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Hundreds of authors. Thousands of stories. Over 4 million words. The blood the blood the bloo Thunderdome 2012 Thunderdome 2013 Thunderdome 2014 Thunderdome 2015  CLICK HERE FOR CURRENT PROMPT What is Thunderdome? Thunderdome is a mean, bloody, no-holds-barred weekly flash fiction contest where the judges are harsh and the critiques are barbed. It’s a place for people who are ready to have the weakness and bad prose suctioned out of their bodies with a shop vac. I'd like to sacrifice my lovely prose to the lovely prose gods. How do I participate? Most wildly successful writers start by reading the goddamned prompt post. Generally, these self-starters will include a post that says ‘In’, or some such, to indicate their intention to write a story. The prompt post will include indispensable information including, but not limited to, the signup deadline, the submission deadline, the allotted word count, and the prompt itself. Sometimes the prompt is a bit of abstract inspiration, sometimes it’s a rigorous set of rules designed to challenge participants. Sometimes the prompt involves sparkly mermen, because let’s face it, writers take themselves way too loving seriously. Once you’ve made your ‘in’ post (by the signup deadline in the prompt post), it’s your job to write the least terrible story you can think of by the submission deadline. No editing your story once you’ve posted it! As soon as you hit ‘submit’, a massive orbital fist is aimed strategically at your rear end in a top hat. Anyone who edits a submission post gets a fistin’ (and is disqualified for the week). The winner of the week becomes the next bossjudge, and the cycle of futile suffering continues. Who gives me my participation trophy? Thunderdome judges may give out a number of mentions each week. There is always a winner, and nearly always a loser. Participants may also receive an honorable mention, if their story was in contention for the win, or a dishonorable mention if they barely avoided a loss. Losers get a free avatar!  A note on losing: So, you hosed up, much to no one’s surprise. Anyone who’s lost will tell you, we all have that lip-quivering, misty-eyed moment of oh god, I’m terrible, I should quit writing forever!! While these are, to some extent, normal writer thoughts, it’s important to remember that a loss in Thunderdome is not an indictment of your potential or capacity as a writer. You should be asking yourself, “Why did three people think my story sucked?” Giving up forever or screaming about how the judges just don’t ‘get’ you are also options, but not advisable ones. Thunderdome has generated more than 9,000 critiques, so even if you faceplant on your first entry, stick around! Someone will be more than happy to tell you exactly what you hosed up, and how to fix it. You probably won’t listen the first 30 times, which is why Thunderdome is a weekly flash fiction contest! You can bash your head against that brick wall as many times as it takes. Think of it as a sort of trepanation procedure for your terrible writing habits. The judges will be there to shout at you every step of the way. On Judging (Or: Oh god I won, what do I do???) Ius Iudicis: Judge’s right, judge’s responsibility, judge’s law The very first thing you should do as a brand new judge is read this page If you don’t post the next prompt very soon after judgment, goons will make mean GIFs about you and generally shart up the thread like big lovely babies. Judges should be prepared to read anywhere from fifteen to thirty thousand words in about two days. It’s not terribly hard, but this IS goon fiction you’re reading, so it will be heartily terrible. If you absolutely can’t manage this, and have a very very good reason, you can probably abdicate your bossjudge duties to someone else. But why would you pass over the opportunity to make goons’ lives hell for a week? Judges should also be prepared to give some sort of feedback in the form of critiques. Even just a few sentences will do, though more elaborate, thoughtful critique is always welcome. Please participate in at least a few weeks of Thunderdome before you offer to co-judge. And finally, quote:Three shalt be the number of judges, and the number of judges shall be three. I’m a dumb baby who knows everything about nothing, who can I pester with more questions? Lots of fun stuff, including some judging, happens over IRC. We have a few rules.
You can find us in #Thunderdome on SynIRC. You can also PM Sittinghere over IRC if you have any questions. What’s some other important poo poo I’m going to forget/ignore??
Sitting Here fucked around with this message at 06:27 on Dec 28, 2016 |
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Jan 4, 2016 22:29
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sebmojo posted:on brawling by sebmojo
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Jan 4, 2016 22:29
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Broenheim posted:it's a new thread so i think this needs to be said but i don't disagree so why would i want to fight about it? 
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Jan 5, 2016 00:36
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ladies and gentlemen, for 2016 I bring you...anti-kayfabe
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Jan 5, 2016 00:36
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in, glitch me please, GP
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Jan 5, 2016 01:56
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Broenheim posted:it's a new thread so i think this needs to be said Entenzahn posted:also i'm brawling sh klapman posted:My head hurts, i'm sick as gently caress, my throat is dry no matter how much water I drink. My life is misery and my writing is worse. I figure that's enough of a handicap, so in addition to the prompt, I'll take any one of you motherfuckers on. If you want an easy kill, and you're stupid enough to see one in me, let's rock. quote:schneiderheim> also sh if you decide to brawl you can fite me Okay. You know what. I've clearly got a lot of septic fiction to work out of my system, but it would still smell like roses next to anything this gaggle of baby-fisted jokers could possibly inflict on the world. Who is bold enough to judge the first melee of 2016?
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Jan 5, 2016 05:58
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 If I win, crabrock has to be pleasant for a whole week
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Jan 5, 2016 07:10
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crabrock posted:nah, this isn't a brawl, it's a fake week now. do you ever find cows licking you crab b/c you're very salty
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Jan 5, 2016 21:33
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Thranguy posted:Also, the floor on this new thread is too clean and dry. Needs blood. So if you two won't (and, for that matter, even if you do), I'ma brawl Specters. He knows why. spectres of autism posted:the only blood on the floor will be yours SPECTRES OF THRANGISM BRAWL I love nothing more than sitting down with a platter of meats and cheeses. I love red wine. These things make life much better IMO. For your brawl, you can write about whatever you want, with one stipulation: the climactic moment of your story must take place during some sort of decadent meal. I want vivid descriptions that make my mouth water. I better tastes the herbs on that roasted duck and the lemon in that cake. Make me hungry! Wordcount: 2,000 Due date: Wednesday, January 13th, 2016 at 11:59:59 PST Post your es if you accept.
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Jan 6, 2016 02:18
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recaps! Hello goons. I have another batch of recaps for you! Two whole episodes, in fact. Here's the recap for weeks 171 and 172 and here are the Archive links if you'd like to follow along. We cover the DMs and losers from both weeks, talk a bit about chronology in fiction, and ponder seal vandalism. The episode wraps up with a reading of ZeBourgeoisie's I Can't Believe it's Mort! Which is worth a listen if only for Ironic Twist's butter voice. BUT WAIT THERE'S MORE Recap for week 173 Archive link The recap crew's own Kaishai was bossjudge for week 173, so we discussed her hopes and disappointments in pilgrim week. We take a detailed look at the DMs and loser, and the episode finishes with a really fun reading of C7ty1's Dormant Faith Thanks again any/everyone who listens. These recaps are pretty much an amateur labor of love, but it's been and continues to be really fun to talk about your guys every week. More fun: pre:Episode Recappers Week 156: LET'S GET hosed UP ON LOVE Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, and Djeser Week 157: BOW BEFORE THE BUZZSAW OF PROGRESS Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 158: LIKE NO ONE EVER WAS Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, and Djeser Week 159: SINNERS ORGY Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 160: Spin the wheel! Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 161: Negative Exponents Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 36: Polishing Turds -- A retrospective special! Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, Kaishai, and The Saddest Rhino Week 162: The best of the worst and the worst of the best Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, Kaishai, and The Saddest Rhino Week 163: YOUR STUPID poo poo BELONGS IN A MUSEUM Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, and Kaishai Week 164: I Shouldn't Have Eaten That Souvlaki Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, and Kaishai Week 165: Back to School Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 166: Comings and Goings Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 167: Black Sunshine Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 168: She Stole My Wallet and My Heart Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 169: Thunderdome o' Bedlam Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Week 170: Cities & Kaiju Sitting Here, Ironic Twist, Djeser, and Kaishai Sitting Here fucked around with this message at 03:49 on Jan 7, 2016 |
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Jan 7, 2016 03:41
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Jeza posted:In with “Fix walkable area in subway so Dropsy can't walk beyond the darkness.” 
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Jan 8, 2016 20:23
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You've done a glorious thingSurreptitiousMuffin posted:
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Jan 9, 2016 04:20
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"signs and books will destroy the world after a while. Don't use or have them." (+200 words) Sign Language 1322 words Mackenzie Martin wants to ask Walter Bliven to prom, but it’s complicated. Though she’s not aware of it, Mackenzie is little more than a sliver of frequency trembling in the structure of a quantum crystal. Her great grandparents were the last flesh-and-blood humans to exist anywhere, because the universe is dead. What lives on is shadow puppetry inside an inscrutable machine operating in its lowest possible energy state. The thing about being a simulated teenage girl at the end of the universe is, your world is fragile. It’s malleable. For example, Mackenzie can’t pass Walter Bliven a note saying will you go to prom with me? because then she and Walter would both experience the word ‘you’. To Mackenzie, ‘you’ is Walter, and to Walter, ‘you’ is Mackenzie. The slow-minded puppetmaster AI that controls their world just can’t cope with the contradiction. Of course, it would never occur to Mackenzie to ask Walter to prom in a note, because she’s never heard of language. Mackenzie was born and raised in a world of pure meaning; when she’s sad, she emotes translucent blue waves of emotion of anyone nearby. When she’s happy, she exudes frollicking piano and pictures of green leaves tinted gold by afternoon sun. But when she’s in class with Walter Bliven, she can’t exude anything except a grey fog. A simulated high school inside a quantum crystal looks pretty much like any high school from the twenty-first or twenty-second century. There are halls, lockers, classrooms, a gym and a cafeteria. When Mackenzie’s great grandparents copied themselves into the machine, they decided the setting should be from humanity’s pre-interstellar days, when people only knew life on Earth, and liked it that way. Mackenzie’s astronomy class describes a cozy universe where Earth is orbited by a sun and a moon inside a black shell spattered with stars like luminescent cave fungus. She’s there now, in 2nd period astronomy, watching Walter instead of the rigid, sterile emotes of the teacher. Walter is sitting with his back straight and his eyes forward. Every so often, he emotes a flash of understanding, and is shrouded in beautiful, abstract shapes that swirl around him like runes etched from pure meaning. Mackenzie could watch Walter grasp the basics of universal constants for days. She’s not the only one. The classroom is populated by fleeting Walter-specters, the fantasies of other girls and guys infatuated with Walter’s good looks and captivating emotes. Mackenzie is sometimes thankful for the fog of grey shyness that hides her attraction; filtering thoughts doesn’t come easily to teenagers. She can’t imagine what it would be like to be so popular and so desired that, wherever you went, you had to see the ghost of yourself acting out first kisses and first dates and who knows what else. She feels a wave of pity for Walter that’s so strong it fills the classroom with the smell of fallen rain on dead grass. The teacher pauses his lecture to emote concern for Mackenzie. She shakes her head emphatically; she doesn’t trust herself to emote, not with the whole class’s attention on her. Walter turns around in his seat to look at her, one perfect eyebrow raised inquisitively, and Mackenzie disappears completely into her grey fog. In the break between periods, Mackenzie flees to the farthest, most empty hallway of the school. She’s got to get it together. Walter is in her 3rd period history class, too, and the last thing she needs to make another big scene. A coppery tendril of curiosity snakes over her shoulder. Mackenzie whirls around, finds Walter looking at her with that same inquisitive eyebrow quirk. He emotes a quick explanation: he thought she seemed upset, so he followed her. His worry is like the smell of baking cookies to Mackenzie, and she’s pretty sure she can die happy now. But the sugary burst of pleasure she emits is quickly snuffed out by the same old grey cloud. She shrugs at him and spreads her hands in a helpless gesture. Walter takes a tentative step toward her, a look of concentration on his face. He emotes a grey cloud, much like Mackenzie’s, then slowly, gently pulls it aside with his hands. I want to know you, the gesture says. And so a new high school power couple is born. It takes Mackenzie a while to get used to the constant barrage of jealousy and curiosity. She’s never been much of a topic of conversation, but now her ghost is everywhere. It’s prom night, and Mackenzie wraps herself tightly around Walter’s arm. Other students are gleefully fantasizing about her tripping in her high heels or getting into some melodramatic fight with Walter on the dance floor. She tries to rise above it and emote happy things, instead of the venom she feels toward her jealous classmates. Walter is more accustomed to the attention, and does his best to shield them both inside crackling, savory feelings of excitement, and the thick, velvety mist of romance. Soon, it’s pretty clear their fellow students aren’t going to let the couple have a good time. The dance floor is a spectral nightmare of ghost Mackenzies and ghost Walters, and none of the emotes are kind. Mackenzie’s despair and embarrassment is like a glumly tolling bell, so Walter leads her away from the dance floor, out of the school gym, and into the dark, sleepy halls. They reach a locked door that exudes an artificial emote: Maintenance Only. The feeling from the door is so strong that Mackenzie tugs at Walter’s arm, but he only grins and holds up a key. He doesn’t choose to express how he found the key, just fits it in the lock and opens the door. A staircase leads them onto the school’s roof. There’s an assortment of rakes, shovels, and paint cans, as well as a stunning view of the town and the black, star-studded shell of the world. Mackenzie and Walter stand there for a while, hand in hand, exulting in each other’s soft, affectionate emotes. Mackenzie’s eyes fall on one of the paint cans. Its lid is askew, like it’s been opened. She sees the glint of wet paint inside, then looks around at the dry permanence of the paint on the school’s exterior. She wants to commemorate her first love, somehow. If she’d been a flesh and blood girl born on long-dead Earth, she might’ve painted MM <3 WB in some discreet spot on the school roof, like an emblem of love for future couples to find. But she has no concept of symbols-as-meaning. People can project their feelings and thoughts, and some objects can even be imbued with rudimentary emotes, but the silent, ubiquitous AI simply cannot account for the potential contradictions inherent in the written word. Mackenzie, unlike most other simulated people, is descended from the patterns of the last two humans to ever exist in a physical form. Perhaps she carries some overlooked vestige of their penchant for language. She doesn’t understand why she dips her finger in the paint, doesn’t understand why she kneels down in her dress and draws a complicated mark on the roof. But it feels right. She looks up at Walter, points at the mark, then at herself, as if to say, this is me. I am this. She gestures that he should do the same, even goes so far as to take his hand and gently help him dip his finger into the paint can. Walter is thrumming with curiosity and confusion, but he doesn’t stop her. She points again at her mark, then herself. She points at Walter’s paint-darkened finger, then taps him on his chest, just above his heart. Finally, understanding lights up his eyes, and Walter grins as he draws an elaborate series of swirls beside Mackenzie’s symbol. Both stand up and inspect their handiwork. Their fingers twine together, and their joined hands are smeared with paint.
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Jan 11, 2016 04:21
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One of you miserable failures should at least step up and judge, or something, if we don't already have a 3rd judge. this is a recap post Hello again goons. This is another recap. This time, Kaishai, Djeser, Ironic Twist and myself take a look at week 174--Nonsense week! The recap Archive link for those who'd like to follow along. As usual, we take a special look at the DMs and loser, featuring a sickeningly saccharine reading of Silmarildur's entry, Sugarplum Fairyland Home for the Insufficiently Exuberant. This is an episode for anyone who wants to hear Ironic Twist bleed from his eyes and ears (that should be all of you), and also some prolonged dick poetry. More fun stuff: Kaishai posted:
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Jan 11, 2016 07:32
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Lazy Beggar posted:Christ. These are cathartic. Thanks! And also  WeLandedOnTheMoon! posted:Sitting Here, is there a reason why the recaps aren't posted as podcasts anymore? When I use my phone I can only download the first two that were posted. I know you answered this once on IRC, but I can't remember. Honestly, I switched over to Soundcloud because of laziness, and because the platform I was using wouldn't let me upload more than an hour of material without extra effort. So I was having to edit stuff out and worry a lot about time. I guess last year Soundcloud did actually introduce some podcasting features, so in the next little bit I'll maybe submit the recaps to iTunes so people can access them that way. I mainly need a better profile picture for the page. I cannot emphasize my laziness enough, though. Right now I have this great system of record, upload, post.
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Jan 11, 2016 21:22
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Chairchucker posted:Sitting Here, a song please. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tRcPA7Fzebw
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Jan 12, 2016 06:25
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BTW I will be assigning exclusively Bowie songs, hit me up for a flashrule if you want to get your Bowie on
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Jan 12, 2016 06:36
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crabrock posted:i woulda judged this week, but since it's all fulled up, i gotsta go in. <3 Bowie. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l4fFL4uU_RE
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Jan 12, 2016 06:39
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Thranguy posted:In, and Bowie me Sittinghere. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-m30aaI5Yf8
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Jan 12, 2016 06:50
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crabrock posted:i woulda judged this week, but since it's all fulled up, i gotsta go in. <3 Bowie. Actually, I'm having a fit of caprice. Crabrock you can either do this song or "Lazarus" from Blackstar. You pick, IDK i like both and it's causing me a lot of conflict right now Sitting Here fucked around with this message at 10:11 on Jan 12, 2016 |
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Jan 12, 2016 06:55
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Entenzahn posted:in https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HvfhObm14Oc
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Jan 12, 2016 09:59
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Bleusman posted:In! I'll take a Bowie song, Sitting Here. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v--IqqusnNQ Lazy Beggar posted:In and a song please, Sitting Here. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LaT6oZOW0vo Jeza posted:Wrote bad story, now will write good story. In with a Bowie if you please. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HSH--SJKVQQ Ceighk posted:In with some Bowie, please! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QgPUxjQOk-w
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Jan 12, 2016 20:18
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WeLandedOnTheMoon! posted:I wouldn't mind a bit of both tbh. Twist or Curlingiron will give you one when they're about, don't worry.
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Jan 12, 2016 21:02
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CaligulaKangaroo posted:In. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U16Xg_rQZkA
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Jan 12, 2016 21:36
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docbeard posted:In with a https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dE4Mu_cZcIA
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Jan 12, 2016 21:37
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Masonity posted:After running out of time last week and basically spewing out something that would have struggled in a benny the snake week, it's only right I throw my hat back in the ring. Nothing to lose now! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gPVrFIP0CMs
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Jan 13, 2016 00:44
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ghost crow posted:I'm in with a https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tgcc5V9Hu3g sebmojo posted:IN, with I'm Deranged I was supposed to relentlessly own you for picking your song like some sort of Mr. Fancy Pants but actually I'll give this a pass.
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Jan 13, 2016 04:33
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SkaAndScreenplays posted:In https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JiN32EkbqT8
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Jan 13, 2016 09:24
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If anyone is on the fence about signing up and wants a Bowie song, I have preselected a few. First come, first served. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q2y9inP4CqE https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U-AMec7yr7c ^^^I REALLY want someone to do this one so you will get brownie points from me if you grab and write something cool. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9Gy94N_mcWs ^^^ No lyrics so this is like the double black diamond of prompt songs but it's v good https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k1Z2pk5J9Ng
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Jan 15, 2016 10:07
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Hey goons! The judges will be reading and reacting to your stories LIVE AND IN COLOR this Sunday. So if you need a bit of incentive to not procrastinate until the deadline, this is it. If you want to watch the stream, please be in #Thunderdome around 6PM PST for the link. We will be reading in Judgmode, meaning we won't know who's who, so it should be a ton of fun.
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Jan 16, 2016 06:26
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Spectres of Thrangism brawl judgment Thranguy Your story was the more traditional of the two. It had an easily identifiable arc and its primary characters had distinct motivations. You definitely went all out with the food; not only did you make it central to your conflict, you were pretty lavish with the details. You succeeded in making me hungry. There were some clever things that could've been really clever things. I liked the thing with the "feast of the whole"; the way you worked it into the eating contest and then the multi-layered revenge plot was good. I would compare it to ASoFaI or something, but we're all sick of that series so I won't. The problem, I think, is that Charlotte didn't have enough screen time. She's mentioned in passing, but all of the important info about her character's motivations is kind of crammed into the end. I hate to say it, but you could've cut down on some of delectable feasting. I don't know if Charlotte's betrayal needed to be foreshadowed, per se, but she needed to be more of an active character in the story. Spectres This was...abstract. Your protagonist felt truly alien; unfortunately, so did her motivations. The frustrating thing, is I was almost with you. Almost. Like, there are so many individual elements of this story that I really love. The way you had this alien being kind of materialize into the body/life of a human girl was really good. Like, that transition from the surreal to the mundane was good enough that I actually smiled while I was reading it. While I didn't quite understand all of the things happening in the story, I felt sympathy for the character. Like, the imagery in this is so loving vague (very cool, but vague), but there's this relatable sense of alienation. Everyone else is cool with their blood (BTW I really like how you combine your sort of casual voice with your narrative voice), and they're existing in this dream sea with pleasant abandon. They frolic around in shallow places, concerning themselves with frivolous thoughts and social status. The scene where she goes down into the depths is ambiguous. It seems like kind of a good thing for the protagonist; you get the sense that the creatures who live down there communicate more...meaningfully? But the protagonist somehow contaminates the space by bringing her doubts and surface-level concerns with her. She finds herself momentarily in the body of a human girl who's disappointed her family. That's probably my favorite bit of the whole story. There's not much in the way of context, but it's a compelling scene. It's kind of a nice oasis in the middle of all this abstraction. So here's the thing, Spectres. I believe in your writing like, hardcore. I think you have all these huge ideas, and I think you are steadily finding ways to ground them in concrete, relatable stories. I want to swim in oceans of pure meaning and memetic sharing with you. And I think you are well on your way there. This story didn't quite give me enough to grab onto; other than the scene at the dinner table, I felt a little bit lost. I was trying to describe my feelings about your writing to another domer today, and it's like, I feel like I'm watching a really really good film with an awesome soundtrack, but the picture is out of focus. You dig? But you are slowly turning those knobs, and the picture is getting clearer. I feel like, in a couple years (maybe sooner!), you will probably be a powerhouse of a writer. The Verdict Ultimately, this brawl comes down to clarity versus ideas. I think Thranguy told the more deliberate, clear story, and so the brawl victory goes to him. But I was pleasantly surprised by the very distinct, different ways you addressed the prompt, which wasn't the easiest prompt I could've given. Sitting Here fucked around with this message at 02:25 on Jan 17, 2016 |
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Jan 17, 2016 02:15
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Livecrits are go! See #Thunderdome for the link
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Jan 18, 2016 03:20
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In and my sport is capture the flag 
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Jan 20, 2016 02:15
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God Over Djinn posted:flash rule: Sitting Here, who joined team MER only to (attempt to) kick Ironic Twist's rear end, and who is known to dip his pigtails into her inkwell from time to time if you get what i'm sayin', will also be subject to this flash rule. Plus more flash rules for anybody else who already has a nemesis in mind, although reasonable requests will be happily accommodated. Twist's best quality is how easy it is to own him tbh
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Jan 20, 2016 03:04
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All WINNERS (merman) please report to #TeamMermans
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Jan 20, 2016 05:01
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Sitting Here posted:Okay. You know what. I've clearly got a lot of septic fiction to work out of my system, but it would still smell like roses next to anything this gaggle of baby-fisted jokers could possibly inflict on the world. Mercedes posted:
I rest my case.
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Jan 20, 2016 10:09
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blackmarketlimb posted:Crabrock was going to beat the poo poo out of a Howitzer. woah you doxxed crabrock
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Jan 22, 2016 07:48
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Take my opponent's words... ...and give them a really fair, thoughtful read, cause I'm sure we're all doing our best out here 
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Jan 24, 2016 07:02
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Jan 24, 2016 07:43
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Flag-Rush 1226 words (+33 from Grizzled Patriarch) Raul clenched his fists through the first two rounds of the Olympic capture the flag finals. By round three, when it was his turn to take the field, his palms had matching rows of bloody crescents from his fingernails. The Americans were ahead, 1-0. Raul’s teammates had been able to beat the US back in the first round, resulting in a draw. Round two barely lasted ten minutes; the US team had cut through their defensive formations like a hot meat cleaver through clarified butter. Raul stood in the Syrenian staging area with his cadre. Claudia was beside him, her eyes hard. The muscles in her neck and jaw flexed. There was the faint sound of grinding teeth. Without looking at Raul, she said, “We’re hosed.” “We’re gonna bring it back. We have to,” Raul said. He just wanted to be out on the field, where there wasn’t time for speculation or anxiety. The physical need for victory was basically more than he could comprehend. It ballooned outward from somewhere deep in his torso, a desire so visceral and tangible that surely it was going to explode out of him and send shards of his ribcage flying like splinters into the skin of everyone around him. He noticed himself breathing heavily and stopped. “You should’ve been in round one,” Claudia said. Now she was eyeing him sidelong. “We sent out our solid closers too early. Jamil. Sayyid. Babette. No loving idea why Coach put you in prime time.” “You’re trying to blame me for losing a game we haven’t even played yet,” Raul said flatly. The rest of the cadre was dead silent around them. They were all wearing the colors of the Syrenian flag--all black with a slash of sky blue and sea green--but the cohesion of the cadre was slipping. Their faces were closed. Everyone was holed up in their own private mental territories, guarding flags of hope or fear or despair. “Look,” he said. “The Americans, they caught us unawares last time. But they know they can’t pull that off twice. Hey!” He clapped his hands over his head. “Listen to me. They’re expecting us to be cautious, defensive. So let’s say gently caress the playbook and go for an all-out blitz. Every single player in this room going after that red white and blue like it’s the gold medal itself.” Murmurs from the rest of the cadre, most of them in agreeance. Claudia crossed her arms and smiled a bitter half-smile. “You’re dead set on running our chances into the ground, huh?” “You think you want this more than me?” Raul said. They were standing nose to nose before he realized what was happening. Claudia didn’t move or flinch, and her expression was neutral except for the slightest twinkle of mischief in her eyes. “I sure hope not,” she said. A klaxon went off and the door to the arena slid up and open. The air was warm and the sky was bright. The Arkansan autumn smelled strange, the way that other people’s houses smell strange. The capture the flag arena was a walled-in square mile of artificially enlivened terrain. There were thick forests, man made creeks and ponds, and even a few hillsides covered in imported scree. The Syrenian flag fluttered weakly at the top of one such hillside. Raul glared at it. The wind picked up, teasing the flag out to its full length. That’s better. He started to run. Half a beat later, he heard footsteps behind him. A maniacal grin spread across his face and air whistled through his teeth as he lead the Syrenians straight into the heart of American territory. Claudia was like an avenging angel on the CTF field. Her black ponytail streamed out behind her as she lept fallen logs, dodged confused Americans, and sent more than a few members of the US team to the penalty box. And where she could not be, there was Raul. Those she could not tag were tagged by Raul. They carved their way through the thick membrane of the American defense, until they found themselves alone in a quiet, unpatrolled patch of forest. “Let’s take a breath and have a think,” Claudia said, leaning against a nearby tree that Raul didn’t have a name for. Its bark was white, almost silver, with deep gashes of black across its skin. Claudia lifted up her right leg, massaged her calf, and winced. “I can’t loving believe we made it this--are you okay?” The wince didn’t escape Raul’s notice, and he frowned at her. “Yeah, it’s whatever,” she said. She planted both feet on the ground, hopped up and down. “See?” There was the sound of running feet somewhere nearby, exclamations in English and Syrenian. “Their flag can’t be more than a hundred meters north of here,” Claudia said. “We go. Now.” She and Raul charged through the woods, side by side; if the honor of Syrena was a knife, they were its tip. For one bounding moment, Raul felt like a demon of the Wild Hunt, or a god of the wind. Then the forest gave way to an open field, and the Americans were on them. The US flag waved insolently from the top of its mound. Raul could hear the collective breath of the US team like a storm behind him, could almost feel their hands snatching for him, though he didn’t chance a look back over his shoulder. Claudia pulled ever so slightly ahead of him. Raul made a decision. He slowed down almost imperceptibly, then veered left. He heard Claudia shout something, but it was too late, the thing was done. Three Americans, high on the chase, followed his new trajectory, leaving two on Claudia’s tail. He turned his head, just enough that he could see Claudia in his periphery, her strides almost preternaturally long, hurtling toward the flag like a bullet in black, green, and blue. He turned his head just enough that he missed the sixth American, directly in his path. He collided with the man, and then the US cadre was on him, literally on him, pinning him down with their bodies like they were playing American football. And through the tangle of their limbs he saw Claudia, no more than ten meters from the US flag, saw her right leg give out, saw her hit the rocky dirt face-first at full speed, saw the two Americans overtake her like cheetahs running down their kill. Moments later, a klaxon rang out, announcing a US victory. The Americans who’d tackled Raul got up slowly, backed away from him as though he were some wild animal. They didn’t cheer or congratulate each other, didn’t even look like they’d fully registered their own victory. Raul’s ribs didn’t explode. The yearning for victory inside of him simply snuffed out, fragile as a candle flame. He pushed himself onto his hands and knees and looked across the field at Claudia, who’d managed to pull herself into a seated position. Their eyes met, just for a moment, and shared a look like two ex-lovers who’ve just glimpsed each other aboard a crowded train. She shook her head sharply and looked away. Raul flopped over onto his back and looked up into the wide Arkansan sky, and it seemed to him that there was nothing in the world but blue.
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Jan 25, 2016 06:31
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