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GenJoe posted:hi I am in with North America/before and will also Chilean National Plebiscite, 1988 Flesnolk posted:Oceania, after. Operation Crossroads
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Nov 16, 2017 12:29
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Bumping this as in one week's time over a dozen domers will be engaging in merriment and gift giving. JOOOOOOOIIIIIINNNNN USSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSChili posted:
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Nov 16, 2017 14:21
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Story Exchange: 
BONUS PRESENT EXCHANGE:
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I just got back from Five Guys and the Mibbit version of TD chat is hosed up and broken. Did something happen to it, or is the problem on my end?
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Nov 17, 2017 01:03
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working for me rn
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Nov 17, 2017 01:04
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Fine here. Did you remember to select SynIRC?
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Nov 17, 2017 01:31
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In. South America, before.
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Nov 17, 2017 04:35
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Issue solved. Good luck, submitters.
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Nov 17, 2017 05:04
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Solitair posted:Issue solved. Good luck, submitters. thank fuckin god
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Nov 17, 2017 06:47
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sebmojo posted:thank fuckin god Reported for mod sass
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Nov 17, 2017 06:52
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GenJoe posted:hi I am in with North America/before and will also  cowboy psychiatristDeltasquid posted:In! Asia, before! as well as your romance genre you can have the dribblesome teapots
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Nov 17, 2017 06:56
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sebmojo posted:as well as your romance genre you can have I have to admit ignorance and have no idea what this means. Is this a book, like google tells me? Do you want me to be inspired by a book I've never read? 
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Nov 17, 2017 11:31
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Amoeba Bot posted:In. South America, before. Spanish conquest of the Inca Empire
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Nov 17, 2017 12:13
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Deltasquid posted:I have to admit ignorance and have no idea what this means. Is this a book, like google tells me? Do you want me to be inspired by a book I've never read? teapots contain tea for pouring sometimes the tea can dribble it's p straightforward tbh
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Nov 17, 2017 12:24
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sebmojo posted:teapots contain tea for pouring I was overthinking it
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Nov 17, 2017 16:07
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11.5 hours until sign ups close.
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Nov 17, 2017 18:28
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in africa before 
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Nov 18, 2017 02:17
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Djeser posted:in africa before Late Bronze Age Collapse
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Nov 18, 2017 02:17
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Sign-ups are closed. Write some good words. Final Tally: EU: 7 ASIA: 6 SA: 4 AF: 3 NA: 2 OC: 2 ANT: 1 Before: 13 After: 12 QuoProQuid fucked around with this message at 16:02 on Nov 18, 2017 |
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Nov 18, 2017 13:09
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I guess I never submitted crits for Week 235. I also can't find them on my computer so maybe I never wrote any? It doesn't really matter, I suppose. In any case, I just reread all 28 stories and have written down my thoughts. You may find said thoughts here.
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Nov 19, 2017 04:49
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If your username is Mercedes, The Saddest Rhino, Sparrow, Crab Destroyer, Curlingiron, Entenzahn, Baudolino, Walamor, Fumblemouse, Jonked, Jeza, Paladinus, Kaishai, Joda, Sitting Here, Noah, No Longer Flaky, Ursine Asylum, Lead Out in Cuffs, Jeep, Starter Wiggin, WeLandedOnTheMoon!, Benny the Snake, or Jay O then you submitted a story for Thunderdome Week LXXX: Why Don’t You Ask Your Huge Cock? and I never gave you any critiques. I shall do so now.
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Nov 19, 2017 19:50
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Evidently I just plain missed a couple people on a couple different weeks. Seemingly at random. I don't know why. Anyway, this is the catch up for all those weird ones. Come see my words if your name is Grizzled Patriarch, D.O.G.O.G.B.Y.N., Crabrock, Guiness13, Ironic twist, or Kurona_bright. Or if you just want to read some random crits. Or don’t. I’m not the reading police. Do what you want. Crits.
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Nov 19, 2017 20:33
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Tyrannosaurus posted:Evidently I just plain missed a couple people on a couple different weeks. Seemingly at random. I don't know why. Anyway, this is the catch up for all those weird ones. Come see my words if your name is Grizzled Patriarch, D.O.G.O.G.B.Y.N., Crabrock, Guiness13, Ironic twist, or Kurona_bright. Or if you just want to read some random crits. Or don’t. I’m not the reading police. Do what you want. lol, thanks for the heads up Ty
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Nov 19, 2017 20:37
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I thought I had done some crits for Week 124 and it turns I was right. I just got really mad/disgusted at Benny the Snake and never bothered to post them. I have include below my words as I first wrote them oh so long ago with no editing. I didn’t 100% complete the week, though, so at the end of the document I’ve included critiques for the stories that I didn’t do two years ago. For the record, I remember liking this week. Except for Benny the Snake. Click here to see me lose my mind on him.
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Nov 19, 2017 21:55
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Marianismo 1242 words Prompt: 1951 Argentinian Presidential Election Soledad Espinoza designed for Eva Perón only once. That singular commission came in late May of 1952, as Soledad pinned a summer frock for a judge's daughter and, all around her, the Henriette fashion house workshop buzzed with life. Absorbed in work, she failed to notice Asunta Fernández, personal consultant to the First Lady, until Asunta cleared her throat to speak. It was a thick, near-choked sound. "Ah. Soledad?" Soledad slid a pin into place and turned to meet Asunta's gaze. "Forgive me, Mrs. Fernández. I was at a delicate place. What brings you to the workshop?" Her curiosity was tinged with worry; Asunta was gray-clad and somber, and after months of silence from the First Lady, surely she could only mean to sever her relationship with Henriette entirely. What would that have to do with Soledad? She wasn't one of the endlessly hopeful young designers in the head office, developing collections for Evita's far-from-certain return. Soledad worked for those who wanted her. "May I speak to you privately, Soledad? You and Elena Rivera. I'm told that you two would be ideal for a special commission." Soledad furrowed her brow thoughtfully, trying not to betray her surprise. "Of course, Mrs. Fernández. Let me fetch Elena." She weaved across the busy room to the cutting table, where Elena Rivera cut a batch of blouse patterns with swift, sure hands. "Elena," she said, "can you come with me? Mrs. Fernández wishes to speak with us." "Oh! Yes, yes. Let me finish this cut." Elena did so, in one smooth motion, and followed Soledad back to her dress form. Asunta, in turn, led them to an unoccupied side office, whose door she closed with ceremonial care. "We have had a commission from the First Lady," Asunta began, voice taking on a thick and ragged edge. Had she been crying? "She is suffering from... ah, from a severe exhaustion, and she is concerned that she will not be able to accompany President Perón in the re-election parade. She wishes to have a support structure made that will allow her to greet her people properly. It must be sturdy, and it must be discreet. She is very concerned with her dignity." Soledad, married to a doctor for 30 years, understood "exhaustion" and "discreet" and "dignity." They were the heralds of illness, decline, shame, and futility. Nonetheless, a commission was a commission. "Naturally. Of what form and materials?" "A frame of chicken wire," said Asunta, near-choking. "And plaster. The supplies are in the back workroom. You have three days." At last, for the first time that morning, Soledad understood why she and Elena had been chosen. Most of the Henriette dressmakers were city women, unaccustomed to work with things heavier than cloth; Soledad, though, had grown up on a ranch in La Pampa, and Elena on a Corrientes tobacco plantation. They were the shop's farm women, to be trusted with this strange work. Soledad was glad it was Elena. Of all the young cutters, Elena was the brightest, with the surest hands. She almost looked eager. "We will serve our country," Elena said, eyes bright. "We will serve Evita." *** "She was so beautiful at the Cabildo," said Elena, as she twisted each of the chicken-wire joins together. The framework around the dress form was taking shape under Soledad's hands: a form molded to the First Lady's proportions, something between a corset and a cage, ending just below the underarm to allow mobility. Eva Perón must wave to her people, after all. "Were you there, Soledad?" The answer was easy enough, reflexive, that Soledad didn't look up from her work. "I could not attend. My Beto was ill." No matter that Beto had been a sullen twelve-year-old with a sprained ankle, not a feverish infant; Peronists were happy to imagine what they liked. "Oh, I'm sorry! Poor boy." Elena was undeterred. "It was beautiful, though, so beautiful. Luis and I had only been in Buenos Aires six months, and we'd never seen so many people at once! We were lost in the crowd, but we still had a fine view of the balcony. Oh, I wish she'd accepted!" "She made her choice, dear," replied Soledad, not having the heart to say her choice was made for her. Elena would learn that soon enough: that in the world of husbands and children, the household and the Church, a woman's life would never be her own. Soledad's own career as a dressmaker might have ended in a moment if her Alejandro hadn't been content with four children and able to afford nannies. When Elena and Luis began a family, would he allow her a life beyond it? What freedoms could a steelworker's salary provide for his wife? "Now," Soledad continued, "we ought to check the fit. Is the join secure?" "All tight and clean! Let me fetch the coat." Elena set down her pliers and retrieved the model coat: an ankle-length mink, its irregular lining due for repair before the autumn season, but good enough for this strange work. Elena carried it reverently to the wire-scaffolded dress form and draped it over the shoulders before securing it with two quick pins. "How does it look?" It was perfect, the picture of discretion. The glossy fur betrayed no trace of the wire beneath, and the First Lady's coat would be a thicker and more luxurious piece than this. There was still the plaster to add, and a sturdy layer of it at that, but a properly smooth finish would see to that. It would not be comfortable, but it would serve its purpose. "Wonderful, dear," said Soledad. "Let's start the plastering." *** The day after the parade, on her way to the Metro station after work, Soledad found Elena slumped on a bench. The girl's chest was heaving with barely-stifled sobs, and Soledad thought of Beto and his ankle, and of the desperate, self-absorbed pain of the young. She sat down at the bench and rested a hand gently on Elena's back. Elena inhaled, let out one long unchoked sob, and tried again to speak. "I can't... I can't go back to the shop. I saw her at the parade. She was standing tall, but her face... she tried to smile, but in her eyes, the pain. The agony! God help us, we did that to her!" "We did as she asked us," murmured Soledad, stroking Elena's back. "She chose it." "But she was suffering so!" "She is very brave." Only those with no choice can truly be brave. Soledad thinks, unbidden, of the Virgin Mary: her infinite courage, her infinite suffering, her fate chosen by the Lord of Man. She was silent, and she let Elena be silent, save for the sound of her breathing becoming more even. Once Elena had composed herself, Soledad spoke again. "Let's find you a taxi home. Do you live far?" "I can take the Metro," said Elena, after another long inhalation. "Luis won't be home for a while. I'll have time to clean up, so he won't worry about me." "Let him worry over you if you need it," said Soledad. "As long as it's over you and not over his supper or his shirts." She stood up, and Elena followed, dabbing at her face with a handkerchief. What tears she'd shed were already dry. There was bravery in her, Soledad knew, and she hoped it was more than Elena would ever truly need.
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Nov 20, 2017 01:34
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A Head Full of Numbers (1232) (Musa I's Pilgrimage to Mecca) https://thunderdome.cc/?story=6139&title=A+Head+Full+of+Numbers Nethilia fucked around with this message at 11:16 on Dec 27, 2017 |
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Nov 20, 2017 01:53
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wordcount: 1243 prompt: Channel Islands Occupation Two Birthdays I remember me last birthday. Everyone were round at ours, my Da were all boozed up and my Mam, bless her, was trying to lace his whiskey heavily with water but he weren't having none of it. "Take this away, woman, and get me a real drink, so I can toast her proper." I were just beaming, I'd been sneaking some of me Mam's sherry so my cheeks were full flush and I couldn't help doing little dance steps. Me Da kept punching me on the arm, smiling, even happier 'cause I'd stopped seeing that lousy, two-timing John Tate that Da had always despised. Eventually Da got his whiskey, and he raised his glass. "To me daughter Amy, who is everything I dreamed she'd be, on her birthday, may she get everything she dreams of. " Well, we all drank to that all right, and the next one, so we were feeling right celebratory around the time I turned the radio on. It gave that loud 'pop' you get and I turned the dial slow to find a signal. We don't get much radio in the islands, but when the night is clear we can sometimes get the longwave from the BBC, and that night was as clear as a clergyman's dance card. I found an orchestra playing a song I knew, so I brought out me fiddle and played along. Sometimes the signal would fade, and it were only me, filling the gaps, trying to keep the time and the melody going over the hiss of the speaker. Now Da were never one to shut up completely, so he were both listening to me and talking to uncle Ned, saying peace in our time was a wrong-headed fancy, doing his officer impressions -"We'll give bally jerry another punch on the old snozz." - and telling his old war stories. Me Da fought in the Great War, some folk don't like to talk about it, but he did and a half. Give him a drink and it were mud and filth and explosions for an evening. But when he told those stories, and he caught me watching him, I saw something in his face. Not sad, so much, but like there's something missing. Something he couldn't tell me, or I can't never understand even though I wished I did. So that were me last birthday. This one's different. We're all sitting round quiet where the radio used to be. They came for them last week, every blimmen radio on the island, because of 'Espionage'. Hah. Few enough round here who could even spell it, let alone plot it. There's no whiskey, but someone brought homemade cider and we're making do with that. I dunno what went into it, but it weren't apples and it's hitting me like a ton of bricks. Me Mam is trying to feed everybody sandwiches, as if we didn't have bread rationing, and me Da just sits in Grandad's old chair, pale like a fish after all the fight gone out of it, drinking jar after jar of cider. Eventually he stands up, and he's swaying slightly. He raises his jar, and he says "I'd like to say a toast but gently caress 'em!" "Language," says Mam, looking drat cross, but Da just pretends he doesn't hear. "gently caress Churchill for leaving us here," he says, "so the Nazis can waltz in and deport old Schwartz to God know where. gently caress the nazis for taking our bread, and our salt, and our goddamned sugar so we can't make even a birthday cake and now they take our radios. Our goddamned radios. So raise your glasses and gently caress 'em all to Hell." Nobody actually says anything, but we all have a drink, and my dad is getting that not-quite-sad look again. I have to say, losing the radio hit me hard, too. I were always trying to tune in to something most evenings, to hear new songs to learn on my fiddle. But when they took it, I got mad. I got so mad I followed them and saw where they went. "I know where the radios are, Da," I says all cheeky. "Been keeping my eyes open and I seen them going to the storehouse by the first camp." Da straight looks at me, and I never seen him look at me like that, like he just seen me proper. "Right. That's it," he says, and I swear his face lights up like a candle on Christmas Eve. "I'm going to get our damned radio back." Me Mam looks up in horror, but we've all seen that look on Da's face before and know that we got no way of changing his mind. "Me too," I says, and if Mam looked horrified before she's about to scream blue murder now. But before she can open her mouth, I grab Da by the hand and pull him out to the front door while Mam is still working up a head of steam. Da turns back to her, blows her a kiss, and then we're out, sprinting away and laughing like drunk schoolchildren. We try and sneak down the road, half cut on cider and our own little adventure, whispering our plans loudly to each other. The camp isn't too far away by bicycle, but we walk it, because, as Da says, them radios are damned big bastards and you'd never fit it in the basket anyway. Besides, there's a curfew, so we stick to the copses and off the road. A couple of times a truck rolls past and we dive into the bushes like in some movie caper, probably making a hell of a racket, but for some reason the trucks don't even clock us. By the time we get there, we're a little less drunk and a lot more cold. Da won't have any of turning back though. We can see the storehouse across a field, but two guards are there, standing in front with rifles. "If this was a movie," I says, "I could seduce them while you sneak in." "Not on your life, daughter of mine," says my Da, waving a slightly wobbly fist at me. "What then?" It's dark, but I can still see Da's face. The moon is glinting in his eye and he's grinning like a loon. Right then I think I get a sense of what he's never been able to tell me, and I'm grinning wide too. "We go round the back, like this." He gets down, all the way, so he's lying on his front,and starts dragging himself through the grass toward the back of the storehouse with his elbows, wriggling and pulling himself across the field. There's an echoing pop, like turning on a giant radio, and Da stops right in the middle of the field. The guards run over, rifles pointing, shouting at us "Hände hoch, Hände hoch." I stick my hands right up, but I run towards me Da. He isn't moving at all and I'm suddenly afraid that I was wrong, I didn't understand and me Da would never want me to. I can almost hear him say something, but I can't make it out because he's lying face down, a spreading shadow in the grass. His voice stops and starts again, stops and starts but it's not any kind of words. It's only a scratchy hiss, dying away and I don't have any music to fill the gaps.
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Nov 20, 2017 02:24
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Ω prompt: Fall of Constantinople 810 Words Flavia walked through the garden, stooping now and again to pull up weeds. The wind changed, and the smoky air it brought to her nostrils was a welcome change from the other stenches of a city under siege. She flicked a beetle from a lettuce leaf. “Why?” The voice startled her. “One day, Michael, you’ll scare me right to death,” she said. “Not today,” he said. “You haven't answered my question.” He wore yesterday's clothes or the day before’s, and smelled of sour wine. “A foolish question. The work needs doing.” “Those heads will never see harvest,” said Michael. “They’ll be tramped down while the Turks are taking ours. Why waste these last days? We could use the time so much more pleasantly” Michael leered, and Flavia recalled the days when she’d have been flattered. “Oho, Michael the baker and Flavia the widow,” came a shout from down the street. Caius, the Emperor of Sator Street walked briskly toward them dressed in his usual patchwork clothes sewn from the refuse of the truly wealthy. “Just the ones I hoped to see.” “What are you selling today?” asked Michael. “The only thing worth buying in these times,” said Caius. “Escape. A spot on a ship to Venice, yours for only twenty stavrata.” “I'm not interested,” said Flavia. “How,” said Caius, his face a mask of shock. “If it's silver you're lacking, I can take payment in jewelry.” “It isn't that,” she said. “I've no interest in leaving, at any price.” “Do you know what will happen?” said Caius. “When the walls fall?” “I'm sure I've never given it much thought,” said Flavia. “Mehmed has promised his soldiers three days to loot the city when they take it. Three days to desecrate the temples, to carry off everything worth stealing and wreck or burn the rest.” Caius turned to Michael. “You, if they don't kill you right away, can look forward to working oars for the rest of your days. Or if you can fool them into thinking you can fight you'll have the chance to die foddering the cannons of some Balkan prince.” He darted to face Flavia like a fish that's spotted a flake of food. “As for you, well, a decade past and younger you might have been spotted by an officer, kept safe for sale as a virgin. Not now. They will be an ugly three days for you. And if you survive the, at the end you'll be taken as the slave of some soldier, to cook his meals and wash his clothes for the rest of your days, and like as not to be bent over a table by his sons as soon as their balls drop. They are barbarians, after all.” “If you don't think the same happens in your neighbors’ houses, with their slaves, you're even more a fool than you look,” said Flavia. “If it is the price,” said Caius, “I have another escape. Cheaper.” He glanced at Michael, then lifted his cloak to show a dagger. “For just a quarter-stavraton, a quick death in a basement, painless and free of mortal sin.” “Go,” said Michael. “Find some other fools to sell to.” Caius looked into Michael's eyes, then turned aside, walking down the street. “Would you have taken his deal,” said Flavia. “If the you had the coin?” “If I thought he could get me out, in an eyeblink,” said Michael. “But I'm sure Caius has no berths to sell. At the end of the day some more skilled huckster will have whatever money our little neighborhood emperor has gathered, and Caius will be left on the docks with the fools that believed him.” “At least the ones who took the other deal will have their money's worth.” “Will they?” said Michael. “I doubt that I'd win the argument if Saint Peter called it suicide to pay your own assassin's fee.” “So,” she said, looking over the garden again. The back row still wanted for weeding. “Are you certain you don't want to savor one last chance to be with a man you choose?” asked Michael. Flavia gave it more consideration than she had before. When they were both younger, before her marriage, they had been close. If things hadn't worked out with Victaron, or if she'd just been of looser virtues, something might have happened between them. Flavia didn't believe in regrets, but the thought had passed her mind before, especially on days after hearing tales from her neighbors of the man’s talents. “No,” she said. “I'll instead savor the last chance to refuse.” She slept well that night as the walls fell, with the peace of a person who could never leave her garden untended. Tomorrow it might be crushed or burned or splattered in blood and pain, but tonight it was as it should be, and so she slept.
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Nov 20, 2017 03:14
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sparksbloom fucked around with this message at 04:39 on Nov 27, 2017 |
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Nov 20, 2017 04:31
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Archived.
Tyrannosaurus fucked around with this message at 07:10 on Dec 5, 2017 |
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Nov 20, 2017 05:15
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https://thunderdome.cc/?story=6144
Djeser fucked around with this message at 21:36 on Dec 28, 2017 |
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Nov 20, 2017 05:43
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The Winter Palace 1170 words Snow whipped at my face as Aleksandr offered me the flagpole—more of a stick, really—a tattered piece of red cloth crudely tied to the top. “Take it, Oskar, and join us.” I glanced at the rest of the Aurora’s crew: celebrating and hoisting red flags up the halyard, Captain Nikolsky hands tied behind his back. “All power to the soviets,” I cheered, taking the flag and holding it over my head. I’d joined the Russian Navy to kill Prussians. Never thought I’d be raising anything but a Russian flag, but in those days, loyalty was harder to come by than bread. The ship was moored for repairs, and we’d been going stir crazy without shores to shell or submarines to sink. We’d been drinking, heavily, when the rumors of mutiny started percolating. I’d laughed. “Off with their heads!” I’d shouted. The jokes didn’t seem as funny with our captain restrained. A single trickle of dried blood emanating from under his crisp-white hat was the only sign that something was amiss. With nearly all of the ship’s crew taking the red flag and pledging to the Bolsheviks, and no wartime activities to undertake, the drinking resumed. The captain and the two other men that refused to take part in the revolution were interned in the brig while our newly elected captain decided what to do with them. I volunteered to take first watch of the prisoners. As the party on the deck was in full swing, I tapped on the door to Captain Nikolsky’s cell. “You awake?” I whispered. He sat up in bed and looked at me through the small slit cut in the cell door. “Oskar, is that you?” “Yes.” “Good, we can escape when they pass out.” I frowned. I guarded the prisoners, but somebody trusted even more sat on a stool outside, and they guarded me. “Not tonight, Captain.” “Then you have sentenced us to death.” “They may spare you yet. Join us in the people’s revolution.” The former captain laughed. “There was never an option for me to join,” he said. “Do you know how they choose who gets to command a battleship?” “Oh,” I said, not quite following. “My father owns a factory in Kiev, I went to the best private schools, my wife is Finnish. I was told that a stint as a Navy Captain would shore up my qualifications for a government job.” “Oh,” I said, understanding what he meant. “I didn’t know that. Maybe nobody else knows.” “They know,” said Nikolsky, and I knew it to be true. Captain Nikolsky greeted me on my first day stationed on the Aurora. He’d always been nice to me, but I saw the way the others watched him. I’d seen the small acts of defiance without realizing their significance: graffiti scrawled on the walls in the head, disregarded orders, and shore leave that lasted as long as you wanted. “Why didn’t you run?” I asked, a hint of anger slipping out in my tone. “A captain doesn’t abandon his ship,” he replied with regality. “If the revolution fails, and I ran, I’d lose everything. If the revolution succeeds, I lose everything. It was the only way.” He sighed and hung his head. “But Captain, you just talked of escape.” He scoffed. “I’m not a captain. I’ve got no ship.” I nodded and opened my mouth, but no words came out. I didn’t say anything else to him, I didn’t know anything to say to cheer him up that wasn’t a lie. I’d never been a captain, never been in command, never even lead a group, but I knew what he meant. I returned to the jubilee on the top deck when I was relieved of watch. The leaders of the mutiny, Aleksandr and his followers, were seated in a circle. I made my way toward them and stopped when I was close enough to hear. “We have to kill them now,” argued Zinovy, unsheathing his knife. “Cut them up into little pieces. Make them beg for forgiveness for the thousand years of keeping our families in the mud.” I expected Aleksandr to step in with a cooler head, but he just nodded. “They must be made examples of,” he said. “Fetch the prisoners.” I turned and walked quickly toward the brig, but the eager drunks ran ahead of me. I grabbed my rifle and melted into the crowd forming around Nikolsky and the other two men. In addition to their handcuffs, they also now sported nooses around their neck. The new captain quieted the crowd down to only a few drunken hoots. “You are accused of treason against the people of Russia,” he said. “Do any of you wish to renounce the corrupt government and join with us?” One of the captors, a man that had only joined up a few months ago, tried his best to raise his hand. “Yes, I am with you,” he begged. “I was confused before, it all happened so fast. I am from a poor family, farmers, I have nothing, and wish to fight with you.” His begging seemed earnest, and Aleksandr nodded to Zinovy and his knife. I thought they would slit his throat and toss him overboard, but instead they cut his restraints and freed him. Zinovy grasped his forearm and pulled the man close to him. “Welcome, Brother!” My tension eased with the civility of the new leaders. I was sure Captain Nikolsky and his first mate would nod and agree to join, even if they didn’t agree, just to spare their lives. Anybody would have. But Captain Nikolsky spit at Alexandr’s feet. “I already serve the people of Russia, svoloch.” His first mate spit and swore as well. Zinovy drove his knife into the man’s belly, and he collapsed to the ground. They made Nikolsky watch as they butchered his friend. “We got worse planned for you,” spat Alexandr. They threw the rope around a beam and tightened it. Zinovy wiped his knife against his pants and tightened his grip. I raised my rifle toward the crowd and meekly shouted: “Wait!” but my voice failed to rise above the noise of the cheering crowd. “Stop!” I impotently shouted. The first mate coughed blood onto the steel. The crack of my rifle silenced the crowd, and Nikolsky slumped to the ground. I put a round through the heart of the first mate, and his whimpers stopped. Everybody turned to stare at me, and I didn’t know if I should keep shooting, run, or surrender. “Bourgeois fucks,” I said, and spit. The men cheered and we dumped the bodies overboard. We loaded a blank into the forward gun of the Aurora and counted down in a rhythmic chant. Later they’d call it a bloodless coup, and history would only say that Captain Nikolsky was “killed by rifles.” I gazed blankly into the winter night, a soldier without a war, a captain without a ship. I clenched my teeth as the Aurora’s gun boomed into the night, signaling the start of a new dawn.
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Nov 20, 2017 05:58
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Inferno 803 word The psychiatrist creaked back and forth on a pine chair in his brother's living room. His brother was sipping water out of a coffee mug, and the both of them sat watching the television set on the end table. A news anchor was on. She stood in front of a line of people wearing jackets and bracing their hands together against the October chill. The line extended far off into the plains past the outskirt of the town and it kept going, until it was a smudge on the television panel. His brother spoke over the television: “You remember that time when we were kids? When Colo-Colo made it to the cup and the Argentinians were in town, and we begged and begged and begged Pa to buy tickets to the stadium, and then I…” The psychiatrist finished the thought: “… and then you goaded him, goaded him good. You put on your big-brother voice, and you said to me: ‘You don’t understand, Pa is just sad that he never made club tryouts, you can’t blame him for wanting to be done with football now. Let’s forget about it.’ You said that and a minute later he was driving us to the ticket booth.” The psychiatrist leaned into his chair. “Of course I remember that.” “So we show up and the entire city was waiting in line for tickets. It felt like all of Chile was there that day, just to see a game of football.” His brother stood up to fetch more water. He returned from the kitchenette and spoke again: “… the news just reminded me, that’s all.” The reporter was now interviewing a volunteer, an older woman, at the polling place. Things were going well, and orderly. The woman added, with a dash of patriotism, that she expected nothing less from her fellow Chileans. His brother looked over at him. “Let’s just see how it plays out,” the psychiatrist said. His brother changed the subject. “Hey, maybe while you’re here you can help me out with a problem I’ve been having,” he said. “One of my lambs, this scrawny thing… she won’t stop talking to me. I can’t reason with her, I’ll say ‘just eat the grass! Use that big mouth of yours!’ and she’ll keep on yapping away.” He took a sip of water. “What do you do when someone’s in and they won’t stop clacking?” “If you think about her too much, you’ll start becoming more and more like her, you know.” “Words from a professional,” his brother said. “If it gets bad, you might even start growing hooves, and maybe someone’ll start having to feed you grass. You’ll finally get a shave, at the very least.” A moment passed, and the psychiatrist continued: “I’m being partly serious. Do you ever wonder how a doctor talks to depressed patients all day, and yet he doesn’t become depressed himself?” “And yet,” his brother answered, “when they said all of Santiago would be in a riot by tomorrow, the first thing you do is call, say you’re coming here.” He took another sip. “If you’re trying to prove you’re insulated, I’m not seeing it. The people are getting to you.” He set his mug down. “But, I think what you don’t appreciate… is that the people of Chile are good people,” his brother said. “You don’t see the people I see.” “…the people of Chile, they must good people.” The television went to commercial. The psychiatrist got out of his chair and turned the set off. “I can’t see how talking to your lambs all day gives you any kind of perspective on the matter.” “…well I know this, that the lambs are the most likely ones to start any kind of revolución here. Maybe they’ll rise up on their hooves and topple down the ranch. Francisca might even murder me in my sleep with those teeth of hers…” ===== The next day they were out in the fields, feeding the livestock. The ranch was almost a hundred acres, and it was sandwiched between a rocky outcrop and a vast marsh to the west. His brother emptied the last bucket of feed and then took a deep breath. “Chile is not an inferno yet, at least,” his brother said. The psychiatrist looked out onto the plains to the north. The grass extended to horizon, dry, golden. “What do you think stops a wildfire from taking the whole country down?” the psychiatrist said. “Until one does, my friend,” his brother said, and he joined him and gazed over the goldenrod plains. ===== A week passed and the psychiatrist gathered his things. He said goodbye to his brother, and until next time. A few miles past Curico he passed a billboard of a young, curly-haired woman, and a single line: “Joy is coming.”
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Nov 20, 2017 06:01
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The Pastry War Prompt: Pastry War 841 words “Hey Monsieur Remontel! We’ll buy your pastries! How much? Five thousand reales? Wait! Ten thousand!” Two of the men shouting at Henri laughed, but another spat at him and shouted, “Why don’t you go join them?” Henri had no relation to Remontel, but did unfortunately share his profession. He glanced down the street, and could just make out the French frigate the man was referring to off the coast, lazily anchored in the harbor. It was part of a blockade from the Rio Grande to the Yucatan. The fact that this town hardly had any trade worth blockading had not dissuaded the captain of the frigate from strict enforcement of his orders. The Frenchman lowered his head, and continued down the street, nearly stumbling over a rooster that was strutting about. Several men lounged on the road, leaning up against cracked stucco walls. He recognized Luis, a fisherman. Luis had tried to bring his fishing boat out, but the French frigate had put cannon fire across her bow, so he’d sulked back to shore, muttering about how the shot they’d fired probably cost more than his boat. Now it was lashed to the docks, and they both waited for the war to end. Antonio’s place was on the outskirts of the town, a ramshackle place circled by a haphazard garden. Antonio was outside, throwing bits of maize at his chickens. He looked Henri up and down as he approached, then sighed loudly. “Buenos dias, amigo! How are you Antonio? I thought, ah, I thought…” “What is it, Henri?” “I brought, ah, pastries.” Antonio chucked another handful of maize at the chickens. “Your insensitivity again bewilders us all. Best come inside, I suppose.” Henri hesitated, then followed him inside. María was busy making tortillas. She didn’t say anything as the Frenchman entered. When Henri placed his pastries on the table, Antonio casually tossed them to the dog lying under it. “S-so…” Henri began in his heavily accented Spanish. “I was, ah, wondering… well, ever since the war started, people haven’t… they’ve stopped buying anything from me. I love this town, I do! I love it here, and…” He looked at the dog, scarfing down his baking. “You want me to speak on your behalf.” “Yes!” “You still don’t understand.” “They call me Remontel, as if I had anything to do with this war and—” “Henri, they aren’t buying your pastries because every coin in town has dried up. Half the men are out of work, and people here still are paying rent on the shirts on their backs. Things here don’t work like—can’t work like they were for you back home. I know you are a good man at heart, but… I cannot speak for you. You should go.” “Antonio—” The man leveled his dark eyes with Henri. “You should go.” . The Frenchman felt like crying as he walked away. He’d fallen in love with the land here, but again he glanced out to sea, and saw the French flag flapping about in the warm breeze. Maybe he did have no place here. This time, he did trip on a wandering rooster, who flapped about madly, then went back to strutting. He heard the clatter of metal on cobblestone. A piece of eight had fallen from his pocket when he stumbled. A little girl picked it up, holding it in the sunlight. Henri reached for it. “What is it?” the girl asked. He put his hand down. Oh. All around him were people working and exchanging, and to his eyes, it looked like selling. But that wasn’t what this town was doing. People gave and repaid in favors, because that was what they had. He’d been too busy living like he was back in France, selling everything for coin, because that was how things were done. But there really were no coins here. Any money that came in was snatched up by the wealthy and carted away. Or taken by people like him, he realized. They treated him like an outsider because he acted like one. He’d been using his food to bribe people into respecting him. “Do you like pastries?” he asked the girl. Soon enough, a small horde of children were screaming and playing around Henri’s shop, mouths sticky with fruit and stuffed with dough, and Henri felt himself smiling like he hadn’t in years. This is why he’d come here. The act of culinary creation, and the delight on people’s eyes when they tasted it. His ovens roared as he went through his stockpiles, and soon enough, he was marching through town, handing out baked treats, knowing that even if he didn’t get a single gracias that it wouldn’t matter, that that wasn’t the point. . The next day, he visited Antonio again. “Welcome,” he said, and they sat down at the table together, this time, as equals. The war wasn’t over, of course. The poverty was still there. But, Henri thought, as he placed his pastries on the table, life was just a little bit sweeter.
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Nov 20, 2017 06:26
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Submissions for Week CCLXXVI: Little Man History are now CLOSED! What a delight it is to see history repeat itself in the form of Thunderdome drowning in shame. ThirdEmperor, Sham bam bamina!, flerp, Obliterati, BabyRyoga, J.A.B.C., Deltasquid, apophenium, Natty Ninefingers, Simbyotic, Ironic Twist, TheGreekOwl, Flesnolk, and Amoeba Bot evidently couldn't bear to examine the past. Fuubi has done them one worse and gone AWOL after toxxing, again. When the story of this day is written, it will record more facepalms than mortal man can imagine. Only the path of late submission offers a chance at honor now. Fuubi, your fate depends on the mercy of QuoProQuid. May I suggest some haste? Everyone else, we'll see you in the courtroom. Good luck!
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Nov 20, 2017 06:30
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Title: Of Honor Word count: too many Flash: Meiji Restoration "My father was a samurai," Arashi said while swirling his sake cup. "As was my father before him." He quaffed the alcohol, and the smiling man next to him filled the cup once again to the brim. He gestured for Arashi to continue. "I... I would have followed in their footsteps. That was the path I had chosen." He downed the alcohol again. His cheeks glowed a bright red. "That was all I ever wanted. To don the armor of the samurai like my father and his father before him. To wield my sword for the honor of my family." He looked down at his cup, already filled by deft hands, and a moment of melancholy passed over his face. One lone teardrop slid down his cheek before passing to oblivion on the sake-stained table. "It is a shame," the other man said. "I, too, have lost my honor thanks to those imperialist swine." Arashi looked at the man, and a moment of sobriety returned to him. "You shouldn't say that. The walls have ears." He slumped down and his eyes lost focus again. "The sword," he continued. "My father's sword. He wielded it, as his father, and his father before him. It was mine by right, but now it will become food for my wife and child once we reach Edo." "Ah, you're going to Tokyo? You still have a long ways to go then." The man lifted his own cup for the first time. "Safe travels, my friend. I am truly sorry for you, and for this country." *** Arashi awoke before the sun, as he always did. His wife, Naoko, would sleep for another hour before her day started. His son, Hoshi, stirred, but Arashi gave him a pat, and the young boy soon slept deeply again. He enjoyed the calmness before dawn. It was a time of darkness when everything slept, and he would spend the time meditating while going through his motions. Today, his thoughts kept drifting to the man he had met the night before. As he completed his thousandth swing, he felt saddened that he may have to kill that man. He put down his practice sword. He then stripped and sat down by the river where they had made camp the day before. Off to the distance he could see the silhouette of the town of Narai, where he had met that man. His calmness trembled as the man's face once again made its way into his mind. He recalled the conversation from the day before. The way the man had kept filling his cup and motioning him to talk, all with that false smile... He had been fishing for information. He must be with his friends already, somewhere up the road. Arashi finished washing his body, and took a final dip in the water to remove any remaining suds. As he sank below the surface he contemplated his options. By the time he got out of the water, he had made his decision. He had to tell his wife their journey would take longer than expected. *** They set off on the Koshu Kaido, the southern road to Edo. He pulled the cart, and his wife and son sometimes walking beside him, sometimes riding in the cart. The southern road would take longer, but he decided it was preferable to being ambushed by ronin in the mountains. Ronin. To fall so low as to abandon the code of the samurai. The man had been nimble with his fingers, but his body had screamed of lacking discipline. His only redeeming quality, and the only reason why Arashi decided not to hunt him and his deserting friends down, was the pain in his eyes when he mentioned the imperial rule. Those eyes had told him how much the man had loved the way of the samurai. He dismissed the man from his thoughts, and focused on the road ahead. They would be on the road a day or so longer than expected, but they would reach Edo safely. *** The yoing man came rushing into the camp. He turned to one of the men eating by the dying camp fire. "Dengen! You were right!" His voice echoed through the camp. "They are moving south! They took the southern road like you predicted." Dengen took another bite of his bread. "Hah! I knew that bastard saw through me." He swallowed, took a swig from his water puch, and stood up. "OK, boys! Finish up. We'll cut through the valley and catch them unawares at the Koshu Kaido." Dengen spit into the embers, and a small jet of flames shot into the air. He smiled. "Time to have some fun!" *** Settling down by the fire, Arashi felt uneasy. Choosing the safety of Koshu Kaido should have put him at ease, but instead his body was tense. He felt like a dog before an earthquake. "Is something wrong, dear?" Naoko could sense her husband's anxiousness. She knew that when he worried about something, it was bad. "I don't know," Arashi answered. "We took the safe route, but something feels... wrong." He sighed. "Maybe I'm just overthinking it, but could you bring me Kazakiri?" Naoko let out a small gasp. She quickly went to the back of the cart and produced a long bundle. She knew that if her husband asked for Kazekiri then things must be even worse than she feared. She glanced over at Hoshi, who was sleeping on his blanket in the cart. She suddenly felt a great fear, like she hadn't felt before in her life. When she came around tha cart she saw her husband by the fire. He standing up, while poking the fire with a stick. Something in the way he was standing, looking casual, made her take a step back, deeper into the shadows of the cart. He seemed focused on the fire, moving the stick around aimlessly, but she could see the sign. He was coiled and ready to spring into action. She took the sword out of its bundle. It was an old sword, a Masamune katana, handed down for generations through her husbands family, and it was worth more than all of their other possessions combined. Arashi was going to sell it once they reach Edo, though it would kill him to do so. Suddenly, there was a sharp spark from the fire as Arashi flicked one of the burning logs into the darkness. As it hit something with a yell, he held out his hand towards her. She knew immediately what he wanted, and she flung the sword towards him with all her might. At that moment there was a large shout, and men emerged from the trees by the road. Their swords gleamed in the fire. Arashi caught the scabbard of his sword, and with a flash he drew, and the first man fell to the ground before anyone had time to react. Arashi moved faster now, catching the men off guard as the element of surprise was lost to them. They had counted on him being unarmed. They tried to fight back, but the confusion was too great, and they fell, one by one. Soon, the Kazekiri crossed paths with the sole remaining sword. Dengen stared at Arashi as their swords clashed. He had been a master swordsman once, before they took his honor, and his arms remembered even though his body had lost its grace. The swords clashed again and again. Dengen sweated as he parried desperately. He had not expected this from a man who was never a samurai. He could see his end coming, and his mind went back to what he had lost. He lost his focus, and as the Kazekiri cut throuhgh his neck he could only weep for the life he should have had, and his last thoughts were that of gratitude for being able to die in battle. Arashi cleaned off his sword, and wept for the fallen men. He would bury them, and pray for their souls, even though they were ronin. It was the least he could do.
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Nov 20, 2017 06:35
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and that's that I think. sleep, and dream murky dreams thick with long dead crimes
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Nov 20, 2017 07:36
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The Departure 1241 words There were soldiers camped all over the gardens. They tossed the ends of their cigars under the bushes, and ground the grass into their white trousers as they lounged on it. A few of them had started cooking fires. Gilberto could only grind his teeth, spade and sod twinging his elbows and tailbone. There would be days of it, when this was done. “Ay, boy!” One of them waved a bucket. “Might you bring some water?” GIlberto pointed in the direction of the sheds. “There’s a pump there. Good brass, clean. All you need, sir” The soldier was on his feet in one smooth motion. His grin was sharp as he held the bucket out. “Come now boy! We cannot leave our posts! Besides, I am tired of drinking with horses. I want to try the Emperor's water, for once!” His comrades were all watching. Gilberto took the bucket, smiled carefully, and strode for the palace. His pace did not double until he was past the high hedges. Everything inside was whispers. Three maids spied on the soldiers from the quarter cracked servants’ door. A page had his head entirely inside a dumbwaiter, hissing upwards. He was out and seemingly ready to run at the sound of Gilberto’s heavy gardener’s boots, but dove right back as soon as he saw it was no soldier. The kitchen should have been quiet, the cleaning done from breakfast, the cooks at a round of cards and beer, but everything was baskets and chaos. The sous-chef and a scullery maid stood side by side slicing meat from a hambone and piling it onto brown paper. There were human chains passing bundles and jars from the cellars. Somewhere there was a smash of crockery, and a curse. There was no clear path for the sinks. Something rough and rocky barged into him from behind. He whirled. It was a junior cook, carrying buttercrocks. Her hair was leaking from her cap like treacle. She was flushed and beautiful. He’d tried to give her flowers once. He grabbed her arm as she plunged by. “Adelina, what’s going on?” She barely kept her grip. Her mouth flopped a few times before she spoke. “The Emperor. The family. They are going on a journey.” “Journey? When was this announced? Where?” She shook her head, and stiffened. Gilberto’s neck prickled as the sound of frantic work doubled. Behind him was Joseo, the head butler, her father, his black suit unblemished and his spine an unbending bow from the tip of his nose to his rear end in a top hat. “Gilberto, are the snails too much for you again, that you must come blundering in?” Gilberto could only hope his tan saved him from Joseo seeing him redden. “Soldiers are having me run them water, said they….” “Really now, toadying already? Fill your bucket elsewhere and stop ...bothering... my staff.” Joseo’s gaze swept downward. “And get your dogboots out of my kitchen!” Gilberto backed into the corridor and sidestepped around the corner, teeth grinding.The servant’s washroom was at the far corner of the building, and he had no idea what passageways would be open. Hullabaloo echoed from everywhere. What the hell was he doing anyway? What would the soldier be able to do, as long as he did not go back out? Someone had dropped a mango. He picked it up, peeled it, and began to eat it slowly. It was ripe and still wonderfully cool from the cellars. Three-quarters through he began to hear a sudden shift in noises. The sounds of packing had stopped and people were instead all hurrying off. Someone called. “Come, come quickly!” The kitchen was empty now, baskets gone and wreckage everywhere. Gilberto followed the tail-end of the crowd out into the palace proper, keeping self-consciously to the hardwood and off the carpets. The herd spilled out into the grand hall. With a sudden ring of boots, soldiers marched in, filing out to fence back the crowds. It seemed everyone was there, the stablehands, the smiths, the menagerists, the maids. In galleries above there were the clerks, secretaries, and all the other sorts of fat bureaucrats who thought so highly of the themselves. Everyone was hushed, waiting. Through the grand doors came another knot of soldiers, dripping with gilt and tassels. At their head was some officer, his round blue chest a waterfall of medals and curly beard. He was beaming brighter than any bureaucrat. His heels bounced against the marble. He stopped dead center, arms behind his back, and in that instant a quiet gasp rippled through the hall. The Emperor was coming down the stairs, bodyservants behind, his daughter on his arm. His eyes were almost solid shadows beneath his brows. His shoulders moved too much with every step. The officer simply waited, not moving. When the Emperor reached him, he did not salute. Just a nod, with all the ceremony of a man for an acquaintance on the street. Then the Emperor was past, and out the doors. The officer turned about, once, his eyes taking in the whole of the hall, a smirk splitting his mustache and beard. “My fellow Brasilianos! Today, without bloodshed, without struggle, we are free! We close the door on the old, and Brazil strides forward to the enlightened new! We will have a constitution, and true leaders of the people! Elections will be in three months, and in the meantime, I will keep your ship of state true and steady!” Across from him, Gilberto could see Joseo. His lips were getting whiter and spine somehow stiffer with every word as the officer spoke on. “There will be much more for the morrow, dear friends, but for now myself and my fellow committee members must adjourn and plan. We will require refreshments, and cigars if you please, in the Ambassador’s Room.” Then they were upstairs, the soldiers marching along behind. The silence after they were gone was wooden. Someone whispered. “Just who does that peacock think he is?” Someone else laughed too loudly. Joseo twitched. The voice continued. “Cigars, the emperor's cigars? The upstuck poo poo! Likely loving port and rum too! I might as well just have them myself , I have far more right than that stuffed shirt does!” Joseo’s eyes were slits now. From behind Gilberto, someone yelled back. “gently caress you and your mother, Rojo, you monarchist dog! Fonseca has done far more for our country than a white feathered twerp like you!” There was more shouting, more voices, a scuffle. Joseo surged forward. “Cease, cease! You monkeys! Cease!” Gilberto tried to shy back, find a door, but someone collided full force against the small of his back, and sent him flying into Joseo. “Gilberto!” Joseo’s face was mottled red and white, and he swept his eyes the length of Gilberto’s body as if he could skin him. Gilberto tried to duck, sweep his feet away like a naughty child and flee but, in that instant from beneath his boots came a wet end of a soldier’s cigarillo, smeared across the marble like a turd. Joseo shrieked, wordless, his arms out, hands grasping for Gilberto’s neck. Gilberto watched his arms bring the bucket up, watched Joseo’s head go back, and the globbets of blood from his nose and lips arc into the brightness of the hall. A woman, perhaps Adelina, screamed. Gilberto turned and ran as behind him everything exploded into violence.
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Nov 20, 2017 08:28
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Judge fiat: under the wire. Not DQ'd.
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Nov 20, 2017 08:53
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Interprompt: Aliens and Wizards Are Actually the Driving Force of All History, Literally All of It (Except the Russian Revolution)
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Nov 20, 2017 09:04
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Thanks to all those who submitted. For those who failed, please know you can still get a crit for this week if you submit. Even if it is DQed, I would love to read what you wrote.
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Nov 20, 2017 14:52
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