|
MrFlibble posted:Thank you for the crit sebmojo. This went from a hot mess to something really pretty good, and since thunderdome is about attempted improvement you are a winner in my book, even if crabrock gives you the losertar. Still no title though.
|
#
?
Jun 2, 2013 10:41
|
|
|
|
| # ? Apr 16, 2024 12:52 |
|
|
Erogenous Beef posted:Muffin has accepted How Beloved Baby Rhino Fell into Despair; or, Sadness is a Blessing Where the rays of the sun shone the brightest and where the raindrops fell the least, there lived baby rhino in those so rare spots of the Borneo rainforests. There he slept and ate and played, child of his momma, the nicest old rhino you and I know, and all the rainforest knew her by baby rhino momma’s name. Shall I call baby rhino the sweetest thing? O, how I hope! Shall I call baby rhino the politest of all baby animals? O, how I wish! There are so many kind, nice and pretty words I would describe baby rhino, but alas, I am no liar, and I can’t, can’t, how I wish I could! For the momma of baby rhino, she was also the loveliest old rhino -- how much love she gave to baby rhino, perhaps just as much as how your own momma loves you! Once I asked her, “O momma of baby rhino, how much do you love your baby rhino?” and she answered, so sweetly and so gracefully, “I love him more than I love myself, and I will make him the happiest rhino of all Borneo, and allow neither darkness nor despair to enter his tiny beating heart.” And baby rhino’s momma she kept to her word, and how baby rhino he was, o, the happiest little rhino you know! He was given the finest of fruits and leaves to chew and chomp on, and his little bed was adorned with the finest feathers and shadiest leaves his momma could find. But o, the happiest little rhino you know, he too was the most spoilt little rhino you know! All baby rhino wanted, his momma would bring him with neither complaint nor scold. Never had baby rhino’s momma said to him “No!” nor had she said to him “Enough!”. How his insatiable wants would never be satiated! Baby rhino would yell at his long-armed uncle Orangutan for the ripest of bananas, and momma would make him jump to the highest trees. Baby rhino would scream at his aunt Tapir for the fattest of ant hives, and momma would make her dig underneath the thickest roots. Still baby rhino -- beloved little thing -- once he got what he wanted, he would still scream and yell. “Too slow!” said he. “Too little!” said he.  One quiet evening, baby rhino woke up in his little nest. “Food, food!” he cried, as he always did. But o beloved baby rhino, where had your momma gone to? Look for yourself outside your nest, outside your sweet, comfortable home, and you should see that she was nowhere to be found. Baby rhino hopped out, “food, food!” cried him still. But all that answered him were pretty, chatty birdsong, and spots of sunlight shining between the leaves. Baby rhino’s stomach made a whimper, and he walked to see his aunts and uncles and cousins for food. But o, baby rhino, he did not know how tired they grew of him! They were all not in, they were all just going out, and for cousin peacock, she was having her feathers pruned. Whimpered still did baby rhino’s stomach, and he walked away from their homes with his tiny huffs, letting his nose guide him. Sniffed did little rhino, and o! What unearthly smell was this? Baby rhino, who was blessed to never know terrible odours, o how intrigued was his curiosity! Ran he guided by the smell, and he stopped before a flower. And what a flower, dear astute reader! It was taller, much taller than baby rhino, leaflets of purple and green and white, surrounding a fat green stalk reaching out to the sky. It looked unlovely and foul, perhaps even more than its smell, like fruits left uneaten in the sun! “Sob sob sob,” the flower sobbed. “Who are you?” asked baby rhino. “What are you saying?” “I am crying!” the flower said. “For I have no happiness in my life!” “How do you not have so?” asked baby rhino. “Are you not blooming, and do flowers not find it joyful?” “Tall I may be, towering I may be,” the flower said. “But the bloom of I, corpse flower, is no joy! For I am terrible in look and smell, and soon it shall be no more, not for years and years to come!” Baby rhino laughed. “How silly!” he said. “Could you not ask your momma to give you your pretty looks, and a sweet odour, and blooms everyday?” “I do not have a momma to give me so! I have nobody, nobody, nobody!” “But everybody has a momma!” Baby rhino protested. “I have a momma who brings me everything!” “What if you do not have a momma anymore?” asked the flower. Baby rhino hopped back. “Momma would not leave? Momma loves me!” “What if she can’t come back to you?” Baby rhino, o what feeling was this, when happiness has escaped his life? Sadness! O such sadness of not having momma, such sadness of not having the life he once had! Sadness, like the sharpest and cruelest of knives, twisted and turned itself into little rhino’s heart! Baby rhino, o how fast and how swift he ran! Would momma no longer bring him fruit and leaves? Would momma no longer hug him to sleep? Would momma no longer comfort him with her large horn? He cried for momma, “Momma!” but momma did not answer. How little rhino, how he seemed to be the smallest thing in the whole wide rainforest! How the birdsongs, so pretty and chatty and melodic, now only reminded him that his problems were his own! How the plants grew without caring about the little rhino, how the animals ate and slept without caring about the little rhino, how the sun rose and set and the stars twinkled and dimmed, all without caring about the little rhino! O, beloved little rhino, how low have you fallen! Crawl, crawl, crawl you did under the comfort of the large, shady fallen banana leaves! Did you let darkness be your only friend? Did you retreat into your own world and allowed no one in? Did you think, think, think about all the thoughts you never thought you have had, did you despair and fear and agonise, did you feel yourself so helpless and useless? O, cry and weep and tear, scream and shriek and yell, which would you choose, o saddest little rhino?  Saddest little rhino! All day and all night he mourned his old life, when, ah, a miracle! Child of his momma looked up to a sound, and beneath the pale moon light was momma. “Momma!” Baby rhino cried and hugged her. “I thought you have left me” “Silly baby rhino,” said baby rhino’s momma. “I was just tending to your cousin peacock, who, foolish she, pruned her feathers too close to the rays of the sun and nearly had them all burnt.” And momma, she told baby rhino the story of silly cousin peacock, until he closed his eyes and slept. And momma, though she did not know why, saw that baby rhino had not tantrumed for what he wanted. And perhaps, perhaps, baby rhino, in being for so short a time a saddest little rhino, would he value more of the happiness of his life! And that shall we see, when we return to baby rhino and his momma. For now it’s time for other stories, and if you shall so enquire, perhaps I shall regale you of cousin peacock, and her feathers of flame and damnation. ---- Cultural references: 1. The Malaysian New Economic Policy is a major political point in the 2013 Malaysian elections - the policy gives more economic rights to "bumiputeras"/Malays & indigenous races, and there has been controversy due to people suggesting it to be removed due to it causing them to be complacent and entitled. 2. This is the Corpse Flower ---- NOTE: Muffin just mentioned on IRC he's facing some real life difficulties and I'm ok with the brawl being longer or not happening. Either way, I'm happy for Beef (and/or anyone else interested) to crit this. I've been out of the writing game for way too long. The Saddest Rhino fucked around with this message at 11:54 on Jun 2, 2013 |
|
#
?
Jun 2, 2013 11:28
|
|
|
The Saddest Rhino posted:NOTE: Muffin just mentioned on IRC he's facing some real life difficulties and I'm ok with the brawl being longer or not happening. Either way, I'm happy for Beef (and/or anyone else interested) to crit this. I've been out of the writing game for way too long. If you're cool with an extension, I'm cool with an extension. Also, you illustrated. 
|
|
#
?
Jun 2, 2013 12:00
|
|
|
14 hours left to submit!
|
|
#
?
Jun 2, 2013 15:11
|
|
|
quote:In the Dancing Plague of 1518 a woman (and eventually a league of 400 people) uncontrollably danced for a month causing dozens of participants to die of stroke and exhaustion. The reason for this occurrence is still unclear. Only the Dance (1084 words) Days before, I heard whispers exchanged that a woman danced under the spell of God Almighty, and that many rose to follow her. An odd tale, but I mouthed a prayer as I had heard it. How could so many be led astray? My heart grew sour with pity. It was a hot afternoon when they came to our town. A large throng funneled through the gates, driving straight into the heart of our town, unannounced and without fanfare. Their formation was even and orderly, even if their movements were not. In all the years of my life, I could not have defined their march as dancing. They shambled like monsters out to scare children, their bodies so frighteningly limber as if their bones had turned into supple branches. Their deluded minds screamed of an audience to something horrific. Something beyond even God's love. Would they stay, or pass through? I held my breath, squinting for the leader. I saw her, the woman they called Frau Troffea. A witch, if you could. Whatever former beauty she carried had been consumed by her endless exertion, weeks of dancing laying waste to her body. I wondered how one could go on without food or water or rest, but it seemed that the Devil himself held her tight to his bosom. Her eyes were ablaze, and her shrunken frame moved with fervor. She seemed to eclipse her followers in the manner that she carried herself. Faithless. Boundless. Free. I noticed that her followers could barely follow her movements, some members collapsing as if spell on them had been lifted. The poor, fallen souls lay still on the dirt, their friends sparing nary a glance as they traipsed around their erstwhile companions. I dashed to the trail of unmoving bodies and caught the arm of a straggler along the way. He had frozen in mid-step and, upon realizing what he had been doing up until now, fled his companions howling. "You--what in God's name is this?" I asked. "Where she goes, I cannot follow anymore," the man wailed, trembling like a sinner on Judgment Day. His body was slick with perspiration, his limp weight pulling at my grip. "How in Heaven did she coerce you to this... madness?" I called after him. "You call this madness?" The man's eyes bulged. "She is a prophet, preaching the Word with her dance! But I can only catch a fleeting glimpse of Him, whom she follows!" "Take him to the church and give him something to drink," I told a man standing by. He dragged the exhausted man to shelter. I left him in the care of other men. I scrambled to inspect the others, and the townspeople followed my example. A man of God should lead his flock. "This one is dead, Father," the tanner, whom I knew as Klaus, declared. "Merciful Christ," I said. Maybe some of these people could still be saved. I went to help another. She was a young girl, not even of childbearing age. When I touched her forehead, she spasmed and pointed at the direction of the dancing crowd, which had been creeping away in their unfathomable movement. "The Saviour... we'd been following him. Said he'd lead us to Heaven if we danced as he did. But it's Frau Troffea who could see Him most clearly." Nonsense, I would have said. But saving this child's life was more important than correcting her of heresy. I shook my head and prayed over the girl. "Give everyone something to drink," I cried through the din. "They are dying of thirst!" My fellow helpers scampered to their homes, returning with wine and beer and cider. As those who still lived were taken to the church, I stood with a prayer on my lips. I must get to Frau Troffea--I must convince her to stop leading these people astray. Not even the town guards had intervened, fearful that the Devil would strike them down if they challenged the wayward dancers. I wove deep into the slow-moving crowd, careful not to disrupt their path. That was when I saw him. He bore no resemblance to Christ, with his short stature and dark skin. He was dancing like I had seen no man do. Every fiber of his person swayed to an imaginary beat, feet deftly balancing him even as he twirled in place. "Please!" Somehow I knew this man was responsible. Even if he was the Devil himself, I shall not fear. "Make them stop!" My pleas seemed to have reached his ears, for he stopped. He gave me a roguish grin and spoke. I did not understand immediately, but the question was clear-- Do you want to dance? "No!" I said. "For the love of--" It's easy. Let me show you. And he started again. There was no rhyme or rhythm to it, as far as I could tell. He swung his arms in an arc, craned his head in angles, and swept his legs over and around each other. Slowly, I began to see a pattern. It was as if Heaven guided a ray of light into my lowly soul and gifted me understanding. My foot twitched. My mouth tried to scream in protest, but my conviction broke down, replaced by the warmth of acceptance. Strange music crept into my mind, the crisp pattern of drums and a low melodic thrum accompanying a voice that was primal, passionate, angelic. Before I knew it, I had joined them. They called him Saviour. I began to understand why. For did it matter what countenance the Lord wore on Earth? I believed. Frau Troffea's own dance was but a copy, a dull reflection of true glory. I made my place in the crowd, and began to surpass everyone. My steps astonishing my dancing companions, whose kinetic praises sounded hollow. One dropped to his knees. "A priest! A priest is with us! He must be Saint Vitus himself!" I heard someone call my name from afar, imploring me to stop. My joints creaked. There was no pain--if anything I felt even stronger. I ignored everything else, locked my eyes on the dancing Saviour whom Frau Troffea merely followed. Perspiration dripped from all pores of my body. Here I am, moisture leaving my body in droves, when I had tried to slake the thirst of many. But I have never felt free. Soon I shall be dancing beside Christ, who has come to Earth once more. Soon I shall know only the dance.
|
|
#
?
Jun 2, 2013 16:24
|
|
|
Is it ok to give feedback/crits before the deadline?
|
|
#
?
Jun 2, 2013 16:39
|
|
|
Go ahead, people do it all the time.
|
|
#
?
Jun 2, 2013 16:43
|
|
|
disclaimer: i was often called a harsh critiquer, though I do try to keep my own frustrations as a writer away from my criticisms. i also try to avoid strictly stylistic suggestions/revisions. Phil Moscowitz posted:Thirst and Justice Overall I was impressed with the efficiency and cleanness of the prose and mostly the voice of the narrator. There were a few tics here and there that threw me out of it, and I would have much preferred a more clear sense of why our narrator's actions made him to be executed. I also think just splitting up that last leviathan of a paragraph would go a long way towards some of that being clear; the reveal that the narrator told them (falsely?) that he was on the municipal council gets absolutely buried under all that other stuff. Also you have a clear command of believable dialogue which is incredibly difficult for most writers to do, so well-done on that. I'll try to do a few more of these before the day's out! Chillmatic fucked around with this message at 17:31 on Jun 2, 2013 |
|
#
?
Jun 2, 2013 17:28
|
|
|
Dead First (722 words) (Based on the death of Frank Hayes during a Belmont Park steeplechase in 1923.) "Please, Miss Frayling," I'd said. "I can win the purse for you." That was a hair's breadth from a goddamned lie, and she'd known it too. Sweet Kiss, win anything? The mare had never held a lead for more than five seconds with real jocks on her back. And there I'd been, her exercise rider, claiming I could do more with her. Miss Frayling hadn't bought it. The woman wasn't a fool. But she could be a softie from time to time. So instead of leading Kiss to the starting barrier on a calm old pony, I sat in her saddle and let the groom Wilkins take us up. Wilkins grinned so wide at me I could see all the gaps where he'd lost teeth. "You gonna fall off on a jump and break a hip, old man!" the kid chortled, and I gave him a tight smile. Kiss tossed her head, her neck nearly black with damp already. Couldn't blame her: the sun roasted us. Couldn't join her: after hours of sweating weight off my body, I didn't have moisture left to lose. Thirty-five years old. A hundred and forty-five pounds on a normal day. Miss Frayling was a fool, but she had nothing on me. Didn't matter. My smile grew as I slapped Kiss on her shoulder and waved Wilkins away. "I got a buck on you, Frankie," he confided before he went. We were a whole drat outfit of softies. My eyes fixed on the wire just ahead. The horse to our right moved into place, then the one past him. If that plug by the rail would settle down and stop showing his rear end-- He did. The bell rang; the wire flew up, and Kiss broke in the middle of the pack, just where we wanted to be. I kept the reins wound tight around my hands on the run to the first jump, then gave her the freedom she needed to launch us over the evergreen brush that swept dust from her belly. A pair of metal shoes flashed an inch from her nose. My heart lifted as she rose, the pulse in my throat fit to choke me, and I gripped the reins hard again on landing 'til she fought me and I let up just a hair. Seven jumps in, I loosened my hold. "Now, baby, now," I chanted, like she could hear me through all that living thunder, but maybe she did since she picked up her feet as we slid to the outside. One after another the other horses fell back; only Gimme beat us to the ninth jump, the favorite, the bettors' darling. I waved my whip in front of Kiss's right eye. Her hooves out-pounded the drum in my chest, and we were in front! Three more fences, half a mile yet to run, I couldn't feel the stirrups or the reins in my hands or see through the dirt on my goggles. I screamed, "Come on!" and she ran, ran, flew toward the tenth fence--swerved--my heart jumped-- I guess that'd be when I died. My sight came back as Kiss landed true, clearer than it had ever been. So clear, in fact, I might not have been wearing goggles at all. I leaned forward, kneading her neck with my hands, never mind that my fingers slipped through her flesh. "Come on," I said so softly that no human ear would have heard it. And she ran on for me. We drove past the finish line together. The crowd in the stands opened its mouths, waved its arms, but her hooves were all I heard. I tried to take the reins again, which is when I noticed they were tangled around a slack, heavy hand that no longer belonged to me. Sweet Kiss slowed on her own, exhausted in a way I'd never be again. I stroked her straggling mane. She lifted her head, one ear swiveling backward: she knew me still. The last sight I had on Earth was poor Miss Frayling walking over to congratulate me. I'm not sorry I missed seeing her face when she found a corpse on her horse--at least I kept my word to her. It's funny how much that means to me, even where I've gone.
|
|
#
?
Jun 2, 2013 17:39
|
|
|
Chillmatic posted:I'll try to do a few more of these before the day's out! Hey, do you mind doing mine? I'm curious what people thought of it and you critiqued that last one pretty well. It's at the bottom of page 75.
|
|
#
?
Jun 2, 2013 17:41
|
|
|
PotatoManJack posted:Got inspired, and put this together pretty quickly. Here's to a first time in Thunderdome. I think, I think I may understand what you were going for here, but you did not make it easy on me. The number one, bottom-line suggestion I have for you is to read more of your favorite books and observe the rhythm and structure of prose. You write exactly like you talk; it's very obvious and also very difficult for your reader to digest and tolerate. Clean up your usage of cliches and cut back on your conversational tics and you could produce some pretty decent stuff in a hurry. Last comment: changes in POV mid-story are confusing and best never done. Unless of course you're going for a specific effect. But my impression from reading this was that you became more emotional/angry as it progressed and so you began talking/writing to yourself. It happens, it's not a huge deal, but you ought to be able to catch and remove that stuff on revision. Chillmatic fucked around with this message at 18:04 on Jun 2, 2013 |
|
#
?
Jun 2, 2013 18:01
|
|
|
Ceighk posted:Hey, do you mind doing mine? I'm curious what people thought of it and you critiqued that last one pretty well. It's at the bottom of page 75. Sure. Ceighk posted:
I don't know the original myth of this story, and maybe that would've helped, but i was really let down by how this progressed. It felt to me as though you spent a lot of time on the first few paragraphs and then got into a big ol' hurry to finish. Nothing happens. The story doesn't go anywhere. At the end pretty much everything is the same as it was at the beginning. That's my single biggest complaint other than the dialogue. And speaking of which: Oh, man. This dialogue. It's really bad, my friend. You write excellent prose so I know there's hope for you, but you really need to rethink your approach to writing effective dialogue, if indeed you even have a deliberate approach at all. Right now it seems that you just throw some stuff out there--maybe the first thing in your head--and then don't bother to revise later. Read your favorite books, watch your favorite movies and TV shows, and pay careful attention as to how dialogue is used. Dialogue should always reveal character and/or plot. There's literally no other reason on earth for it to ever do anything else. Because using it for anything else is just wasting your reader's time. Work on that, and work on ensuring that your stories mean something. Things should be different at the end than they were from the beginning. And if you want to break that rule, you're of course always able to do that, but it should be for a very deliberate, specific reason. Chillmatic fucked around with this message at 18:43 on Jun 2, 2013 |
|
#
?
Jun 2, 2013 18:37
|
|
|
quote:892: Sigurd the Mighty of Orkney strapped the head of his defeated foe, Máel Brigte, to his horse's saddle. The teeth of the head grazed against his leg as he rode, causing a fatal infection. A Fool’s Grin. 718 words Before you cut off my leg, let me tell you what happened. When the sun came up yesterday morning, my soldiers and I were about to battle a fool’s army of exiled bandits and thieves. “Mael the Bucktooth is a motherless bastard!” I shouted. “We’ll rip his men apart! I’ll have his head spiked on my castle wall!” My men roared and hoisted their weapons in the air. We charged his army of bandits through the rain, and attacked without mercy. This wasn’t a battle, it was a slaughter. My soldiers dragged Mael to his knees while the carnage continued. As each of his soldiers was cut down, we beheaded them, throwing bodies into one pile, and heads in another. When we finished taking apart his army I turned to Mael and said, “Bucktooth, your head will be a warning to all others on this island! I’m going to cut it off and strap it to my saddle. When we ride inland everyone will see your gaping maw and cry out in fear.” I told him to stop weeping like a child. I wiped my bloody axe with a rag, and threw it at him, telling him to wipe away his tears. He tried, but instead smeared the blood across his face. Spitting at my feet he said, “You think this is the end of me? You’re wrong. I’ll come back and drag you with me to hell. Your men won’t help you, you’ll be dead before you make it home.” I laughed, raised my axe and took off his head with one swing. As it spun in the air, I grabbed it and raised it to the sky. My men roared in victory. I tied his filthy head to my saddle, and I told my men do the same with the other heads. We mounted up and rode inland, stopping at every settlement. Mael’s head would bounce around on his tether. His teeth scratched my leg like tree branches. I thought nothing of it; a fool’s grin couldn’t harm me! When we arrived in a town I’d shout, “Behold! Your hideous leader is dead! This land belongs to the vikings now!” Children ran in fear, women hid their faces, and men trembled. By nightfall we set up camp. When I laid down, I couldn’t stop scratching at the place where Mael had marked me. It felt like I’d ridden through a forest of thorns. I awoke this morning to find my leg oozing pus, and hot to the touch. I limped to my horse, and looked at Mael’s head. His twisted grin was a mess of crooked teeth and blood. His face was covered with dried bloody streaks, except for around his mouth. That moist blood was mine. We mounted up and rode fast for my ship. That bastard’s teeth continued scratching my leg until I cut loose his head, letting it roll away into the bushes. When we arrived back at the ship, I fell into my bed exhausted. In my dreams Mael’s head chased me, laughing. No matter how fast I ran, he was always there. One of my men shook me awake, saying I was screaming in my sleep. Looking around the room I saw Mael’s head on the table across from my bed! He’d followed me! I couldn’t look away from him as I laid there, shivering. Pulling back my covers revealed the smell from the rancid meat of my wound. The sheets were soaked with pus and sweat. There were black lines on my leg, running from the mark towards my heart. I shouted to get rid of the head! I told them to find you and bring you here immediately. It was that fool’s grin. Don’t you see? His spirit pierced my leg and now he’s in me, killing me. I told my men to get you because you’re the cook. Your delicate skill with a blade would allow you to take the leg without making a mess. Did I fall asleep just now? My head is swimming with fever and I can’t tell what’s real and what’s not. But, now that I’ve told you my tale, I’m afraid it’s too late to save me. I’m already dead, I know it! His grin is the death of me. magnificent7 fucked around with this message at 23:17 on Jun 2, 2013 |
|
#
?
Jun 2, 2013 22:33
|
|
|
First crit.MrFlibble posted:Thank you for the crit sebmojo. Overall: Not terrible, definite improvement over the original. But you use way too many words and it slows the pace of the story. It should feel panicked and frenetic. Right now it's tedious and wooden. Work on cutting as many words as possible. Just go through your prose and think to yourself: "Do I need this word? Probably not." Then cut it.
|
|
#
?
Jun 2, 2013 23:34
|
|
|
Noah posted:New Dawn Finally just read this, and it's hilarious to me that we both had dudes rubbing silvery stuff on their gums. Not bad story, either. I'd be interested to see more from that setting.
|
|
#
?
Jun 2, 2013 23:42
|
|
|
Martello posted:First crit. Thank you for your critique. (I'm kicking myself about the it's thing, I went over the document three or four times during editing and I still managed to miss it multiple times)
|
|
#
?
Jun 2, 2013 23:43
|
|
|
i will release my crits after submission deadline.
|
|
#
?
Jun 2, 2013 23:51
|
|
|
This is my first Thunderdome so please, by all means, give me everything you got. I took an honest whack at it so this is representative of where I'm at (And while I think it's good for where I'm at, where I'm at is not good). ----- Title - A Meal Fit for a King Subject - ADOLF FREDERICK, LATE KING OF SWEDEN quote:The king died on 12 February 1771 after having consumed a meal consisting of lobster, caviar, sauerkraut, kippers and champagne, which was topped off with 14 servings of his favourite dessert: semla served in a bowl of hot milk.[1] He is thus remembered by Swedish school children as "the king who ate himself to death."[2] Word Count - 679 I am dying. I lay here recounting this evening’s spectacle to my most trusted and loyal attendant. He sits bedside continuing to listen dutifully. No one would dare tell him of what transpired (for reasons best left unsaid). But as he has been loyal to me to all these years and has shown genuine kindness to my family, I believe he is entitled to the glorious tale of my undoing. “That’s when I felt it, all four inches of lobster tail ease into my mouth. Never before has lobster been so delicious! I remember savoring every ounce of it, slick with butter. I remember the pain of gulping it down,” I said. "But my king, why did you not stop if it hurt you so?" I recall my fingers squeezing a napkin tightly as I surveyed the table of caviar, sauerkraut, smoked herring and, yes, even more lobster. While such pain may be too much to bear for some, it is a delight. It is something I want more of. I replied, “I was hesitant to continue at first, but then I closed my mouth around the first toast point and felt the delicate caviar explode against the roof of my mouth. I almost moaned at the heavenly flavor and feel! Rhythmically feeding in toast point after toast point I became more confident with every bite that tonight was to be the greatest meal of my life. “As the sweating set in, I realized that I would need ever more chilled champagne to steel my resolve. An ocean poured forth for guests and all at my command! Throughout the evening I would often find my fingers around a champagne flute as though by their own will. An endless stream of the finest kept me going, I’m afraid, until I was disturbingly aware of every square inch of my own stomach. “Were I not king, someone likely would have stopped me. Were I not king, my dinner sweats would have drawn alerting gazes as I dove into the smoked herring and sauerkraut. Were I any other man I would have stopped. But as I am not, I did not. I pressed on to ever greater heights of indulgence. “I had eaten past fullness and nausea. With the amount of champagne in my veins I had hardly considered stopping at all. I, in sheer hubris, ordered a dessert of 14 servings of spiced buns in hot milk and consumed them all. Even a king must submit to the laws of nature. “And it was thus I sealed my fate! I now lay here sweating profusely as the greatest meal of my life slowly works its way back up my neck. I can hardly move my body. I’ve tried to vomit but I can’t seem to anymore; there is something wrong. My legs are becoming numb. It is increasingly difficult to breathe. I have at several points had to cough up food to clear my airway, my friend." "My king, is there anything which can be done to ease your regrettable suffering?" “Though I will concede to having erred in dessert, I would have you know that I regret nothing. But if you would, take this down. I would like it recorded for posterity that I, King Adolf Frederick, have lived a life of indolent hedonism. I would like to express my admiration and eternal gratitude for the extraordinary support shown by the Swedish government and people in general, as well as to express total solidarity for those who have known the sufferings of glorious excess. I speak only of my death, as all other affairs are seen to by a living will. Should it become- should it- ” A painful shock ripples through my abdomen and I can’t breathe anymore. I can't move anymore. I can't so much as move my eyes. The lace canopy above is becoming an undifferentiated field of white. I can't... The sounds of distant wind and nearby words are gone. There's a sort of strained thumping and I think- I think someone may be shaking me. I... Edit: Fixed reference link. Edit 2: Changed Title. Accretionist fucked around with this message at 01:30 on Jun 3, 2013 |
|
#
?
Jun 2, 2013 23:58
|
|
|
ABID 1034 words I liked to listen to the lady upstairs while I worked with Abid. She talked on the phone all day, but I couldn’t hear the words: only a soft murmuring coming through the ceiling, and the tapping of her foot on the floor. It was comforting to think that she was nearby if anything went wrong. I wasn’t afraid of what I did; I was regularly vaccinated, everyone on the floor was. I had heard about the ‘66 outbreak here, back then they didn’t even have fan assisted safety cupboards. They did all the wet work out on a bench for Christ’s sake, it was hardly surprising that there was a release! It was the minor strain anyway, no one died. Every now and then she would stop, and I would miss her voice, filtering down. It's not just the safety aspect: it gets really lonely, working by yourself all day. I like being with people, I’m not one of those introverts people think of when you say you're a scientist. Unfortunately I didn’t have anyone else to work with because the boss scared people off pretty quick. He was having kittens making sure I got all the right results before the lab was shut down and I was working all hours. At least during the days I had someone keeping me company while I laboured. First I would take the virus out the freezer, and apply it to the petri culture dish. I incubated that overnight, then vacuumed the water layer away. That left smallpox, Variola major, the good stuff. This baby killed around half a billion people in the last 100 years. Then I would load it into a little bag and centrifuge it to separate the living from the dead. The problem was that the centrifuge I used was outside the safety of the smallpox room, in the open lab. There wasn’t enough room for two people in the pox lab, let alone a big centrifuge. So I made sure the bags were closed and securely tied, and changed my gown and gloves, and stepped out into the open lab with a little bag full of death. I didn’t like doing it like this, but the boss said that he didn’t have time to remodel the smallpox lab for my insecurities, and to just get on with it. On July 25th I was hungry, rushing to go to my first lunch with friends for a month. And I wanted to get away before the boss could come in and shout at me for not working that past Sunday. I put Abid in the centrifuge, shut the lid, and pressed go. Immediately I heard a tearing noise. The normal hiss from the ‘fuge purge tube was more like a baby gurgling. I had caught the string tie of the bag in the lid. When centrifuge started spinning it had ripped the cord and the little sack had burst open. The tube from the centrifuge went straight into a ventilation shaft going up through the building, so I wasn’t in any danger. I had been vaccinated only 9 months before, I wasn’t about to catch the pox. I wasn’t worried, but but my chest tightened and I remember gritting my teeth in anger. I hate making mistakes, and this might set my work back a term. Then the lady upstairs stopped talking, and started coughing. And I realised what the consequences might be. The virus that I nurtured, monitoring it’s temperature and feeding it regularly, could kill. In my head I saw people, everyone I knew, covered in sores and pimples, and it was my fault. I would be there to watch the world die. But then she started talking again. Through the next two weeks I didn’t sleep. Every night I relived that moment over and over. If only I had not rushed. If only I had checked the centrifuge. If only she had not been there - what was she doing talking on the phone all day everyday? I felt sick all the time, I couldn’t eat: my stomach was like a clenched fist inside me. I lay in the dark and wept, but I couldn’t tell my husband why I was crying. He probably thought I was stressed from work, that my boss was putting too much strain on me. Or that I was remembering our still-born son. I went in and worked, not for my boss, not for my thesis, but so that I could hear her voice. To make sure she was okay. She didn’t know it, but she was dead already. But perhaps it went straight up the shaft to the filters on the roof, didn’t leak into her room - the coughing was a coincidence. But perhaps she had been vaccinated recently - she would be fine. But perhaps I hadn’t ripped the bag at all - no one could prove it. I wouldn’t tell anyone. I couldn’t tell anyone. I had worked so hard to get this position, I didn’t want to lose it. I needed to get my results - if I admitted what had happened the lab would be shut down immediately and I would never finish my thesis. And the boss would have screamed the place down on me. My science career would have been over before it even started. After two weeks I thought I had been lucky. The normal incubation period was twelve days, and I could still hear her talking away upstairs on the phone. I managed to get some decent work done, got some nice results for my thesis. I even started sleeping again. And then on day seventeen she wasn’t up there, talking on the phone. The next day she was in the hospital. The day after, the hospital was quarantined. She died, exactly a month after she stopped keeping me company in my lab. ----- Abstract from the Shooter Report into the Birmingham smallpox outbreak: Mrs Parker was infected with a strain of Variola major known as Abid, that was isolated from a deceased patient in Pakistan in 1970. Abid was a 3 year old male. Smallpox was eradicated in the wild in 1975. Janet Parker died in September 1978. CancerCakes fucked around with this message at 01:14 on Jun 3, 2013 |
|
#
?
Jun 3, 2013 00:00
|
|
|
This is terrible and I am terrible. I shouldn't pick deathprompts when I'm in a deeply terrible mood. Do not read Based on: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sharon_Lopatka quote:Sharon Rina Lopatka (September 20, 1961 – October 16, 1996) was an Internet entrepreneur in Hampstead, Maryland, United States, who was killed in a case of apparent consensual homicide. Lopatka was tortured and strangled to death on October 16, 1996, by Robert Frederick Glass, a computer analyst from North Carolina. Mr. Slowhands 866 words It's my last morning alive, and the first thing I see is Bobby, jerking off on the bed next to me. He holds his big hairy belly so that it doesn't droop onto his you-know-what, and his whole body shakes with the effort of keeping the thing hard. I can't blame him. I'm stuck to the bed with nylon cords, have been for more than two days. If I were gonna live through this, I'd worry about the horrible itching and burning under my bottom and thighs. As it is, I want to tell him that I don't think the rubber mattress cover will be enough to save the bed, but I can't do that cause of the gag. I'm in pain. I'm a horrible, bad, awful girl getting off in this trash-filled trailer somewhere in North Carolina. I squirm against the ropes, give a little whimper in hopes of getting Bobby's spirits up. "I'm gonna give you what you deserve today, you big disgusting bitch." The words are all right, but he sounds like someone reading lines. His emails had been so confident, so sure. But in real life, his voice is reedy and he stumbles over some of the dirtier stuff. He cleans off my privates with a baby wipe and then starts rutting at me with his half-hearted little thing. I struggle and cry, trying to get him to do like he talked about online. He scratches at me a little, leaves red welts but no broken skin. And he won't put his hands around my throat. Not yet, he keeps saying. I'm gonna die of the drat sepsis before this man chokes me to death. This thought triggers panic, and I thrash around for real for a while which gets Bobby a little more riled. But his heart's not in it, I can tell. So I do the only thing I can. I pee on him. It takes him a second or two to notice. He sits back on his heels, sees the puddle growing between us, then looks at me. I smile all innocent around the gag. Next thing I know I'm under a storm of fists and fingernails and teeth, and his little doodle is big-as-you-please. I guess even the most stoic guy doesn't much like getting peed on. He's in me, above me, all around me. And stupidly, all I can think of is that Sesame Street song my neice would always sing, Over, Under, Around, and Through. Something about knowing the distance between near and far or-- Smack Loose teeth, blood behind the gag. I come back to reality, realize that I accidentally took myself away from the violence. And just when things were getting good... Bobby pulls out and waddles naked out into the trailer's trash-filled front room. I moan in protest, thinking I've killed the mood. But now he's rustling around, looking for something. I hope it's the rope, then I hate myself for hoping it's the rope, then I feel the deep-hot-sticky-dirty-dark feeling, the feeling people mean when they say gently caress with the ugly 'f' sound and the hard K at the end and I want the rope. I take in the tiny bedroom, the bare walls and the one bookshelf stacked with hundreds of floppy disks with labels like Real Amateur Neighbors - Pics and Dirtyslut.txt. The room is a more intimate partner than Bobby in some ways, since it's the last place I'll ever see. And even when I'm gone, it'll always be that room. The empty walls makes me think of movie credits scrolling on an empty black background. There's no song playing to tell me this is the end of my life, just the quiet and the grey and the smell of me n' Bobby in the air. Here he is now, Bobby with the rope in his hands and dark things in his eyes. The little nubbin peaking out from under his big bear belly is dark too, the darkest purple I ever saw it. He's going to kill me. He's going to kill me. I moan and shake my head and strain against the nylon cords. He's going to kill me. I don't want to die. But I want Bobby to kill me. He gets back into position, gut resting on my abdomen, skin stuck together by sweat. He holds the rope taught in from of him as he ruts at me, letting me see it before it goes around my neck oh god. The room is clear, crystal clear. I can see everything, smell everything, feel everything. Oh god I'm Yes No My life in front of me, just moments of it left now The rope Bobby The rope Tighter and tighter Not yet not yet I'm not there yet, but he's emptying himself out, and his balls are as empty as his eyes but I'm not there yet and now black spots are swirling in from the corners of my eyes and my face feels like it's swelling up, but I'm not there yet, I'm not gonna get off Not yet Bobby not yet I didn't get
|
|
#
?
Jun 3, 2013 00:10
|
|
|
1926: Phillip McClean, the only person known to have been killed by a cassowary. 1353 words Captain Moonlite and the Blue Forest Dragon Northern Queensland eh? Not a bad place in my humble opinion, not a bad place to be a youngen and run wild. Sure its hot as hell and filled with dangerous animals but for the most part it's pretty good. “Oi, Billy. I shot you, stay dead”. That would be me right there, Phillip McClean. Sixteen and fit as a fiddle. Dads getting' a bit crook these days so he reckons I'll be running the farm not too far from now. Says, “Son, this is a bloody good farm so do me proud and carry it on to the next generation”. Enough to give a lad goosebumps if I were the pamby sort. I'll be dead as a dodo soon enough mind you. “Na-ah. I have arma orn Phillip. Your bullet just bounced right offa me”. Now that would be my little brat of a brother Billy. We just read the “Who's Who of Australian Bushrangers”, a book that our old dad owned and now we were rollicking for some adventures out in the local forest. I was Captain Moonlite the criminal cad. Now that was a real bushranger, had a mask and everything. Bit of a nutter but knew how to be a gentleman about it. The sort of bloke a lad like me should look up to. Young Billy went for William Brady the convict highwayman. He was doing a decent enough job up until now. “Chick-chook”. That was the sound of Billy cocking his shotgun, which just so happened to be carefully disguised as a rather heavy-set stick. I couldn't see the little bugger but I knew he was aiming for me somewhere. “William Brady never had armour ya silly coot”. While Billy was stalking the forest I was carefully hidden behind a moss covered log I helped cut down a couple of years back. I too had a shotgun shaped like a stick which I kept close to my body. I was trying to figure out exactly where my brother was. Figured if I stuck my head up there was a good chance I'd lose it to the little sniper. I had but one chance to sink a shot into him. Well, that was if Billy would stick by the rules. “Ned Kelly had arma orn”. “But you said you were Brady”. “I changed my mind”, screamed Billy. A flock of cockatoos screeched high up in the trees. He could be a bit of a cheeky bastard and this was certainly one of those times. “And Ned Kelly had arma on his head, so you carnt shoot me there and he had arma on his chest so you carnt shoot me there”. “But he didn't have armour on his legs”, I butted in. Pounced from my hiding position I did, rolled on the bush floor picking up twigs, leaves and dirt as I went and fired off a few rounds from my double barrel, with the accompanying “boom, boom”, into the vague direction of Billy’s exposed legs. That's how they did it to Godfrey Cass in that film I watched but more importantly that would be how Captain Moonlite would have done it. Sticking with your character is important in these types of situations you know. Now at this point I thought I had the boy but Billy simply fired back with a “ne-he-he-he-he-he”. “I shot you in the legs”, I argued with him but he was smart for his age and was good for the counter. “Na-ah, you shot my horse you little bugger”. I could have slapped him but he earned my respect instead. I even taught him the swear. Proud as a dad I was. “Thats the sound of a machine gun. You don't have a machine gun”, which was a fair point to be made. “Yeah I do. Squizzy Taylor gave me a tommy gun” and he gave me another round of fire. Well that was just bloody absurd. With a deft swing I clocked Billy on the side of his forehead with my stick, “Thunk”. An action I instantly regretted. I'm a man now. I have responsibilities, the beginnings of a beard. I can't just whack a young lad I'm suppose to be looking after. It's unseemly. Billy just stared at me with his grazed head, snot dribbling down his face, unsure at what just happened. “Sorry scamp”, I muttered. “I gotta helmet orn”, and then he shot me in the chest and buggered off further into the forest. I retrieved my stick and chased after him, trying to dodge as many rabbit holes and fallen branches as I could. I passed a small rocky outcrop and on the other side saw that Billy had stopped in his tracks. “Whoah, what’s that?”, I herd him yell at me as he pointed to the ground. It was the body of a small wallaby. “Been dead for yonks”, I told him. We gave it a good lookin' over and used our sticks to turn the body around and upside down making sure we took the scene in completely. Probably how those Melbourne coppers would do things after Squizzy had been through town. “Scratchety Scratch”, scratched something off in the near distance. “What was that?”, I asked to the sound of yet more scratchings. “Black fellas”, whispered Billy to me and we both readied our guns. “Chick-Chook”. On the ground we went like a couple of diggers and wiggled our way towards the sound. There behind a large gumtree moved a large, blue emu like bird. A cassowary. Rare as hens teeth, as luminescent as a seashell. “Whoah, a dragon”, whispered Billy. Still feeling bad about before I let him get away with it. Billy moved closer to me, leaned into my ear and whispered, “We should kill it before it roasts us alive”. “Bushrangers never killed dragons. That was knights”. “Maybe its a dragon that works for the coppers?”. It was an interesting theory and certainly quite the controversy if it were true. What would Captain Moonlite do? If you want to live a life of crime then you cannot take any chances with plain clothed policeman even if they were giant forest dwelling dragon birds. I guess the problem was pretty easy after I thinked it over some. “You're right Billy. We have to kill it before it squawks to the bobbies”. “Yaaaah”, as we charged. The startled creature stood momentarily paralysed by our advance. I clobbered it around the head with such force that it fell to the ground with a great thud. Billy biffed a flank as best he could. Now I've shot plenty of animals in my life. You have to, if want to live that is. Sheep, cattle, roos, wallabies, crows. You want some grub you have to be prepared to get some blood on your hands. This was the same I guess, only I didn't have my hunting rifle with me. But as we both laid into the creature I again asked myself the question. What would Captain Moonlite do? Wait a second. Captain Moonlite got himself killed in a police shoot-out. “It's the bobbies”, I yelled to Billy as I stared off into the forest beyond. We both jumped back and aimed our guns at the invisible foe. We gave it our all. You sort of had to. “Those bastards wont take me alive”, and I fired off a few rounds. “Take this ya dirty rats. Ne-he-he-he-he-he-he”, screamed Billy. “Screech”, screeched the cassowary as it got up and eviscerated my neck. That was it. Managed to fire off a few more shots for dramatic purposes. If I managed to kill anyone I have no idea. The cassowary fled back to its own side and I was shot to pieces. What happened to Billy? Couldn't say, probably taken alive and hung a month later. He was a good kid, would have made a great farmer one day.
|
|
#
?
Jun 3, 2013 01:14
|
|
|
magnificent7 posted:A Fool’s Grin. 718 words While it's far from perfect, that's a major improvement on what you sent me. Good revisions.
|
|
#
?
Jun 3, 2013 01:18
|
|
|
quote:1944: Inventor and chemist Thomas Midgley, Jr. accidentally strangled himself with the cord of a pulley-operated mechanical bed of his own design. Chemistry 930 Right, so, the first thing you got to keep in mind is these two ropes here. Now I know what you’re thinking - you pull them and it turns those pulleys and lifts me up so you or whoever can help me out of bed. And that’s how the first one worked. But drat my soul I’m American born and raised, and I don’t need help to do things in the morning. So I made some improvements. Look past those pulleys. Those ropes go up through the ceiling to the cistern. This one on the left is the trigger, but I don’t pull it yet. This one on the right, that cycles through modes on the ratchet. See, there’s rise, massage, breakfast, heat, dress, reset, and back again. Now say my back’s playing up again and I need a massage. Switch to that, pull this rope and there you have it. Hear that? That’s the water flowing down, there’s a bit of complicated switching in the control mechanism, like one of those machines they use for codes, you know, but I never trusted electricity to think. Your brain’s full of water, not wires. And - there it goes, under the bed, one of General Motor’s finest, purring like a tiger, smooth as silk. You hear that? No knocking, no pinging. That's thanks to T-E-L. Tetra-ethyl-lead. I invented that. It was at Dayton labs, we had the problem, we needed a solution, so I got four ethyls and one lead and put them together and bam. Problem solved. Better than ethanol. Would you believe they used to put that stuff in gasoline? Not any more, thanks to me. The car you got here in, that has my TEL in its tank right now. That’s how you do it. You put the pieces together so they work. That’s science. And you see the bed here is moving now, up and down, and the heat too, that’s from the engine as well. Now it’s November and pretty chilly so I want the heat, but my back’s all fine right now so I want to get the one and not the other and that’s why I pull this one on the left again and there goes the water again, down and round, fills up that tank over there this time and see, that pushes the piston down and the air goes through and - watch those tubes, one’s snaking your foot - and pushes up these pistons here and lifts the bed off the engine and it’s steady again. Of course the motor’s still running so we’re still getting these fumes so it’s a bit close in here now, but if you look up there you see the updraft from the exhaust is spinning that windmill and - there it goes, the balls are loose and into that hopper and that pulls the sash up and we get some fresh air in. Scent of the city. Better than the country. I reckon in thirty years time Americans won’t even need to get out of bed. I’d like to see what the Russians say to that. No, not even for breakfast. That’s the crown jewel. I tug on this one again, then this one, and the cistern goes again and lets the water through the switches and onto those paddles there, so that spring unwinds and drives that gearbox, and this shutter here opens and sets the toast running and the eggs frying and there’s a fridge here, you want coffee? Good. Because that’s going too and like I said the fridge, that’s mine too, Freon inside, a C-F-C, chloro-fluoro-carbon, revolutionised the kitchen. You’re young, you might not even remember how bad a refrigerator could be before this stuff. So me and the General Motors boys set our heads to it, and juggled alkyl fluorides and so on until we got it to - its done, you want a cup? No? Well alright - got it to be volatile and inert at once, heck of a trick, but we did it and the rest is history. History and economics. Chemistry, see? Magic. God gave us the pieces and the rule of the green Earth and we put them together to make things work. Make a better world. Now that’s all run fine and I got my breakfast so it’s time to get this stuff cleaning, so I tug this again and it switches that gear and it all turns up there and - Oh! Oh, Lord. You okay there? Sorry. I forgot about the pendulum. You’re okay? Okay. Nothing too serious. Though it’s put things a bit out of kilter, let me reset it. Ok, this one, then this one, and that turns those back and resets the switcher, turns off the engine and releases the air pressure, except wait, no, it hasn’t turned off. Let me have a look. Okay. Could you grab that windmill there - no, the other one - and now I pull this one again and it should - looks like something’s snarled in the pulleys. I’ll get up there and take a look. I hook my arm over this rope, see, and then pull this one, and you can hear it working again, I built this thing, you know, I know how it works, stop looking so flustered - no, you didn’t break it, no need to apologise, and now that’s all stopped turning and I pull this one and - no, where was that snap, quick, grab that rope and gk neck air pulltherope no otherone god drat air agkh
|
|
#
?
Jun 3, 2013 01:33
|
|
|
Guess I should tackle this one as well, given the shitstorm I started. magnificent7 posted:A Fool’s Grin. 718 words My overall impression is that you've almost over polished it. By that I mean it's very cleanly written and easy to follow, but the description and action is almost too sparsely written. Granted, this is just a stylistic preference of mine, but I just found it a little hard to 'see' some of the events, in particular the action you described. There was definitely a clear progression of events which is good. Since you've got the pacing and sequence down, work more on elaborating on your description. Use strong, specific verbs and adjectives. Chillmatic fucked around with this message at 02:22 on Jun 3, 2013 |
|
#
?
Jun 3, 2013 01:48
|
|
|
quote:1567: Hans Steininger, the burgomaster of Brunau, Austria, died when he broke his neck by tripping over his own beard. The beard, which was 4.5 feet (1.4 meters) long at the time, was usually kept rolled up in a leather pouch. wordcount: 1069 The Burgomaster's Beard At the far right of the front row an elderly peasant sniffs the air. These actors, with their Kings and Heroes, all torn finery and painted iron crowns They say a lot of things about the measure of a man; deeds define him, honesty advances him, love fulfils him. But they do not have the half of it. There is but one scale that truly counts when it comes to such a reckoning, and that is the number of people who know his name. It’s the heroes we remember - those with stories worth telling. These actors? Gone and forgotten by tomorrow. She looks around suspiciously, but cannot place the smell. Take this motley assemblage of peasant folk, gathered here in the village theatre. They know me. They are my villagers, and I am their Burgomaster. I built this house to give them a taste of culture. They bring their petty squabbles to me, and I give them the vast benefit of an educated opinion. They all know me and, while they may not love me, I have their respect. Without my wisdom, they would fight to the death over scraps of food they tripped over in the forest. A slight haze rises from the cracks between the floorboards. Now - what of these players on the stage? They also know my name. They need to obtain the permission of my office to perform, and they now carry a certificate bearing my signature that allows them to do so. They Dance and Sing and Act to entertain the villagers, but they wouldn’t know a one of them to speak to in the street. They know me, though. They feel the price my office charged for their licence as if I had ripped it from their flesh to hear them complain about it, but without my judicious system of public performance rights, the gullible villagers would be overcome with charlatans and mountebanks of every stripe. And how would they pay their taxes when when they had sold their grandmother’s heirlooms for a gourd of magical dog piss? The haze begins to billow, the old lady coughs. Others turn away from the stage to look. But while this troupe of travelling mummers know me, it’s hardly likely that they remember every Burgomaster their paths cross. Yet they will remember me all their lives - and what’s more, they’ll tell of me at every place they come to. Because there is always something else that makes a man known - more than wisdom, more than power. There has to be something above and beyond. It could be rhetoric - to speak and move others to action - yet I have achieved it without words. It could be beauty - to launch a thousand ships like Helen - and yet my face is nondescript. In fact - it was to give my face some distinction that I first began my ‘Great Project.’ For thirty years I have continued with it until today it is the bounteous blessing that is my beard and my fame. The smoke is obvious now. Several people are staring at it with concern, but more are still watching the stage. It is the longest beard in Christendom and beyond, or so I am informed. Travelling infidels from the south selling spices to uncultivated palates have declared that they have never seen its like. Itinerant Northmen with hair like fire have boasted of the hirsute brutes that populate their lands, but none will swear that he has seen longer. They travel through our simple town, they buy our goods and feed our children, and then they depart, telling all they meet that they have seen Hans Steininger, the Magnificent Beard of Brunau. A tongue of flame bursts from the floor. A stage curtain blazes in an instant and fire leaps toward the roof. I hear the shouts and screams, awakening me from my reveries. People are pushing past me to get to the far door and the staircase beyond. The flames are growing where moments ago there were only brightly coloured thespians singing bawdy songs. I reach for my decorative pouch so that I can roll up my beard and join the throng in its exodus, but the seat I placed it on has been pushed away and it is nowhere to be found. I shout in annoyance, and some of the villagers even turn and look, so used to obeying my dictates are they. But aside from “My damned pouch!” I can only think to advise “Please proceed in an orderly fashion!” The villagers continue pushing past each other towards the door. I gather what belongings I can find and look upon the panicking masses with distaste. The flames across the ceiling beams cause the end of one to drop in a shower of ash and sparks. I am separated from them, the other villagers, physically now. I look for a path around the wayward beam, but every time I turn a wave of fire breaks upon me. I try and beat the sparks out from my beard, but I can smell its foul smoke, see strands shrivelling and twisting. I gather it up in one hand to run toward a momentary gap, but another burst of flame makes me turn away at the last second. My villagers, bless them, have seen my plight, and they are shouting on the other side of the fire, calling my name. But the fire is everywhere, becoming a wall of searing incandescence that blocks me from view. Its infernal tendrils have finally reached my beard. My Great Project is devoured, a conflagration about my chest. I attempt to beat the flames out, but it is futile - my cheeks and chin are scorched and I am bereft. The fire encompasses the walls, the floor, the roof - it becomes an inferno. I must run through the flames, beardless and nobody, if I wish to survive. There will be no more visitors learning my name as a wonder, no more tales told by travellers earning coin for my stupid, beloved peasants. Am I to be just another burgomaster in another hamlet, my name lost to the immortals and the books of memory? From behind the flames, the remaining villagers hear a voice calling out. “Ahhh, I have tripped on my beard and now I cannot...” The roar of the fire overwhelms the rest.
|
|
#
?
Jun 3, 2013 02:03
|
|
|
Chillmatic posted:Guess I should tackle this one as well, given the shitstorm I started. Yea, he has a tendency to go a little crazy in his editing. He admits that he butchers the pieces he writes. The first draft he sent me had way too much action description (the cutting off the head was like 5 paragraphs). This one was a lot less description, but it was also better overall in terms of pacing and plot, and it didn't end with misogyny, so that's always good. If you're going to hate on women, just use the whole story for that. :P
|
|
#
?
Jun 3, 2013 02:13
|
|
|
Rules of Combustion 1079 words quote:Air Marshall Mitrofan Nedelin, died when a rocket exploded. I HAVE THERAPISED MYSELF INTO NARCOSIS The words fly into my head and I dismiss them with the ease of habit. I have received these communiqués for years, ever since I had my accident when I was seven at my grandmother's dacha. They take the form of stentorian pronouncements, as though from a rich-bearded Patriarch. They are generally nonsensical. Around me the concrete apron is crawling with technicians. And, towering above them, the R-16 Intercontinental Ballistic Missile. Skin of metal, payload of righteous retribution. Bedevilled by delays, enshrouded by failure, but rising above it all. And soon to rise above even that, on a pillar of glory. Rostropov arrives with a chair in his hands. At his side is Yangel. My lip curls a little. We have worked closely before but I am coming to doubt his commitment. "Comrade Air Marshal I entreat you to -" the engineer begins. I hold up my hand. "No," I say. I sit down on my chair. Bravely, he continues. “But Comrade the Devil’s Venom is profoundly – “ “Unsymmetrical dimethylhydrazine. Hypergolic. Vivaciously reactive. I am familiar with its properties. Do you have new information for me?” He stares, a rabbit hypnotized by its predator. COWARDS DIE A THOUSAND DEATHS I allow myself a smile at this one, sometimes my interior interlocutor can display wit. I wave my hand at him. “Comrade Kruschev has been given my personal assurances. The launch will proceed, Technician.” He scuttles off and I dismiss him from my mind. Although the passage of years has erased much, I can remember the garden shed at the dacha with total clarity. I remember the crawling mass of termites I found by moving an old pot of weedkiller, the rich chemical smell. Rostropov leans down, mutters in my ear. “There may be some risk, sir. Perhaps you should withdraw to the observation post?” I say nothing. The rocket is surrounded by tenders of webbed steel that are being winched back to give it space to fly. It is a lumberingly balletic process. I feel an ache in my heart that is unsuitable to be turned into words. CORRECTION REQUIRES ERROR I shake my head. “My presence will encourage the men. Look how they scurry. Anyway, the launch is not scheduled for two hours yet.” The insects I uncovered beneath the rotten wood in the garden shed had scurried, busy doing the bidding of the hive. I had gazed, fascinated, groped for a bottle of DDT. To find out what would happen. The cap was stiff and took both hands to open. I had taken my steadying hand off the tower of old pots and bottles to do it. The tenders have retracted fully. I imagine the nitric acid that saturates the valves of my rocket, imagine its roiling ire. It seeks the spark that will transform it into fire. I want the rocket to launch now. Impatient, I have always been impatient. “Mitrofan,” Kruschev had grumbled down the crackling line. “This needs to work. The Americans are getting cocky. Cockier. Cocks of the yard.” He was probably drunk, it was late. I had assured him that the rocket would launch. There was a fervency to my tone as I did so which surprised me. Of course things had gone wrong, the engine had been flooded early, but things always went wrong. Caution is just the slower route to failure. Courage is the rocket’s path. To light a fire and rise upon it to the sky, that is the way. “Rostropov,” I say, “tell me again of the fuel error.” I have settled my eyes on Yangel, who is shouting at one of the other engineers fifty meters away. Though his voice is raised, I cannot hear what he is saying. WE FALL THROUGH LIGHT INTO SHADOW “Sir. The pyrotechnic membranes were ruptured. The combustion chamber has been filled with the Devil’s – with the fuel. Pitting and corrosion will render the rocket inoperable by tomorrow. Aborting the launch was considered, and rejected.” I can tell he is at attention behind me. Striving towards perfect erectness, like my rocket. Yangel has stomped off, back towards the command bunker. Probably to have a smoke; I have chosen to allow this breach of regulations. Men need their outlets. I remember the splash of acrid liquid falling upon the termites. The insects curling up in death. Then, a flash of light as the heavy pots fell from the table onto my head. I had been discovered some hours later, still unconscious. The poison gave me a cough that lasted for months, the blow gifted me with an internal onlooker, a kibitzer as a Jew might say. “Rostropov,” I say. “I will inspect the rocket more closely.” I stand, stride towards it over the fuel-stained concrete. My medals jingle. The sun is hot above. A hiss of vapour is issuing from a port halfway up the rocket. One of the men on the apron is shouting, pointing. Rostropov is behind me, keeping pace. We are insects, all of us. Scurrying at the bidding of the hive. But we aspire, we rise. We craft our pillars of flame and ride them to the sky. I know this, Comrade Kruschev knows this, even poor cowardly Yangel knows this. WE BRING THE SUN AMONGST US TO BETTER PRAISE IT I nod, laugh. The jet vapor has become a cloud and there is a whine coming from the rocket, this pillar, this sculpture of metal and willpower. It is splendid. We are splendid. I turn to Rostropov to note this, and see him catch fire. I cannot hear anything. I raise my hand to him; it is on fire. I can hear nothing. We are on fire, a cloud of flame all around. My legs fail me and I fall. My eyes are flame. The ground is fire. I curl up, weeping tears of fire. The sky is obscured with smoke, and flame. The concrete is black. The world is black. WE CAN DO NO OTHER sebmojo fucked around with this message at 13:17 on Sep 26, 2013 |
|
#
?
Jun 3, 2013 02:16
|
|
|
Homer Collyer: 1947, blind and paralyzed, died of starvation several days after his brother killed by his own boobytraps Words: 500 EDIT: And i just realized this is not first person! I'm loving dumb. Christ. Keep Digging Homer Collyer was sure Langley, his brother, was still alive. That belief kept him crawling and digging through the stacks of every worldly possession they owned. The biting hunger had turned to just constant dull bloating. He put his hands out, feeling for the columns of books, papers and boxes. Each drag from his muscular shoulders just shifted the mess from one side to the other, like a snake burrowing in the sand. Despite the apartment only being a two bedroom, in Manhattan no less, Homer’s decrepit legs made moving about the apartment monumental. The towers of boxes and furniture made the labyrinthine tunnels Langley used to navigate the apartment now the most insidious of the traps still in the apartment. Homer was lost, he knew for certain. Since the faint cries of his brother had faded, had no other landmark to guide himself. There was some comfort in the fact that no matter where you were in the apartment, there would always be something to lean your back against. Homer laughed a little to himself as he felt the uneven stacks of newsprint fold up and down his back. Langley had collected them for the day when Homer’s eyesight returned. They both knew that would never happen, the doctor had said as much in no kind words. The darkness, and losing his legs to the poison of his own body, had long since tempered Homer against the madness. Langley had not been as fortunate. Always more traps. Wire traps, bear traps and avalanche traps, all to stop kids from throwing rocks through the windows. From the outside. Oh Langley, Homer thought. No matter the odds, Homer vowed to keep his wits about him. Find humor in things, he thought. Like how little he had defecated himself in the absence of food or assistance. Giggles wracked his sides, but he had to keep quiet. Langley would scold him thoroughly if he heard him. Laughing, at a time like this, Homer mimed the chastising brother. Homer shook his head, letting his mouth hang open. The sound of flapping cheeks made him smile, but he had to get back to work. His hands seized, curling in on themselves. One last spiteful rheumatoid spasm to let him know it was time to take a break. Homer righted himself using his forearms, and dragged his legs in front of him. Putting each gnarled fist under a knee, he drew them closer to himself for support. Just a quick respite, Homer thought. He put his head down on his knees, hands locked together. A pizza, Homer thought about, a pizza is what I would like when I find Langley, he will owe it to me. Tears wetted Homer’s legs, that he could neither feel, nor obscure his dead eyes. A pizza, with mushrooms, I don’t care that he doesn’t like them. Noah fucked around with this message at 02:35 on Jun 3, 2013 |
|
#
?
Jun 3, 2013 02:29
|
|
|
Not everyone needs full line-edits. For them I'll pick out specific lines that stood out to me one way or the other, and then give an overall critique.Chillmatic posted:Countless Different Ways Okay, overall this is very competent and I enjoyed reading it. Your writer cred is preserved. What I wasn't sure I liked about it was the narrative style. Initially it felt too old-fashioned and plodding, but then I started reading it in my head in a gruff Irish accent and then it clicked. That's when I started enjoying it. I still think the original story of the murderer already having the life insurance made more sense and you could have played on that better. Streamlining the murder crew to just one guy was fine, made everything simpler in a short, but it would have been nice if he had kept the friendship with Malloy and his desire to kill him would have been more interesting. As it is, his motivation is thin at best, unbelievable at worst. Some more emotional attachment and reason for the hatred would have made this story better.
|
|
#
?
Jun 3, 2013 02:43
|
|
|
Given as I just got home now from having to work this weekend, I've gotta pull out. Sorry, y'all, this does suck. I'm going to get some sleep, then maybe do the next.
|
|
#
?
Jun 3, 2013 04:03
|
|
|
Okay, first thunderdome try, here goes... I chose: Alexander I, King of Greece: 1920. He died from infections caused by wounds he sustained from monkeys while trying to save his dog. The Old World is Dead (~780 words) What follows is a speech dictated by the puppet-king Alexander I to his low-born wife, Aspasia. It was to be read at his lavishly planned funeral, also described in detail by Alexander I. He died eleven days later to a modestly attended ceremony of little pomp and fanfare. His speech was never read nor his reign remembered as legitimate. Countrymen, I ask you: Would you have done differently? Is the canine not man’s best and most loyal servant? Do we not ask, protect me from my enemies, alert me of their presence, pierce their flesh to preserve mine? Is it not then an obligation, nay! our duty to reciprocate this service? Countrymen, again, I ask you: Were you to behold your most loyal and truest friend assailed by demons from beyond, would you not act? Should I have left poor Fritz to fend for himself among those beasts? Perish the thought! For is not Alsatian the most noble of creatures? Is not Ape most base? And I speak, not just of those vile creatures who have so wounded me - is not, Man, too, an ape? I may consider myself yet another victim of The Great War, swept away by the tide of a conflict one cannot hope to understand. At least I have been given time to contemplate. To try to understand. At least. But I am tormented. I hear the whispers. The chortles. His Majesty laid low by monkeys. I cannot bear it. Monkeys? Paw! No mere monkeys beset Fritz and I in the garden. Were it not for my impeccable skill with the rapier and the righteous passion that has flown in the blood of all the high-born men of Hellas since antiquity, I would not be lying here, bed-ridden in my final moments, dictating this missive. They stood hulking, a full head taller than any man. Foul mist emitted from their putrescent maws, under red portals that glared with stygian cunning. My doctors inform me it is the infection caused by these abominations that will sever my mortal coil, but I would not discount the wound itself. I tremble to remove the blanket covering my lower half and peer at the unfortunate wreckage of my left leg -- it hangs on below the knee by little more than a thread. Were it not for the bodily-agility blessed to all my line, I would have been struck down right there. And you say monkey? With a mighty thrust, I severed one of the foul beasts limbs at the elbow, and great black blood gushed forth. Its crony leapt forth and prevented me from finishing the malevolent creature, and to my horror I watched it lap at the spurting blood, hungrily, only for a new limb, a new crooked paw, to sprout forth anew so that it could renew its assault. Does that sound like a monkey? No, my friends. Try monstrosity. Grotesque. Hellion. Satan’s Spawn. All the hate and suffering spewed by mankind amassed into two infernal, blasted creatures. And what were these beasts doing in the Royal Gardens, you ask? Countrymen, I do not know, and such a question plagues me in the dim, humid hours of the night when I am alone with my thoughts, my wounds, and my imminent departure from this mortal plane. I would not rule out assassination, no. I do have enemies, this is true. Underminders. There are scoundrels at court, do not doubt it. I will not put names to these ne'er do wells, but I know, countrymen, you have suspicions to whom I speak. That vile man, that low-born displacer of royal blood! I have heard the rumors. I know what black sorcery he practices, while stealing the throne from my family. He exiled my dear mother first, only so he could unleash his shadowy progeny onto her royal heir while she was away! Eleftherios! Do not think I don’t know of your deeds. If only Mother were here. If only she ******** Dear Prime Minister Eleftherios Venizelos, My Lord Husband, Alexander I , true king of the Hellenes has taken to fever and now desires only to see his lady mother. A humble request you, Mr. Venizelos, have denied with great vigor. I have no illusions, Mr. Venizelos, that my husband’s wish to have the above read at his passing will ever be honored. Indeed, I do not have any illusions you know what the word or ideal of honor means. I wish only for this: a bequest both to my great interest and to yours. Do not let them laugh, Mr. Venizelos. Please, above all else. Do not let them laugh. The Rightful Queen of the Hellenic Republic, Aspasia Manos
|
|
#
?
Jun 3, 2013 04:12
|
|
|
Wikipedia posted:There is a long and sometimes fanciful tradition regarding his death, from uncertain sources, that Li Bai drowned after falling from his boat when he tried to embrace the reflection of the moon in the Yangtze River. 764 words. Drinking alone "It's just the two of us tonight," I say to the moon as I take my seat on the weathered old stump by the riverside. In my youth it had been a mighty oak, tall and proud, and I spent many leisurely days drinking in its shade, surrounded by friends. Now its majesty is long gone, and it serves only as a seat for a lonely old man. It is a peaceful night, the silence broken only by the crickets and the sound of wine being poured into a cup. Good wine, fit for the emperor himself, not the poorly made local variety. "I got this in the capital," I tell the moon. She's quiet, of course, but I like that about her. I have words enough for us both. "One of the ministers gave it to me. Said he liked my poems, wanted to show his appreciation." I take a drink, and take a moment to feel the taste. It doesn't feel so different from what they make here, but perhaps my sense of taste has dulled with age. "He told me to save it for a special occasion. My wedding, perhaps, or the birth of my first son." Good advice, that. Wouldn't want to waste something so expensive on small festivities. I drain the cup and fill it again, raising a toast to my heavenly companion. "Have I ever told you how I got sent away from the court?" The moon already knows, for she can see everything, but I decide to tell her anyway. It's a short enough tale, made shorter still by the fog of the many years passed since then. A woman, an obsession, a thousand poems in her honor. A jealous eunuch with poisoned words, and praise mistaken for scorn. An emperor who cares for his consort, and a reluctant farewell. "That's all there was to it," I tell the moon when the story is done. "A misunderstanding." The moon climbs higher and higher, and I drink with her until there is nothing left to drink. She is at the peak of her journey, and I have to bend my neck to look at her. "Maybe it was for the best," I tell her then. The words come slowly through the haze of the wine. "Can't even remember any of my friends from back then. Must have had some, though." The one who gave me the wine, I must have been friends with him. There would have been other artists, and surely I knew some of them. Not a single face comes to mind, though, except the woman's, and her I admired from afar. "Would've gotten a wife, if I'd stayed. One of those friends would have found me one, I'm sure." I try to fill my cup again, forgetting for a moment that there's nothing left. "If I'd had a wedding, I would've had to drink this wine," I say, looking up at the moon again. "And then you and I couldn't have had this nice night together, could we?" Never before have I seen the moon so full, so bright. She dominates the sky, drowning the world below in her pale light, surpassing the mountains and the stars in a way the sun could never hope to match. She is sublime. I close my eyes, fearful of being blinded by her beauty. "You know, I've never written about you. Don't know if I could. You're too distant, unreachable to mortal men up there in the heavens." The wind, a breeze so gentle I had not noticed its presence, stops. The crickets have tired of making their music, and it feels as though the night itself is listening to me, waiting with bated breath for what I will say next. "Perhaps you could come down here for a little while?" A silly request from a silly old man. But when I open my eyes I see her, not above me but in front, in the middle of the river. I half fear it is a mirage brought on by the drink, and I don't dare take my eyes off her. I stumble back to my boat, nearly tripping over my own feet as I push it out and climb in. I row and row until my arms are as heavy as mountains, but the moon will not let me reach her. She swims away as I approach, always just out of reach. I see. She must want me to swim to her, then. I'm exhausted, but she is not far. I can manage that distance.
|
|
#
?
Jun 3, 2013 04:12
|
|
|
Thanks Chillmatic for the crits. I appreciate your input. Big thanks to Crabrock and Sebmojo for their crits on my earlier draft. It really helped me a lot.
|
|
#
?
Jun 3, 2013 04:46
|
|
|
Henry Hall, 1775, died from injuries he sustained after molten lead fell into his throat while he was looking up at a burning lighthouse. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Hall_%28lighthouse_keeper%29 How it Stands There (630) I lived with a dead man for a month when I was forty. I don't remember his name, but I remember his smell. He died while the ocean was wild with God's wrath, and no one could get to me and I couldn't leave. I ran the lighthouse myself, and when men came we threw him in the ocean. The smell would burn behind my eyes and take root as a taste in the back of my throat. It stayed for a while, after he was gone. Since then it was always three of us in the tower. “I always thought three was too many.” I say. “Don't speak, Henry” says doctor Spry. I should have said “Throw me in the sea” but I close my eyes and die before I can. The first lighthouse built on the Eddiston rocks didn't last five years. It was called Winstanly Tower, after Henry Winstanly. So proud he was of her, he wished for the fiercest storm that ever blew. Of course he was obliged. God destroyed that tower with Winstanly himself inside, leaving no trace of the man or his mark except some holes in the Eddiston filled with iron and lead. My lighthouse lived nearly to fifty, and God had nothing to do with her end. “Ninety four years and fit as a fiddle,” doctor Spry is telling someone “Mostly. He's lived five days, if you can believe it. Are you awake, Henry?” “What's your name?” I ask him. “I'm your doctor, Edmund Spry.” “What?” “Edmund. Eddie, if you like. Don't speak any more.” Everything fades and I must be dead. I loved a woman I loved a woman, we met in the fiercest storm that ever blew I loved a woman, she lived in a seashell on ocean's floor She birthed three children all at once two for her and one my son I named him, but there are no names left but mine and the Eddystone I outlived my boy and the children of my wife and my wife They wait for me in the fires of heaven the fires of the last of Eddystone's light “He's still breathing.” says the Eddystone “Henry, be still!” “I'm sorry!” I say “I'm sorry!” Three men were working the Eddystone when she caught, it wasn't enough. I was dreaming and another of us woke me I was at the top of her hearing her screaming and dying and showing ships the way We three left her all at once two were spared and I looked up So hot she was her tears came down as metal and I caught one in the back of my throat and died. And hid from embers and waves in the womb the rock herself. And we grasped damp, gnashing rope one hand after the next forever. And I tore myself completely from the Eddystone onto some ship, knowing I was dead. Here to some weak bed I cannot leave, filled with iron and lead. “This hospital wouldn't live through ONE wave!” I cough, my mouth wet with metal “God is in the sea! Throw me in the sea! I won't drown, and this won't kill me either! This is nothing! The Eddystone lives in me, throw me back! Give me a torch and throw me back! I'll light the way myself!” Light is pouring out my mouth, there's a corpse in the room with me, I can smell him. The Lighthouse puts her hands on me. My arms are cold, my legs are cold. My mouth is warm, and my eyes Vision turns to pattern and blackens down Sound grows cold, the sea grows calm I swim a while away.
|
|
#
?
Jun 3, 2013 04:58
|
|
|
The Atrium (1140 words) “Ahoy, Hoy,” said Tim Bunderson as he poked his head into the office. Garry Hoy always cringed at the way Ted did that, sticking just his cranium through the gap in the door with a cutesy greeting. It had been going on for three years. And Garry wasn't a fan of the greeting, either. “You can come in, Tim, thanks.” Tim leaned a little further into the room, one shoulder jutting through now. “Do you have two secs, Hoy? There's a tour group out here. Thought you could show them around the new building, you know, vis-à-vis.” “I'm a little busy right now,” said Garry, not bothering to correct the French. “I'm just about finished the release for the General Motors thing, and it's my last chance to get in good with Mr. Shaw– “It'll only take a minute,” said Tim, shrugging that shoulder. “Why can't you do it?” “I'm heading out for a late lunch at Finnegan's. Today's Gyro Day!” And with that, Tim Bunderson slipped back out through the crack and was gone. Garry sighed and turned back to the Szalinski report. He was able to work on it for almost three uninterrupted minutes before a sunburned man rapped on the office door with a hard, loud knock. “This is the Atrium,” Garry said. There were eight or twelve in the group, all of them decked out with 'TORONTO' shopping bags and most of their faces peeling from an August day spent looking up at skyscrapers. Garry kept trying to move them along, but their pace was stuck on 'dawdle.' “Our accounts and financial teams share the space in these cubicles, and their computers are connected to each other, so they can share information, uh, without leaving their desks– “Neat!” said a spotty teenager at the edge of the pack. She pulled out a Polaroid camera and flashed it into a cubicle as they passed by. John Simpson stood up from his desk and blinked at them as the girl pulled the photo out of the camera and shook it. “Sorry,” said Garry. He looked to the girl. “Don't do that.” “Oh,” said the girl. “Right.” She blew on the Polaroid instead. “We call this area the Atrium,” said Garry, hurrying along now, giving the tourists the double-time version. “But with the floor-to-ceiling windows on all four sides of the tower, sometimes it feels like more of a greenhouse, ha ha. Over there's a photo-copier. That's made by Xerox. And now, we'll circle back to the elevators and you can be on your way.” “How many windows are on this building?” It was the man who'd knocked on Garry's door until it swung all the way open. Garry guessed that he was their de facto leader. “Uh... I'm not sure, friend.” He wasn't sure. He'd never thought about it. He didn't think he'd ever have to think about it. “Fifty floors... twenty-five... hundred?” “Wow!” said the sunburned man. He tromped along with the rest of the group, Garry squirming for them to pick up the pace. “Has anybody ever broken a window?” yelled a little kid with his arm in a cast. “Uh, no, they're unbreakable.” Garry was already at the elevator and tapping at the 'DOWN' button. “Hey, look, honey, they spell their elevator buttons with letters here,” said the leader. The teenager flashed her Polaroid at the buttons. “Nothing's unbreakable! Superman could break it!” said the kid. “I'm sure he could,” said Garry, “but he's busy on Krypton right now.” “Krypton blew up!” said the kid. Garry hammered at the button again. Where was the elevator? Tim Bunderson should be dealing with these people, not him. “Do you know any good places for dinner around here?” said the leader. Garry forced a smile. “I hear Finnegan's is all right.” There was a ding as the doors opened. “Today's Gyro Day. Well, have a good one!” “Today isn't Gyro Day!” said the kid, as they filed into the elevator. The doors were just about to close as Garry stuck his hand out to stop them. “What was that, kid?” “We went there for lunch. I saw it on the sign. It's Beef Dip Day!” Beef Dip Day. Wait a minute. Garry turned and flew from the elevator. The tourists, sensing that something good was about to happen, followed. They chattered with excitement as Garry fled to Mr. Shaw's office. “What's he doing, Jimmy?” “These windows aren't unbreakable!” “I don't know, Gladys, but I think I saw something like this in Wall Street.” “Neat!” The Polaroid flash went off again as they passed Garry's office, his door still wide open, the computer keyboard askew. He turned down a hallway, pushed through a set of double doors and ran up to the desk of Mr. Shaw's receptionist. “Is Mr. Shaw in?” asked Garry. The entourage huffed and puffed behind him. Shaw's receptionist looked up at the scene and chewed at her pen. “Mr. Shaw's in an important meeting with Tim Bunderson,” she said. “But I can pencil you in for 3:30?” Tim Bunderson. Tim Bunderson had saddled Garry with running a field trip and then snatched the General Motors thing right out from under him. “Yes, thank you, Samantha, 3:30 would be fine.” He felt a hot headache forming at his temples as he turned and walked back into the Atrium. The tourists followed. This was how it had gone for three years. The sun was shining directly through the windows now. Mr. Shaw was always passing Garry up for promotions, raises, recognition. It felt like a greenhouse in here. And somehow, this time was the worst. Because Tim Bunderson had stolen from him, and– “You ever see that movie Wall Street, Garry?” said the sunburned man. Garry turned to the tour group with a scowl on his face, his head throbbing. Things had gotten so bad that, for a second, he'd forgotten they were there. Now he remembered and things were worse. The girl flashed her Polaroid at him, fuzzing his vision. She pulled out the photo and blew on it. “I still don't think these windows are unbreakable!” said the kid. Yes they were, dammit, he'd said they were. Why take a tour from somebody if you– “...aren't going to believe anything he says?!” “What?” said the kid. “Here,” said Garry. “I'll show you. I'll prove it to you!” He smacked the window, hard, with the palm of his hand. It bonged across the Atrium. “See? Unbreakable!” He smacked it again. John Simpson stood up from the sea of cubicles and glared in their direction. “I told you the first time,” Garry said. He thumped his shoulder against the window. “Unbreakable.” He thumped it again. “Unbreakable.” He threw his whole weight against it. “Unbreak– He rode the flat, square window almost all the way to the ground. emgeejay fucked around with this message at 05:20 on Jun 3, 2013 |
|
#
?
Jun 3, 2013 05:16
|
|
|
 Deadline. Submissions closed. JonasSalk, Overwined, Jagermonster, Benagain, & Symptomless Coma: you are the worst type of people. Nyarai asked for and received an extension. He must submit it by Monday 5:00 EST. Judges: go. JonasSalk, you piece of poo poo, you better not flake out on judging too.
|
|
#
?
Jun 3, 2013 05:44
|
|
|
crabrock posted:
gently caress. gently caress. Here's the story - I finished it, I really did, then decided to sleep on it because I'm sick of being picked up on stuff I should have caught in editing. And I live in the UK so I thought EST was Western or whatever the hell it is because you all have madeup time rather than good old upstanding GMT. So, I'm sorry. I accept I may not be able to win. But I went big on this one, and if any of you three can find it in your cold, cold hearts to spare a crit, I'd really appreciate it. quote:401 BC: Mithridates, a soldier condemned for the murder of Cyrus the Younger, was executed by scaphism, surviving the insect torture for 17 days. A Hero's Reward. -1350w "I am Artaxerxes II of Persia, whose reign is through truth, and I am here to grant you release." Though I can't see anything beneath this crawling blackness, I know the voice for true. My torturer, my saviour, my king. His rumbling cadence barely carries above the lapping waves and the buzzing insects, but I strain to catch the first human voice I have heard in seventeen nights. "You smell like poo poo, you know." The first time I saw him, I would have killed just for this acknowledgement. We were on the practice field, the six hundred of us soldiers, when a silhouette appeared on the ridge beyond. "Who's that?" I said to the man standing beside me. "That," said the soldier, "is who we're here to babysit." "THAT'S Artaxerxes? But he looks so small." "You don't become king by being the biggest, idiot. Otherwise we'd have Cyrus." I blushed. Cyrus the Younger, whose name you did not speak in camp unless you wanted a flogging, was the reason we were there, clashing steel and hurling javelins into targets in the merciless Babylonian sun. Cyrus the Younger's continued existence was Artaxerxes' worst nightmare. What brother has not caused his sibling pain? Banners and servants clustered about the King, like vultures to carrion, hoping to feed on his aura. I longed to be one of those vultures. No, I wanted to be the object of their affections, the rich flesh. I hefted my javelin, the only weapon I had shown any prowess with since father's largesse had got me and my brothers into the royal bodyguard, and snapped my body like a whip to hurl the thing out toward the royal party. It slammed into the dust, far ahead of the others of our troop. I could swear I saw the King nod, and I felt my body rise with lightness and power. My body feels light now, bobbing on this stagnant pond, but this is the effect of the punishment they call The Boats. I'm still sane, but only because I keep reciting the reality of my situation to myself: that my body is sealed inside this floating coffin, two boats bolted together with only my head and limbs poking free. That my stomach is bloated from the parasites and the force-feeding. That a mask of flies cover my face, drinking the milk and honey I was bathed in. That I am the one who killed Cyrus the Younger, and this is my reward. Their army at Cuxana was twenty thousand; ours, twenty times twenty. And yet we waited. We'd trained and marched and slept for two weeks to get into striking distance of Cyrus' troops, only to camp on a ridge overlooking his hired Greek army, and wait. Artaxerxes would wait for a river to change its course if crossing it were a risk, some said. He walked our camp of six hundred every morning with a face like one of his marble busts: not a hero, but the piercing analytical gaze of a statesman. Every day that passed without attack saw more envoys running between the camps. Every one of Cyrus' messengers, all uncouth and lowborn, was personally met by the King and taken into his tent. While those people decided the fate of the armies, I waited at camp like the good soldier, and felt myself hollowing out. My stomach is now full of worms. They catch the scent of all your poo poo in the boat, your days of force feeding coming to their natural conclusion, and burrow into you, make their kingdom inside you. For the last days of your life, you become their provider and benevolent god, and then one day, you die. Perhaps among them, some leader worm rises up, a particuarly brave parasite, and rouses its fellows so they all set off, an army looking for a new frontier. Cyrus led the attack himself. Not surprising from the martial brother, the one who people said had killed a bear. His force swept up the hill as dawn broke, heading straight for a killing blow - for us, the royal guard. Artaxerxes had us in ranks along the ridge. "We have the superior ground," he said. "Do not act until I order." Beside me, my brother muttered, "a chance for a little family glory, eh?" I saw the bare head of Cyrus, high in his golden saddle, charging up the hill. I felt the rigidity of that accursed javelin. That feeling of lightness of power from the practice field overtook me, and I knew what I was born to do. I coiled my body in an arc, put my mind in my arm and whip-cracked the shaft into the air. It made a perfect arc, then buried itself in the face of Cyrus the Younger, pretender-king of Persia. The army saw nothing but a javelin emerge from the ranks and an enemy general fall. Artaxerxes summoned me to his tent that night, showed me a heap of treasure and a golden scimitar. "Your reward," he said, "for conveying the horse trappings of my kill to me." "Sire, I merely - your kill, sire?" The King laid his hard gaze upon me, the one I had seen from so far away. "Did I not slay the pretender, soldier?" "I - you did, sire." From the dirt, Cyrus' rictus grin gazed at me, mocking. I can see him now. Artaxerxes brushes the insect mask away from my eyes and Cyrus the Pretender is there, spectral, moonlight pouring through the hole in his cheek. Artaxerxes puts a flagon to my lips. "Drink, liar." He leans over me, his face as hard as it was in the camp. Drops of the liquid touch my tongue and I gag. Wine. Ugh. I could never hold my drink, or my secrets. In the aftermath of Cuxana my secret deed followed me like a pack-mule with Cyrus' face, mocking my coward's heroism. The golden scimitar at the foot of my bed like an ornament I couldn't show. I swallowed my own fate in the banqueting hall in a lake of wine and pride; my brothers, boasting of their training prowess to each other, mocked me again for mine. "The javelin!" The oldest one snorted. "Father should have entered you into the Olympics with the Greek perverts!" The wine and my shame compelled me to speak and sign my death. For what brother has not caused his sibling pain? "That javelin," I declared, "slew Cyrus, the bear-killer." "Ah, you poor fool," he said. "That cannot be. It was Artaxerxes who killed him. What could be more fitting?" "It was not!" I shouted, and I realised I was standing. I saw with horror that Artaxerxes was in the banqueting hall. Surveying, again. I claimed my destiny. "You see before you the hero of Cuxana. Let the people never forget the name. Mithridates!" There was a terrible silence. From across the hall, I stared into the eyes of Artaxerxes, of he whose rule is through truth, and he gave me nothing but his judgement. And now, at last, he stares back. Still the statesman, but he has attained a softness. Artaxerxes II of Persia is not large, but has grown to encompass pity. "I come bearing your pardon, solider. I have two gifts for you." He places a delicate white flower upon my lips. "Hemlock," he says. "Eat it, and die." I already know that I cannot. Not because I am afraid, but because I fear the coward's death. Unremembered. "The second gift is truth. That I know what happened on the field of Cuxana. And a promise: one other man will be instructed as to events who can be trusted not to repeat them. He will be your witness in whatever celestial courts there may be." Artaxerxes II looks sad, worn. Through the haze of flies I see him as he really is, the statesman, the pragmatist. Not the killer. "Finally, I give you something a King has no right to give: his thanks. You saved me from fratricide." He lays a hand on my rotten head, then strikes his oars into the water. "Claim your death, hero. You have earned it." I close my eyes, swallow the hemlock, and at last feel peace. Symptomless Coma fucked around with this message at 13:36 on Jun 3, 2013 |
|
#
?
Jun 3, 2013 07:53
|
|
|
Oh poo poo, I totally flaked. I will not flake out on the judging, though. Now I feel like a piece of poo poo,
|
|
#
?
Jun 3, 2013 10:14
|
|
|
crabrock posted:JonasSalk, you piece of poo poo, you better not flake out on judging too.
|
|
#
?
Jun 3, 2013 11:45
|
|
|
|
| # ? Apr 16, 2024 12:52 |
|
|
crabrock posted:Nyarai asked for and received an extension. He must submit it by Monday 5:00 EST. Nyarai's a lady. Way to just assume everyone's a dude on the internet, check your privilege much?      
|
|
#
?
Jun 3, 2013 11:46
|
|