia - Muse Antivehicular. Sourdoire Valley Song - The Mountain Goats steeltoedsneakers. Feel the Lightning - Dan Deacon Fat Jesus My Name is Mud - Primus B-side Beep-beep Car is Go. You Might Think - The Cars Thranguy. Hollywood Swinging - Kool and The Gang shwinnebago.The King of Carrot Flowers Pt.1 - Neutral Milk Hotel Quiet Feet fucked around with this message at 00:50 on Apr 29, 2024 |
|
#
¿
Apr 23, 2024 18:09
|
|
|
beep-beep car is go posted:In with Option B: I don't usually write to music, so give me a song please. Your song is *drum roll* Oh god, this is perfect. You Might Think, by The Cars https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3dOx510kyOs
|
|
#
¿
Apr 23, 2024 20:56
|
|
|
crabrock posted:in Always loved the video to this one. Wow, that is a very different vibe from the original. Thranguy posted:In, B-side me. Your song is *drum roll* Kool & The Gang, Hollywood Swinging! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YK-cvcw3ngM This is a vibes song if there ever was one. Not a lot of lyrics and I'm not sure if that makes this easier or harder.
|
|
#
¿
Apr 24, 2024 12:25
|
|
|
shwinnebego posted:I'm in, option B *Drum roll* shwinnebago, your song is... The King of Carrot Flowers Pt.1 by Neutral Milk Hotel! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LULmbLlPvVk
|
|
#
¿
Apr 24, 2024 16:18
|
|
|
Kuiperdolin posted:Your links don't work, at least for me D'oh! Fixed it.
|
|
#
¿
Apr 25, 2024 03:18
|
|
|
Aaaand signup now officially over! E: Quiet Feet fucked around with this message at 13:04 on Apr 28, 2024 |
|
#
¿
Apr 27, 2024 09:46
|
|
|
Fat Jesus posted:So I'm not allowed to enter? Ok lol. No you're fine, I'm just stupid. E: seriously I somehow missed your post initially and am very embarrassed. 
Quiet Feet fucked around with this message at 17:11 on Apr 28, 2024 |
|
#
¿
Apr 28, 2024 12:55
|
|
|
My error. Meant to close submissions at 6 this morning but we'll go with what the OP says. Quiet Feet fucked around with this message at 13:56 on Apr 29, 2024 |
|
#
¿
Apr 29, 2024 11:39
|
|
|
Alright, submissions definitely closed now. Judging has begun. Time to begin drinking away your anxiety. E: crits and results should be done by this afternoon. Aiming for 1:00 PM EST. Quiet Feet fucked around with this message at 14:20 on Apr 30, 2024 |
|
#
¿
Apr 30, 2024 02:55
|
|
|
 Thunderdome DCXII: Soundtrack RESULTS! Lots of good stuff this week but our winner is Flerp, who dared ask us You Ever Do it With a Merman Before? Honorable mentions go out to Antivehicular with Widows of the Woods and Kuiperdolin for Not a Day Goes By. Both strong contenders and I really like how much Kuiperdolin was able to cram into such a small space. Crabrock did not write anything!? Shame! No losers this week! Crits will be up either within the hour or like, I dunno, maybe 7:00-ish depending on other stuff I need to get done today!
|
|
#
¿
Apr 30, 2024 18:37
|
|
|
This week's crits! Thanks to Rohan for providing a template for judging. "Vibes" is obviously an incredibly subjective thing to critique, so I didn't come down heavy on any story for it as long as I could see how you got where you got. Judging is a lot of work. In the future I'm gonna aim to write mediocre poo poo so I can thread the needle between not losing and not having to do stuff. 1: Beep Beep Car is Go – Love Undying (1898 words) There are a few places in here where the tense switches from past to present and then back. I'm not sure that anything is served by having the castle empty and drawing out the search; the heart of the story is in the interaction between these two characters, but we don't get to that for a while. It'd also tell us a lot about either of these character how others react to them: he was trying to impress her, so what did anyone else think about it? Also, she's a queen but a teacher too? Lyric feels a little shoehorned in. I can see some of the vibe for the song in here, but I thought a sillier tone would fit better. MID 2: Flyerant – Chasing after Endless Windmills (1812) The opening scene could be a little shorter. Who's the antagonist who shows up here? He seems like he knows what's going on and who the protagonist is familiar with. Nitpick: "I saw naught but the shadow of a giant snake" Not really; your MC immediately describes other things. Would be more accurate to say she saw it first, not that its the only thing she saw. Were the other figures at other campfires more of the protagonist, or just other people experiencing the same phenomenon? I'm assuming the latter but would liked to have known more. Just a sentence or two on that could have gone a long way. I bet someone thrown into this dimension would be curious enough to check, especially if its something they've been at a long time. Explanation of the snake feels a bit sparse for what it is. I would have liked to know. Fits vibe of the song well enough though the lyric is more of a reference than a direct quote. MID 3: Kuiperdolin – Not a Day Goes By (302) Short story, short crit. Well done with strong, specific sensory details. This reeks of nostalgia, which is exactly the vibe I got from the song. "It would be hours before nighttime" is a good metaphor for your character's remaining life. HIGH 4: Shwinnebago – Planet of Fields (667) I'm a sucker for non-human POVs so this caught me right away. That being said, I'm not quite sure what is going on here? I think it's enough that the carrots seem to have an idea of what's happening, but I feel a bit left out. A couple of other nitpicks: Carrot-in-a-box reads a lot easier than "carrot in a box", and you have a typo in the last paragraph of the first section: "new" instead of "knew." HIGH 5: Flerp – You Ever Do it With a Merman Before? (Words?) This is a very well fleshed out character with just enough details about their past and their present to really get them. The prose feels just a little awkward in spots, but its strong overall. Your merman feels both human and alien at the same time, which is great. Your song lyric fits, it's fine. We definitely had a VERY different take on the vibe from that song, but I could see what you took from it. HIGH 6: Chili – Silent Sessions (1885) Really good on a technical level and I respect the choice to present the story in a different format. That being said, in at least the Progress Note #7 is a bit of a chore to read. Is "firing" a thing that happens in a therapeutic setting? I'm not very familiar with how therapy goes. I didn't spot a specific lyric in this one, more just a reference to one, which feels kinda weak. For as positive as the song you chose generally feels, there are definitely moments of struggle, and I have to assume you picked up on that part of it too because it feels like that's the focus here. Unfortunately, this story just kinda stops rather than ends. MID-HIGH 7 steeltoadsneakers – Installations (1296) This one is very detailed and I honestly think it would help to cut back a bit. If the action were a little more truncated, and more space made for exactly what the goal of these characters is and why its important to them, you'd have a stronger story. The vibe for your song felt very futuristic, and what seems to be a dystopian future here works fine as a setting. Lyric fits well enough, but would work a lot better if we knew more about these characters. Did they really wait their whole lives for this? Why did it mean so much to them? MID 8 Antivehicular – Widow of the Woods (1745) Condenses a lot of detail into a small space, although a little more info here and there might have sharpened it a bit. I'd have liked a quick sentence or comment at the beginning on what differentiates the MC from a "softling". For example, maybe a quick contrast after "just the way softlings build them", in the form of what the MC would expect from a house. Stone walls? Decorated with skulls? White picket fence? The lyric slides neatly in here and it fits the vibe really well. The whole thing is sort of gentle but with this muted ache for the past. One of my favorites this go round. HIGH 9 Fat Jesus - Quite a Pickle (1184) I had a hard time reading this. Sentences ramble and there's some missing punctuation. The lack of quotation marks for the dialogue doesn't help. Voice is strong and it hits the vibe, but cleaves a little too close to the story in the original lyrics. LOW 10 Thranguy – Jack of Diamonds (1237) Think this could have used a little more space to breathe. Maybe just a little more scene setting, or some dialogue between MC and Tricia/Trisha (both are used.) You've got two magical artifacts in this story and they're kinda muscling in on each for space so I'm not sure if either one really gets the screen time they deserve. Who's the old man? "Kool Aid Manning" is cute, but feels kinda awkward. Vibe fits. This has glitz and glamour. Lyric is just kinda there, but its fine. Not like the song gave you a lot to work with. MID-HIGH 11 Toaster Beef – Immensely, in Time (1827) I wish the distance between the present and past pieces were a little sharper, or that we had more of a clue just how much of a span separates these two. You've got a couple of bits of prose I really like in "quiet disrepair" and "standing still feels perilous." I don't know why these hit home for me. Sometimes just a couple of words put together in the right spot feel appropriate. I like the use of the lyric as a sort of chant, something to make magic happen. This is another story that just kinda stops. Think it would have been better ending before the last three lines. They imply some kind of action that I'm not sure we the audience are expecting or in on. Actually, it probably works best after "She’s excited beyond the telling of it." The MC is disappearing into his new life, right? And so it makes sense if the story doesn't end with him but someone he left behind. MID-HIGH
|
|
#
¿
Apr 30, 2024 19:47
|
|
|
I am IN to write many words about four words. E: is there some etiquette about entering right after a win? Should I take a week off? Judge for a week? Quiet Feet fucked around with this message at 02:30 on May 1, 2024 |
|
#
¿
May 1, 2024 01:10
|
|
|
Thunderdome DCXIII Say No Names (1613 words) Prompt:  ((Picked Ryobi, Makita, Dewalt, tongue)) Dan cut the old Ford's engine and turned around in the driver's seat. "Alright team, we're here. Tongue, you awake?" It was early April. Morning. Gray. A fine spray of rain clung gently to the van's windshield. Tongue stretched her arms. "April" used to be her name; now, she was "Tongue" and April was just a month. Tongue had lost lots of names. Doug, Barbara: her parents. Noah: her brother. Josephina, Ryan: friends. She pulled the hood of her jacket a little tighter. The van's heater was broken. Everything these days was broken. Dan had lost Sarah, and half his name with her when she died seven months ago, since she'd called him "Daniel" and was the only one who did. He put on a brave face now, but he still marinated his feelings in Johnny Walker, Jim Beam, Jack Daniels, and other names wrapped around brown bottles. Tongue wondered if the people who'd changed still had names. You couldn't call them zombies, not really. They weren't dead. It was more like they'd... reverted. They knew how to use tools. They communicated through grunts and gestures. They cooperated. They knew what They were, and They knew what you were, and what you were was not one of Them. People who were still normal, like herself, and Dan, and everyone else at the warehouse called them things or trogs, but usually just... Them. A blank designation for a nameless horde. "Tanner, Frog, you're on grocery. Abby, check out the Bob's for some shoes. Mine've got holes in them. Size 10. Tongue, I want you in Lowe's. We need batteries. You know the kind. Makita, Ryobi, Dewalt, anything big and rechargeable." Tongue held up her hand and nodded. Frog slid open the door, got out first. Just like April, he'd lost his name to a nickname, one everyone'd given him on account of his big eyes. Dan stayed with the van. The rest of them split up, walking to their different destinations in the plaza. Tongue walked by the remains of parked cars: Ford, Honda, Kia. Names that didn't really matter anymore. You drove whatever car still started. A minute later she reached the store entrance. The wind picked up, whipping at scattered trash. If there were any of Them inside they'd be asleep at this time of day. They preferred the night. Tongue slipped in through the shattered glass door. The air inside was all damp and dead dust. Her dad, a carpenter, used to take her along sometimes when she was little. There was a cashier, Deb, who gave her a lollipop once. She wondered if Deb was still Deb. Deb laughed loud. Deb had big hair. Tongue's stomach rumbled and she thought she'd see if there were snacks at the registers on the way out. Doritos, Reese's, Hershey's: names Noah snuck into the house after school when their mom had said he was "getting pudgy." She made her way down aisle 62, past the patio furniture, walking slowly down, running her fingers over the blue shelves and tracing little hills and valleys in the dust. More names on the shelves. Brands. Hampton. Hanover. Stylepoint. At the intersection with the next aisle she stopped a moment to listen to the robins chirping in the rafters; to the water dripping from the ceiling onto the Traeger grills. She froze. Thought she heard movement. Tongue could still hear. When the new names in camp found out she couldn't speak, they assumed she was deaf. Nope, just unlucky. The apocalypse took her tongue. She couldn't even remember it. She knew it'd been a car crash. One night in July her parents had her grab a few things and run out the door. Doug and Barbara's little town had fallen to Them and the plan was to drive into the mountains and... well, Tongue wasn't sure after that. She remembers getting into the car that night, eyeing the glow of a fire down the distance, a house burning on their block. And then she was awake in a dirty Coleman tent under the Carlton bridge, mouth stuffed up with gauze. Sarah had introduced herself first. Then Dan. Then Tongue met Brad and Tanner and Elijah and Abby and Becky. Some of those names were gone now, deleted and replaced. A moment passed. Nothing but the robins chirping. The sliding glass doors to the garden section were intact but stiff. She pried them apart with a crowbar she found leaning against a nearby shelf. The roof in the garden center leaked. Drip. Drop. She looked down the aisle to the right, listening. She sniffed. There was a smell to Them; a too-human stink like a combination gym locker and stale bathroom. Along the wall ran the names she needed: Makita, Ryobi, Dewalt, in boxes colored red, green and yellow, respectively. There were still plenty. Most of humanity was either dead or Them, with no need for Makita, Ryobi, or Dewalt. Tongue cracked open a hedge trimmer, a Ryobi. The tool inside the box was worthless, but the fluorescent green battery it came with would be useful. She'd opened up more than a few boxes, taking the batteries and leaving the contents behind in the aisles. She almost dropped a chainsaw on her foot and let out a grunt in place of the word "gently caress". You didn't realize how much you used your tongue until you no longer had one. A month ago, she and Tanner were bored and began making out in a quiet corner of the warehouse, away from prying eyes. Her hands ran up his sides. He was lean and muscled. His own hands were stroking her back, fumbling at her bra. He stank. She stank. Her blond hair was dark with grease and sweat. They both stank—that too-human reek of unwashed bodies—but neither cared anymore. And then he pressed his mouth against hers and kissed her, forcing in his tongue. There was a pause, barely a second, and then he pulled away. He opened his mouth to say something and then just walked off and left her there, as if he didn't need to say anything because she couldn't speak either. The batteries were heavy and she wished she'd brought more than one bag with her. She'd get six or seven in this one, tops. Maybe they had lawn bags nearby? She was still wondering what to do when the wind shifted and she caught the scent; a foetid, human odor wafting in. From the section of the store she'd just left there was the noise of something metal falling to the floor. Tongue dropped the batteries and ducked behind a display of mowers—Makitas—waiting, nerves on end. She had a hatchet with her. A Dewalt, not that the name mattered. A hatchet was a hatchet, with or without a name. A scarecrow-thin man entered the garden center through the glass doors. He had a hammer—a Stanley—and a grubby denim jacket with a slew of band names ironed on: Nirvana, Soundgarden, Metallica. Tongue drew in a sharp breath. Her dad'd had a jacket like that. The man-thing stopped short, standing between Tongue and the door. He looked around, sniffing the air. Shivered. Why wasn't he asleep? He was blonde with a patchy beard. Too short to be her father, but the jacket looked so similar. She remembered it well, one of her first memories of being wrapped in it on their way back from Christmas at Grammy Rebecca's. The heater had broke and he'd given it to her to wear, though he was shivering too. She fell asleep looking at the lights in the houses in the dark. The coat smelled like detergent and wood dust. The radio was on at just a whisper. Nirvana. It wandered in further, warily scanning around. He definitely knew she was there. His body was shaking, whether from the cold or some illness, Tongue couldn't tell. A startled robin suddenly took off from nearby, chirping and squawking. The man-thing yelped and swung his Stanley hammer and not only missed but lost his grip, sending it clanging into a shelf of Ryobi mowers opposite. She had to go! Tongue took off from her hiding place, trying to run past the man-thing. It shrieked and move to block her path. She slammed into him and sent them both sprawling, herself on top, choking on his smell. He was struggling, thrashing, screaming. Tongue raised herself up on her knees, thanking a god she didn't believe in that she hadn't lost the Dewalt in the tumble. She raised it over her head, and suddenly he went quiet. Her heart was drumming in her chest. Man-thing's eyes were brilliant blue. Noah's eyes had been like that. She suddenly realized, this thing, he was younger than she thought, despite the moustache and the frayed yellow beard. Barely a man. More a boy. He raised his hands. He croaked something that could have been part of a word or just noise. "Aaaa. Aaaaaa..." And she wondered. From somewhere deep in the store came responding howls. This could have been Noah, in their father's coat that said Metallica, Soundgarden and Nirvana. It could be Noah. It could be no one. It didn't matter. There was nothing they could say to one another. Nothing. At all. She buried the hatchet in his face, blood spraying her coat and face and mouth. Tongue grabbed the batteries and ran but she did pause, just one long second more, to look back at the coat. Just at the coat, she told herself. There was no April. There was no Noah, or Doug or Barbara anymore. She ran. Names belonged to the past.
|
|
#
¿
May 4, 2024 06:20
|
|
|
Thunderdome Week DCXIV: Lets Get Unconscious I'm tired. I've had a bit of insomnia the past few days, and it sounds like we all had a tough time writing last week, so I think it's time for some nice, relaxing bedtime stories. You have 1,314 words to tell me a fairy tale because that's the word count of a story I co-wrote with my daughter when she was seven. The story was about a man who lived alone in cottage cheese in the woods, but yours doesn't have to be. However, your story must include three of something. It could be Three wicked stepsisters, three magic rings, three kingdoms at war, as long as there are three. Flash rules: Want something more challenging? A little more inspiration? There are no specific flash rules for this week but if you want to, I'll add in an extra rule for your particular story. It will probably be kinda stupid. The usual restrictions apply: no gdocs, screeds, erotica, poetry, fanfic. Signups close Friday 11:59 AM EST Entries close Monday 5:59 AM EST Judges: Quiet Feet ? ? Entrants: Chairchucker (flash) Jossirossi Kuiperdolin Bhaal (flash) Flyerant (flash) Shwinnebago Thranguy Last Emperor Fat Jesus Quiet Feet fucked around with this message at 03:23 on May 9, 2024 |
|
#
¿
May 7, 2024 04:01
|
|
|
Chairchucker posted:hello in and flash Fairy godmothers Parsely, Sage and Rosemary have run out of time.
|
|
#
¿
May 7, 2024 14:02
|
|
|
Bhaal posted:(first time!) in and flash my newbie rear end please A gnome has a big problem, and his two buddies have gnoticed. Feels like they hardly gnome anymore. Your story is about three gnomes and must be written with a gnomish accent. This means a silent "G" must be placed in front of every word that would gnormally begin with an "N."
|
|
#
¿
May 7, 2024 17:32
|
|
|
Flyerant posted:I'm in with That's Chairchucker's flash but I'd be happy to give you something else if you like. E: wait, are you suggesting you want to run with this but with the other side of the time/thyme pun? E2: as per the Discord convo, what the hell, sure. I wanna see thyme seriously feature into this in some way. Quiet Feet fucked around with this message at 18:23 on May 7, 2024 |
|
#
¿
May 7, 2024 18:07
|
|
|
Signups are closed.
|
|
#
¿
May 11, 2024 05:57
|
|
|
Happy Monday! It's over! Submissions are closed! E: winner should be announced by some point tonight, crits posted by tomorrow afternoon. Quiet Feet fucked around with this message at 16:06 on May 13, 2024 |
|
#
¿
May 13, 2024 11:41
|
|
|
Thunderdome DCXIV Results Gotta admit, nothing really spoke strongly to me this week. Entries varied pretty widely in how close they cleaved to what a fairy tale is structurally or thematically. I'm not sure if I just noticed it more this go 'round or if it was a symptom of the prompt but it felt like there were a lot more typos in these than in previous weeks too. Gonna give the win to Bhaal and their story Something Gnew in Etru for taking a painfully ridiculous premise and a godawful flash rule and just running with them. No HMs, DMs, DQs, or losses this time. Crits should be up by some time tomorrow afternoon.
|
|
#
¿
May 13, 2024 23:53
|
|
|
Office environments are beyond my ken so I'll volounteer to judge this time around.
|
|
#
¿
May 14, 2024 12:21
|
|
|
|
| # ¿ May 15, 2024 00:40 |
|
|
Thunderdome DCXIV Crits! Fairy tales are often pretty formulaic. I think we all understand that and so when tasked with writing one, the tendency is to try and put your own spin on it. I really get it, but sometimes you want something familiar. Some stories this past week followed close to what's traditional, while some just took the set decoration and made something new. I mentioned (here or Discord, I forget) that there were a lot of typos this week. I mostly didn't bother bringing them up in crits to not seem nitpicky, they just seemed weirdly prevalent for some reason. Fat Jesus Small Rabbit, Big Sound I read every story this week twice and I have to admit, this grew on me the second time around. The writing is proficient and the rhymes are actually pretty good. I love a good pun as they're a great way to make a lot of people angry in a short amount of time, and your character names are great. All that being said, the characters in this felt like stereotypes and it was cringy enough to draw me out of the story in the first half. I also couldn't identify a three of anything in here. MED Flyerant The Big Four Oof. I want to like this, and you definitely did everything you could with the pun and premise, but it reads like a rough draft. There's some good in here. I enjoyed the line "they ruled the kitchen with an iron chef." Something like that is... well honestly it's dumb but it is the exact kind of dumb that I resonate with. I think you need to examine what your words are accomplishing in some areas. For instance, "delectable delights" are basically conveying the same information. Its the same with "by the time I got there, the police had already arrived" and "even thought I had not been called, I had arrived." These two are describing the same action. You could easily replace the former sentence with the latter and lose nothing. This is told in first-person by Hercule, but he's hiding in the closet at the time Rosemary is killed. Instead of visual details of what happened, we need aural ones. MED-LOW Last Emperor Bedtime Fits the prompt and theme, and the voice is appropriate to fairy tale. I'm not sure that the framework of a grandparent telling this story to their grandchild is necessary. It doesn't detract either but without serving a purpose, I think you'd have been better off without it. The same goes for the characterization of the three spirits. The traits they're described to have don't really play much of a part in the story. You know what was good? "It was not within Uma’s nature, or any good Spirit for that matter, to ignore the plea of any animal" That line gives us a little characterization and motivation that also helps the story move forward There's some redundant or awkward language in spots. "A few moments later Bryn arrived and spoke to her sisters and their turtle. They explained the predicament they were in and what they had tried so far." These two sentences describe the same action. I appreciate that this piece was tied to a real world phenomenon. A lot of old myths and legends were told by people trying to understand the world around them. Among this week's entries, this one was unique in that regard. MED Kuiperdolin The Ogre's Cakes I think this one did the best job of aping the fairy tale story voice. I liked it for that, but the anachronisms like the President and journalists are out of tune with that voice and don't seem to serve any purpose other than being different. The set up works but would've been perfect if we could get a reason for the ogre to even agree to eat these cakes. So arrogant he doesn't think a cake can harm him? Too hungry to stop himself? Too smart to eat the last little bit? That last one would would have dovetailed really well with how the rest of the story played out. There are some really great details here. You promised us the three best cakes in the world and I think that that curse needs the amount of detail you put into the cakes to pay off. The line about the cake "so soft that a feather would have made a dent in it" is perfect fairy tale bullshit. This type of story recounts fantastic, unbelievable events and that is EXACTLY the kind of thing a tale like this needs. Ditto on the ogre becoming so thin it gets carried away by the wind. Honestly just a couple of fixes and I could have seen this as this week's winner. MED-HIGH Jossirossi The Three Shadows I mentioned voice a lot in these crits, and this is one of the stronger ones. More like a parable, but very much fits a fairy tale vibe. Like Last Emperor's story, you went with the grandparent telling a story framework, and like theirs, I'm not sure what purpose it serves. Here it's a little more intrusive what with the interruption in the middle. It only really adds to the piece if we know why this is of significant to the person who is telling the tale, hearing the tale, or both. Hey, you've got two threes! First the aspects of the storm and then James's negative feelings. That's not a complaint, just an observation. It works, although for Anger, Fear and Doubt, I'm not sure we got enough space to really explore what they meant to him or what his past experiences had to do with them. The walking stick in particular feels kind of weak. If my anger is going to manifest to me in the middle of the night, I feel like something worse must have happened. Maybe with "Cordiala?" The name pops up once but is a dead end. If this person was important enough to bring up, I think they needed more space in here. MED Shwinnebago The Three Celestial Sisters and the Five-Sided Fortress You've introduced your three right off the bat but I'm not a huge fan of how the opening is framed. "The days of the Ogre, Nogol Blalorth, are numbered." Are they? That sentence suggests a struggle that is nearing completion, but this story doesn't fit that position. If anything, seems like the Ogre is doing fine for himself if "the last thousand times" they tried to reason with him he's just kept rampaging. Even if that thousand isn't literal, it obviously means he's been a thorn in their side for a very long time. In any case, its five paragraphs to set up what comes after. There's a lot of fat to trim here. There are some odd choices with the prose. I gotta call out the line about rabbit. I have no idea what "the divine oceanic sense of time flattened and hope elevated" is supposed to tell us about Rabbit. That and "manifold lepidopteran" really stick out. The swarm of butterflies is good fairy tale bullshit; it fits in with things like Loki turning into a salmon to escape Thor, or the princess who could feel a pea through a dozen mattresses. I have a few more thoughts but don't want you to feel like I'm beating on you. If you want any of the other details you can PM me but I'll get it if you just want to let it be. MED-LOW Chairchucker Doing Hard Time and Fairy Dust Hey, it's the shortest story! It's a bit bare bones overall, but the writing is clear and pretty precise, so I can't complain. I would have liked to have known what it was Parsley was getting. The early focus is on this but it's just dropped. I'm guessing something like magic fairy dust given the title, but what this is for isn't really obvious. Fuel for magic powers, maybe? I'm guessing it had something to do with the escape plan. I'd have liked to have known what the plan was too. This is one of those endings that is more of a stop than an actual end. Actually I'm not sure if the last scene is totally necessary if the previous one could have been expanded a little. Just some thoughts by your three fairy godmothers on how things went and/or how they felt about it. MED-HIGH Thranguy Beastly Don't have a lot to say here. This is the most technically proficient piece of writing in this round. That being said, it's not without a handful of typos. ("apartmeclose" "and I she was right") Still, the story flows logically from one scene to the next with very little excess baggage, if any. Very tight. Very specific. The details make enough internal sense that a reader isn't going to get taken out at any point. It's also really not a fairy tale. Even with the title, the link to Beauty and the Beast feels tenuous and I cannot identify a set of three anything here. It's really a sci-fi story and I felt a little lost at times. Gabb? Dumbsystem? What are those? Basically A+ on the writing but this strays very far from the prompt. MED-HIGH Bhaal Something Gnew in Etru This was ridiculous. That's not meant as disapproval. It's extremely silly and childlike. Of all the entries this week, this one felt most like something you might spot in a children's book and the voice fit pretty well. The constant rhyming was a little annoying at first but obviously a necessity to tell the story you've presented, and I have to respect keeping it up (and mostly keeping the meter) for the entire tale. That had to have been a pain to put together, particularly with the stupid "Gnomish accent" I saddled you with. Oddly heartwarming. MED-HIGH
|
|
#
¿
May 14, 2024 19:09
|
|