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Pepe Silvia Browne
Jan 1, 2007
Probation
Can't post for 7 days!
I'd like to unburden myself of a BAD DOG.

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Thranguy
Apr 21, 2010


Deceitful and black-hearted, perhaps we are. But we would never go against the Code. Well, perhaps for good reasons. But mostly never.
I'd like to unburden another.

Profane Accessory
Feb 23, 2012

This being Moby Dick week, I went into judging looking for headstrong characters with maniacal fixations on colossal goals, baroque prose, portentous dialogue, and a strong dash of the inexorable march towards inescapable fate. Failing that, I guess, gently caress it, throw a whale or a boat in and call it good. On the whole, this week was generally decent, with a compressed feeling across the board. The low stories generally had some redeemable qualities, and the high stories were not without serious flaws. For those who care, I read all of these in judgemode and have added the author names post-judgement.

From On High, by Toaster Beef
There’s a nicely fleshed out quality to the setting in this story, with some good evocative detail work around the description of the church. The arrival of the dead parishioners locks in well to a creepy tone, and the voices of the deaders are well distinguished from one another. However, there’s also a lot of exposition work describing what would normally happen in an average, non-ghosty day for the Benjamin, especially before the ghosts show up, and that stuff has a porridgy quality that’s not the most fun to wade through. Many of the setting details don’t end up contributing to the story beyond window dressing, which is generally fine for long form story work, but in flash fiction you can’t really afford to be throwing out inefficient words. The engagement with the prompt is pretty minimal to my eye; Benjamin seems to spend most of his time being meekly confused about affairs, right up to the point where he gets beaned by some falling plaster. Not exactly overflowing with blood and thunder. The use of the quote was fairly superficial -- I think there’s a lot more potential in the provided line than what the story draws from it.

Helioglabalus, by crimea
I found this one pretty confusing, almost aggressively so, on the first read-through. There’s a lot of sci-fi fluffery to slog through, and the story falls into that unfortunately common sci-fi pitfall of being more interested in theoretical structures for harvesting star energy than in compelling characters with coherent motivations. Around the point where our guy steals a spaceship to go try and crash an entire Dyson sphere into the star, I started to get a flavor for a good Melvillian doomed mission -- but why this guy? What’s it about this guy, who’s not a warrior, who seems like a pretty fluffy sort of fellow, that makes him decide that he’s the guy to singlehandedly sabotage a star-scale satellite network? And then, it seems like not only does this guy successfully reach the Dyson sphere, putting the smack down on some stowaway nerd in the process and engaging in some Event Horizon fire extinguisher shenanigans, but he also succeeds in collapsing the entire sphere with some nifty computer touching. So, the story had some Moby-Dickery going on for a hot second, but then threw it away for the sake of a generic story of a hero who makes the ultimate sacrifice so that some dudes in the coda can wipe a tear away and talk about how great it is that there’s still a sun. There’s potential in the setup, but it needs a much stronger protagonist than the one we meet here.

For You, My Love, A Hubris, by Sitting Here
I very much enjoyed the Tower of Babel meets Katamari Damacy nature of the staircase Grizelda builds to slap half of her wife’s face off the Sun (which, if nothing else, is a delightfully unusual sentence). The imagery of the Sun wearing a half-skin mask with a burning eye-socket is pretty chef-kiss primo stuff, and there’s a good bit of Melvillian maniacal hubris to Grizelda’s endeavor. I do think the piece would be stronger if Grizelda’s motivations were fleshed out a little better, though: Eleanor doesn’t seem to be terribly miffed about missing half of her face in her dialogue, and it’s not immediately clear why it’s so important to Grizelda either. The Sun’s motivations seem a bit half-baked, too. I’d also take a quick gander over that stretch of dialogue with Tholomul in the mid-section, and toss the lot of it out -- it’s pretty banal stuff, which dampens the kind of wild creativity of the opening. I also felt like the big conflict piece with the Sun was a bit of a whiff -- the Sun just kind of crumples when it gets some of its own rays reflected back on it and rolls over, which knocks the foundations out from under all of the juicy stakes that were established in the lead-up to the conflict. I found the conflict resolution a little pat and convenient, but I also thought the idea of Eleanor lending her face to the Sun half the time to create the Moon was a clever twist that I didn’t see coming. Good stuff.

Art Performance, by Armack
I see what you’re going for here, with the calling to art standing in place of the desire for revenge in generating a maniacal and self-destructive purpose, but it’s missing a visceral immediacy as a motivation. The ambiguity about the nature of the artist’s art -- is it art? Are they just a giant rear end in a top hat? -- doesn’t give the vileness of the protagonist’s actions a foundation to work from, and makes the character feel flat. Additionally, while it seems like there’s potential for some character development to occur, it doesn’t happen in this story. The protagonist starts out being lovely, and ends the story being lovely, and at no point do they exercise any agency with regard to how they respond to their calling. There is conflict present, and the protagonist clearly bears some resentment against the insistence of their calling, but that doesn’t come to a head here, and that ultimately leads to an unsatisfying resolution to the setup of the story. Finally, I’d consider carefully what the use of second person is achieving for the story; for me, it came across as tired and gimmicky, and it hamstrings the story from being able to dig deeper into the motivations of the characters.

In The Depths, by Yoruichi
There’s some good work with epic-scale battle imagery here, and some of the eldritch sea horror stuff with, e.g., krakens being summoned from the entrails of dead whales is fun. That said, I think the story would benefit substantially from a bit of restraint; all of the gigantic set pieces crowd out any opportunity for building interesting characters. Isaiah is a passive character throughout, spending most of his time being tied to stuff and getting carved on by the Captain, and beyond a superficial sort of empathy for someone in a decidedly lovely situation, I wasn’t especially invested in whether or not Isaiah survived. I also didn’t feel like I got an especially strong handle on Agwé’s motivation -- it’s implied that she doesn’t do this kind of thing often, but it’s not clear why this whaling event was the last straw that caused her to surface, or what’s prevented her from stepping in and taking a more active role in smacking whalers around before now. Overall, this has what in film terms would be CGI bloat -- it’s spectacle over substance. As pure spectacle, there’s some good material here, but I think it could use a bit of tightening up.

Debtor, by apophenium
I liked the body horror of unspooling microplastics directly from the lungs pretty well, but I think the stakes could be have been built up considerably -- I don’t think we ever get a compelling reason why the Middle is so interested in harvesting lung junk, and it’s not at all clear to me why a table-top sized statue of a tree formed from hocked-up plastic would be an effective means of kickstarting a rebellion against the Middle. I also didn’t really get why it was important that the protagonist gets cyberpunk lungs; I’m guessing this was maybe a play on Ahab’s leg? Like, lungs made out of, presumably, plastic serving as analogy to a whalebone leg in terms of a prosthetic made from the hated enemy? I’m also not sure the idea of artificial lungs that inject microplastics into the bloodstream sounds like a super-good idea, medically speaking; I think the Middle may want to go back to the whiteboard on this one. There’s some fun stuff in this, but it ultimately felt pretty lightweight and pointless to me.

life loving sucks so death has to as well, by flerp
This story pushed pretty much every single one of my pet peeve buttons -- it’s technically fine, but from the 2edgy lower-case title to the bullshit second-person POV to the insufferable whininess of the voicing to the tired cheap melodrama of yet another family drama around the funeral of a dead grandparent who, gasp, was no angel… And while I knew this was going to pull out some Very Special Episode style reconciliation at the end even before I got there, that last line is a pungent wet fart. I also have no idea what any of this has to do with Moby Dick -- the prose is solipsistic and petulant, and about as far from Melvillian as it’s possible to get. Unless, maybe, this was a meta thing about the maniacal folly about trying to ram a whiny teenager story into a Moby Dick theme week, in which case, good job.

Due East of Split Rock Point, by Weltlich
Of all of the stories this week, I felt like this one did the best job of hitting a grim, doomed tone reminiscent of the narrative march in Moby Dick. There’s some slick violence to the beating Thomas puts on the spooky lake monster that works very well in a stabbery from hell’s heart context. And I like that you didn’t show us much of the shark -- you’ve wisely left the details of the monsters sparse, trusting the imagination of the reader to paint in the rest. Now, all that said, the story is light on agency and motivation for Thomas -- he reacts directly to the events of the story, but his hand is forced by the plot in all instances. For example, it’s not immediately clear why it’s imperative that Thomas fight the monster munching on Paul, especially given that Thomas knows full well that Paul is already dead, and Thomas knows full well that his oxygen is in scarce supply. Or why Thomas tries to bring Paul’s chewed corpse with him when he tries to make his escape. Finally, while I thought the eyelessness of the beasts was a good way to engage with the quote, I think the story could have made more use of that element; standard good horror story practice would have had the lantern go out at the worst possible moment during Thomas’s fight with the beast. And watch out for the typos -- this one could have used another proofing pass.

Sun-Comprehending Glass, by sparksbloom
I liked what you did with your quote here, emphasizing both emotional and literal coldness approaching the top of the office building where Nell works. The voicing of the story is generally pretty good, too, with some thoughtful detail work propping up the narrative. Nell’s agency within the narrative, however, is less good -- her one major action, quitting her job, seems like a foregone conclusion throughout, and there don’t seem to be any stakes attached to that decision. I did like the ambiguity of the window washer’s death, and I think that if Nell’s decision to leave her job had been a little more tortured, that device might have been substantially more effective. I didn’t get the sense that there was much engagement with the Moby Dick theme; I’d been hoping that Sheryl was going to turn into an Ahab replacement in an workplace-reimagining of the story, but she turned out to be fairly measured in her ruthlessness.

War stories, by Black Griffon
Your hellrule really screwed you on this one, I think. If you get something as fucky as mandatory non-sequentiality, it’s ambitious to plow forward with a slightly goofy epic sci-fi conceit. When used well, the non-sequential narrative device can be effective in terms of playing with reader expectations and driving thematic emphasis over plot; in this case, however, it’s a pretty rote tale of prideful out-of-touch superiors and the noble commanders who defy them to save their soldiers, rendered into a slog by the chopped up nature of the story. The opening is a bit of a pratfall, unfortunately -- the trappings of simulated authenticity with alephs and TTS proceedings and whatnot is at odds with the blunt adolescence of the tone our guy uses in communicating with the emperor. All that aside, though, this story is actually pretty strong when it gets down to painting a sci-fi war story -- the action is blocked out decently, and the language keeps pace with the flow of violence. There’s some good material here, and I wouldn’t get too caught up on the fact that this was selected for the loss.

The Litany of the Wounded Ones, by Antivehicular
I think you’re largely successful in hitting the mark of an epic mythical tone for this story, and you did a good job of meeting your hellrule without having the 50-word sentences stand out from their surroundings. I’m getting a little caught up on the choice of the word “litany” -- I’m not sure that actually fits here, but that’s a minor point. Anyway, so what we’ve got is an origin story for what sound like dragons, developing through an evolutionary process that would bring a sparkle to Jean-Baptiste Lamarck’s eye. The idea of a diverging population of mountain dwellers, with some driving to the depths and the others to the sky, is not uninteresting, but I’ve read this a couple of times now and I still feel like it’s missing a hook -- some kind of naughty apple munching or suchlike that leads to the would-be sky worms diverging from their descending compatriots. As it stands, the motivation for both groups (be it down-digging or up-digging) feels sparse, which leaves the ending feeling unresolved. In terms of engagement with the theme of the week, the ties to Moby Dick feel tenuous, aside from the chopping off of legs, to which: partial credit.

The Old Ways, by Hawklad
If nothing else, I certainly learned a bunch of new words for things from this story. For me, at least, being unfamiliar with all of the traditional words used here, having to skip back and forth between the story and a search window looking for definitions made for a stilted reading experience. I liked the backstory around Anak’s mermaid wife and sacrilege of his consumption of boa meat, but felt like the story could have done more to tie that into the narrative; furthermore, given that Anak seems like he’s got his head on more or less straight, it seemed off that it took a visitation from a dream jaguar for him to realize that harvesting achu head trophies for the inkis was putting him on the wrong side of history. The madness of his snake thirst driving him to his actions was a decent engagement with the theme of the week, but I think more could have been made about how his pride as a warrior drew from that supernatural thirst.

Roger Bartholomew Pickett: A True History, by Thranguy
This story started out strong and stood out from the pack with its commitment to damnable jolliness, but for me it ran out of steam around halfway through, where it becomes more interested in uncovering the reasons for Roger’s condition rather than establishing stakes and conflict for him to work with. There’s a lighthearted, jokey tone that persists throughout, but it felt like the setup for a joke that was missing a punchline, and the ending was a bit of a directionless cop-out. I also felt like the story had plenty of opportunity to connect more satisfyingly with the Moby Dick theme, but ultimately didn’t choose to engage with those opportunities in a meaningful way. Still, I enjoyed the lighthearted tone, and Roger’s slow yet jolly disintegration as his succession of crewmates grew increasingly disconcerted was fun to read.

Cetacean Bycatch, by sebmojo
This was a bastard of a hellrule, and as with War Stories, I think that the attempt to hew close to its dictates ended up costing the story its soul. The transformation of Dover came out of left field at the end, without any telegraphing that I can find, and the characters of Dover and Finn didn’t feel particularly whale-like -- they felt like human characters with a slap-dash coat of whale paint. The bickering between Dover and Finn takes up a lot of oxygen in the story and quickly becomes repetitive, which wouldn’t be so bad if it didn’t remove any room for the establishment of any sort of meaningful conflict or stakes. The end result is a kind of “lol random” brand of surrealism that doesn’t leave much to chew on. Having read this on judgemode, I hadn’t realized this was yours, seb, until after judgement -- I was surprised on the reveal, as I’d normally expect better from you.

Weltlich
Feb 13, 2006
Grimey Drawer
Thanks for the crit from the judges! I'm going to have to sit this week out due to some family issues, but hopefully I'll be able to get in on the next round.

Black Griffon
Mar 12, 2005

Now, in the quantum moment before the closure, when all become one. One moment left. One point of space and time.

I know who you are. You are destiny.


Appreciate the judging and crits!

Toaster Beef
Jan 23, 2007

that's not nature's way
Yeah, I was about to note that I deeply appreciate the level of critique we get here. I've been loving terrible at keeping up with this thread (and failed three times because of it), but it's also one of the best sources for regular, solid criticism from talented writers and editors I'm aware of, and that kicks rear end. Thanks, all.

Doctor Zero
Sep 21, 2002

Would you like a jelly baby?
It's been in my pocket through 4 regenerations,
but it's still good.

Toaster Beef posted:

...criticism from talented writers and editors...

Did you post this in the right thread? :raise: :D

Djeser
Mar 22, 2013


it's crow time again

The writers are talented, but behind every talented writer is a mountain of bad stories and Thunderdome is that mountain :patriot:

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007
Boy those are a lot of posts that aren't signups. Fix that.


Thranguy posted:

I'd like to unburden another.

Your fists unclench and your shoulders slump as you at last let go of your earliest memory.

Fleta Mcgurn posted:

in, :toxx:. My character will let go of the concept of a "typical" lifestyle. Unless that's too broad, in which case you may give me something for them to let go of.

That is fine. This is about as broad as I'll allow, though! From here on out, if you post your un-burden and i don't reply, assume it gets the stamp of approval.

crimea posted:

I'd like to unburden another.

With a shaky sigh, you relinquish your attachment to serial murder

Toaster Beef posted:

I'd like to unburden another.

With a tearful look to the heavens, you unburden yourself of your sixth sense

Weltlich
Feb 13, 2006
Grimey Drawer
Ugh, fine ok.

I'm in and shall unburden myself of a pair of car keys

flerp
Feb 25, 2014
i'd like to unburden another

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007

flerp posted:

i'd like to unburden another

Your throat hitches as you let go of your voice.

Antivehicular
Dec 30, 2011


I wanna sing one for the cars
That are right now headed silent down the highway
And it's dark and there is nobody driving And something has got to give

I'd like to unburden another.

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007

Antivehicular posted:

I'd like to unburden another.

The pouring rain sounds like applause as you at last divest yourself of that stained glass window.

Simply Simon
Nov 6, 2010

📡scanning🛰️ for good game 🎮design🦔🦔🦔
Hello yes I'm here to get rid of the internet

Chairchucker
Nov 14, 2006

to ride eternal, shiny and chrome

THUNDERDOME LOSER 2022




I'll unburden your face with my fist

(and also another)

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007

Chairchucker posted:

I'll unburden your face with my fist

(and also another)

You wince and cradle your now-broken weak babby fist, then exhale a shuddering sob as all attachment to your muse leaves you.

sebmojo
Oct 23, 2010


Legit Cyberpunk









I'm judge

Doctor Zero
Sep 21, 2002

Would you like a jelly baby?
It's been in my pocket through 4 regenerations,
but it's still good.

Sitting Here posted:

Boy those are a lot of posts that aren't signups. Fix that.


:hai:

I would like to unburden another.

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007

Doctor Zero posted:

:hai:

I would like to unburden another.

You are overtaken by an unexpected calm upon letting go of a broken music box

Profane Accessory
Feb 23, 2012

Well, if no-one else is going to do it, I will release a giant fart.

And also write a story this week.

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007

Barnaby Profane posted:

Well, if no-one else is going to do it, I will release a giant fart.

And also write a story this week.

:hist101:

Anomalous Blowout
Feb 13, 2006

rock
ice
storm
abyss



It makes no attempt to sound human. It is atoms and stars.

*
In, and my character will let go of the need to protect their offspring.

Sitting Here
Dec 31, 2007
oh yeah signups closed while i passed out face-down in a puddle of drool while trying to unburden myself of coherent thought

I'm feeling gregarious, so if you took an assigned unburdening and aren't feeling inspired, you may ask me for a new assignment. It will cost you 100 words, bringing your max word count down to 569.

crimea
Nov 16, 2012

THUNDERDOME LOSER 2020
Lottery Face
Word count: 382


Sitting Here posted:

With a shaky sigh, you relinquish your attachment to serial murder

CAUGHT YOU!
>CAUGHT YOU!
>>CAUGHT YOU!
>>>CAUGHT YOU!
Jackrabbit, that morning when I plucked his pearly teeth ‘til the smell at the back of his mouth filled the whole room, I knew my time was up. Something was in the air. It’s not that I would die – there’s no evidence that would ever happen – but this game you and I play would stop. This chapter would close, and we’d both get on with our lives. I’ll be somewhere padded, probably, and they’ll make tv shows about me that lonely fathers will watch. As for you, I cannot say. I don’t know what you are. Your spirit is infinite filth. My spirit is rare and beautiful, and like all rare and beautiful things it eventually goes away, driven out or destroyed by people who don’t understand. Maybe parents will tell their kids about me. That’s all in the future, the only things left to look forward to. I have few regrets, and I will likely make my peace like a king. There’s just one thing. I never figured out how to be happy.

Jackrabbit, I didn’t hear them enter when you caught me. They broke the front door down, and the windows shattered and there was shouting and stomping, but I didn’t hear any of it. His head was in a vice and he was making this mewling noise that some of the others had made after they reached a certain precipice. It’s funny; if I had more time I might’ve had a breakthrough. But Detective Gardens and Officers Tully and Wilson kicked open the basement door and started hooting and howling and making their noises up on the staircase, like crows circling a half-buried treasure. Jackrabbit, I looked up at them and kept tightening the vice and I heard his eyeball pop out his skull and then they were still barking and oinking. Jackrabbit, that’s when you came. Gardens’ face started getting scratched off like a lottery card, peeling away and collecting under your fingernails, and underneath his face was yours. Jackrabbit, you stared at me with a technicolor grin; like looking in the mirror. Game over. I never figured out how to be happy. Jackrabbit, please don’t hurt me too bad.
CAUGHT YOU!
>CAUGHT YOU!
>>CAUGHT YOU!
>>>CAUGHT YOU!

Chili
Jan 23, 2004

college kids ain't shit


Fun Shoe
There things that I still owe gacha winners. I have not forgotten. Keep a watch on the thread

Black Griffon
Mar 12, 2005

Now, in the quantum moment before the closure, when all become one. One moment left. One point of space and time.

I know who you are. You are destiny.


derp and Chili, I've been bad. You have a standing brawl, which I forgot about, but I shall be the arbiter of your deeds.

Your prompt:
I'm drunk, the reason I've not participated this week, but me and my roomie held a highly successful quiz at this party we've organized. You shall write a story about a game show. Is it about a running man scenario? A battle royale? A bog standard Jeapordy thing? You decide.

Word count: 5000, not a demand, but some liberty.

Due: 7/9/19, 12 pm GMT

Throw out your :toxx: to confirm you've read my demands, good luck.

The winner? Well, they get a video reading.

I'm gonna regret this.

Doctor Zero
Sep 21, 2002

Would you like a jelly baby?
It's been in my pocket through 4 regenerations,
but it's still good.

E: archived in Thunderdome archives

Doctor Zero fucked around with this message at 00:26 on Jan 2, 2020

Chili
Jan 23, 2004

college kids ain't shit


Fun Shoe

Black Griffon posted:

derp and Chili, I've been bad. You have a standing brawl, which I forgot about, but I shall be the arbiter of your deeds.

Your prompt:
I'm drunk, the reason I've not participated this week, but me and my roomie held a highly successful quiz at this party we've organized. You shall write a story about a game show. Is it about a running man scenario? A battle royale? A bog standard Jeapordy thing? You decide.

Word count: 5000, not a demand, but some liberty.

Due: 7/9/19, 12 pm GMT

Throw out your :toxx: to confirm you've read my demands, good luck.

The winner? Well, they get a video reading.

I'm gonna regret this.

Yeah, can't really do that. The time frame I proposed synced up with my wife's break, which would have given me more time to write. Now that she's back in, I can't really commit to anything.

Gonna have to pass, unfortunately.

Toaster Beef
Jan 23, 2007

that's not nature's way
Prompt: With a tearful look to the heavens, you unburden yourself of your sixth sense

Reaching || 484 words

This isn’t where it should happen. Not this fluorescent-tinged hellhole. Fake fern in the corner. Indiscernible certificates hanging on the wall. Armed MP who looks as out of place as I feel.

I don’t deserve to lose her again, and I certainly don’t deserve for it to happen in a place like this.

“Baby? What’s going on? Talk to me.”

This should feel more like a ceremony—more mournful, more somber. Someone from the clergy should be here. Someone with empathy. Anyone with empathy. Instead: Jonas. With his cheap suit, and his patronizing voice, and his sallow, waxen face. He’s trying to look sad. It’s infuriating.

“We’re deactivating the implant now, Mr. Reeves,” he says, his tone tilting upward. Unnatural. Manufactured. Gross. “Five seconds.”

“Baby, what’s happening? Are they doing it now? Talk to me, please.”

I do my best to keep a straight face, but her voice, her desperation, is destroying me. I want to grab Jonas’s head and bounce it off the manufactured wood of his desk. I want to see how well that cheap suit burns.

I nod. The MP shifts slightly. Five seconds.

The implant hums to life in a way it hasn’t in more than a year—since they first brought her back to me.

Medicine got better over my five tours. Killed became wounded. Debilitated became restored. But when you come back home from China with PTSD and a wife killed in mainland attacks, there’s no graft for that. You take what help you can get.

When the docs at the VA tell you you’re a candidate for something wildly different, something revolutionary, you take it.

They were able to bring her back—until the insurance company decided there were better ways to spend their money.

Medicine got better. People didn’t. Not in the ways that mattered.

He’s staring at me. This clip-on rear end in a top hat is actually trying to emote. I want to wrap my hands around his throat. Give him something to look so vacant about.

The MP shifts again. He’s realizing he never patted me down.

“Baby? Please. Please—”

Images flash through my mind. First date. Both of us freezing cold, neither wanting to say anything. The way her eyes shrunk to small slits when she smiled. Movies on the couch. The cat. Our wedding. I cling to these things.

They recommended dialing back how frequently we talked, to help brace for the impact of letting go entirely. I’ve tried. I’m trying. I can’t anymore.

“It’s happening now. I’m so sorry. I love you. More than anything. I’ll be with you soon.”

“They can’t do this they can’t do this THEY CAN’T DO THIS—I love you too, I love you so much, they can’t—”


Silence. I close my eyes as the hum of the implant fades to a stop. I open them to the snap of Jonas closing his laptop.

He’s already packing up. My hand goes to my pocket.

Chairchucker
Nov 14, 2006

to ride eternal, shiny and chrome

THUNDERDOME LOSER 2022




PROMPT: your muse leaves you.


That You Wanted to See Fly 388 words

Wilson picked up his paintbrush and started to paint Charlie.

~

He had discovered Charlie on the path of one of his walks. The walks he hadn’t needed since he’d found him. Charlie had had a damaged wing, so Wilson had taken him home, cleaned him off and borrowed an old budgie cage to hold him. And he’d drawn Charlie.

He didn’t know what it was about Charlie, but after that first drawing the floodgates had opened. It wasn’t just pictures of Charlie. Charlie’s chirping had made him paint a river scene. When he’d accidentally left Charlie out in the rain – not for long mind you – Charlie’s indignant squawks and shaking off water had made him sketch a dog, blurrily shaking muddy water onto people around it.

The first time Charlie had tried to fly, he’d started to draw him before checking to see if he’d injured himself with his less than smooth landing. Charlie had seemed fine, so Wilson had gone back to the drawing.

He’d never found out what kind of bird Charlie was. It seemed almost obscene to cage Charlie’s potential by putting a label on him. “Quite right,” a voice within him had sarcastically said, “much better to cage him with an actual literal cage.” A voice he’d ignored because after all, Charlie hadn’t been able to fly properly.

Until he had been able to. And he’d painted Charlie as he’d flapped around his small living room, flying into the window again and again as he’d tried to get out.

~

Now, as Wilson picked up his paintbrush, Charlie seemed to be sulking. He was still beautiful, though. Still worth painting.

Wilson put the paintbrush to the canvas, then put it down again. He opened the door to his backyard, then the door to Charlie’s cage. He watched as Charlie hopped to the edge of the cage, cocked his head to one side as if expecting a trick, then slowly flew out his door and over the trees.

The image of Charlie’s flight still in his mind, Wilson picked up the paintbrush again, then shook his head and put it down again. The image was already fading, as was his desire to paint.

Maybe he would become a writer instead, he thought, they probably didn’t have this problem.

Thranguy
Apr 21, 2010


Deceitful and black-hearted, perhaps we are. But we would never go against the Code. Well, perhaps for good reasons. But mostly never.
Prompt: Your fists unclench and your shoulders slump as you at last let go of your earliest memory.

Dandelion Petals

325 words

You will find yourself in an unfamiliar room, lying abed, being talked at by a wart-nosed goblin and a young stranger. He will offer a deal. She will gaze expectantly, awaiting a sign of recognition. You will not be completely certain if either of them is real.

"Your earliest memory," he will whisper moistly in your ear. "In exchange for one of her." You, being read a kid's book about a firefly, suddenly understanding how the words it writes in the sky are put together from letter-sounds, then applying that cracked code to the rest of the book. A moment of joy and pride and revelation. Precious. Priceless, even.

A cheap price to pay. You will nod acquiescence to the goblin, and...

Well, that's not how it works, is it?

It takes and takes and takes. He will sneer at you as the gold in your palm turns to dandelion petals. She will remain a stranger, a mystery. You will realize that this is what counts as a good day, from here on to the end. Being aware of what is missing.

You will look at her again. You will notice that all of the mirrors in the room are covered. You will look at your hands, and that will tell you much. They will be an old man's hands. Too old for her to be wife or lover, or even daughter. Granddaughter, then? You will make your guess, begin your bluff.

You will hope that you have been a positive influence in her life, that you have been worth this long and painful goodbye. You will smile and nod along, saying what you think is expected. You will understand that these visits are for her comfort, and you will do your best to help her pretend that there is something left of the man she knew inside this plaster cast. Only for her. You will be beyond comfort. 

It will not be much longer.

Simply Simon
Nov 6, 2010

📡scanning🛰️ for good game 🎮design🦔🦔🦔
The Invitation
666/669 Words

The words on the screen were burned into Claire’s retinas. When she closed her eyes, they shone as afterimages, and stayed legible through tears that blurred the rest of her lonely room.

It was just the usual invitation to the party. She would make herself useful as always, support the guys as they dealt damage to the bosses. Claire’s healer character on the sidelines of the action, vitally important but never the star of the show. That’s how she liked it anyway.

Sometimes, they would yell at her to heal the big hits faster, to anticipate attacks she couldn’t possibly see coming. It was just heated gaming moments, she understood that; things were at stake here, of course, her party was quite successful, and she couldn’t afford to make mistakes. So what if emotions flared up a little, that was normal. She could deal with a few insults.

The boys knew how important she was, and always complimented her. On her voice and her fashion sense (represented by her character’s outfit), and how she had a great body. Gavin had once demanded she show him her real life self, and he was the team leader, so rather than get kicked out, Claire had acquiesced. Gavin passed the pictures around, which was not at all what she had wanted, but the group was a lot more friendly to her afterwards. Yes, that’s the word.

And that was all she could really hope for, the validation of these strangers that were her only friends. She knew because Gavin had explained it to her once: her looks were fine, but only just above average, she had to understand? This was her league, some fellow gamers who really understood her, and she should be lucky to have them be so accepting of a female. All his doing, he had worked hard to convince the others, and she should be more thankful. Maybe she would book that plane ticket to his place soon? Reward him in person for his generosity?

Claire had already typed up her answer to the invitation, a glad yes and smiley which had both cost her some effort to craft, as if the : and ) were fighting against her fingertips. And now the Enter key, to send the message, was resisting so, so hard.

What if she just said no, this time, because she really wasn’t feeling it, because of what Gavin had written, because of all the insults and the belittling and the whining and the thirst for her attention? Would she be accused, again, like the last time she dared to not show up (paralyzed in bed for two entire days, unable to even feed herself), of causing “drama”? Would the boys again scream into their microphones how they had always known that inviting females would cause this, the fights, the bickering, the private messages made public of solicitations and threats, the stammered apologies and hateful horniness?

Was she really up for dealing with all of this, and feeling like the worst person in the world again for days on end, because her only friends now knew her as a spiteful bitch who couldn’t take a joke, a stuck up frigid oval office, a fake gamer girl (despite her having played the game for all her twenties, of which she had almost reached the end)?

Gavin’s words shone in her vision, demanding to be answered.

Hey healslut, you up for the gangbang later lol?

Claire removed her finger from the Enter key. She placed her right hand on the mouse instead. Went to the icon of the game, right click -> uninstall. Are you sure?

The titanic force that had stopped her from pushing Enter just before now slammed the button down as if she wanted to destroy the keyboard. Claire jumped up and away from the screen, ran to the router and ripped out its power cable, then fled down the stairs and outside, where the bright sun burned Gavin’s filth off her eyes.

Pepe Silvia Browne
Jan 1, 2007
Probation
Can't post for 7 days!

Pepe Silvia Browne posted:

I'd like to unburden myself of a BAD DOG.

Free To A Good Home

668 Words

I thumbed the end of the leather leash.

It wasn't too late to call it all off. I could have told the stranger to get Rupert's crate out of the back of his truck. I should have never posted the ad, sorry for the trouble, here's some gas money.

But when I looked down at Rupert, I know that I'm doing the right thing. I cannot care for him in this state.

"Free To A Good Home," the ad in the paper read. "Doberman Husky Mix. Must Have Big Yard."

Sheila had brought the dog home shortly after our youngest left for college. When we were 23, we'd gone from casually dating to married, under one roof, and with a kid on the way in the span of six months. And for two and half decades, she'd been too busy fixing lunches and watching soccer practices to worry about whether she wanted any of it.

In my experience, there are two types of dogs: the ones whose eyes seem as thoughtful as any human's might be, and the ones whose eyes seemed soulless, like a wild animal.

Rupert was the latter. His pale blues eyes shined out with an eerie glow like phosphorescence. Each time he cocked his head while on the receiving end of a behavioral correction, I'd think that maybe he understood what I was saying. But then I'd catch him tearing up Sheila's garden. And there we'd be again.

For three years, Sheila held on to the fantasy that Rupert would change. When she finally got fed up trying to deal with him, she'd asked for my help. She'd known that I had dogs growing up, but couldn't grasp the difference between a pet like Rupert and a farm dog. My father treated them like any other tool, and I'd learned no different.

All this to say, my theory for Rupert's misbehavior was simple - he was bored! A dog his size was bred to help farmers, not sit in a living room all day.

Our training was more rigorous, focused. I did not care if Rupert knew his name or could sit on his hind legs and clap his front paws. The only I was interested in Rupert learning was the perimeter of his hunting ground. This is our yard. Protect it at all costs.

Sheila was pleased enough when Rupert stopped digging up her garden. He was no longer making GBS threads in the house or barking at passing by neighbors. Rupert was a model for canine behavior. And though Sheila wasn't enthused about the dead rodents and birds that kept showing up on our doorstep, it was a small price to pay.

Everything changed the night after Mrs. Watson's cat got loose. I was worried from the screaming in the backyard that Rupert had attacked the old woman. It was actually just Mrs. Watson watching in horror as the dog tossed Socks's mangled corpse into the air over and over again, spilling entrails across the lawn.

It was a discipline problem. Boundaries. So I dragged him inside by the collar and disciplined him. Rupert looked up at me with those pale blue eyes, his mouth drawn back into a grin. He cocked his head to the side, then lunged at me.

I do not blame Rupert. There are no bad dogs, only bad owners, after all. I was the one who'd taught him the rules, then went back on it.

I do not blame Sheila either. She did not sign up to spend her retirement helping me wipe my rear end and climb out of bed into my chair. I am grateful for the years she gave me.

"Well, alright." The stranger dusted his hands off after slamming his tailgate shut, then squatted down to address Rupert directly. "Are you ready to go, buddy?"

He cocked his head to the side. Three hundred acres for him to hunt to his heart's content.

With all my might, I lifted my arm to hand the stranger the leash.

Antivehicular
Dec 30, 2011


I wanna sing one for the cars
That are right now headed silent down the highway
And it's dark and there is nobody driving And something has got to give

Second Martyrdom
377 words
Prompt: The pouring rain sounds like applause as you at last divest yourself of that stained glass window.

Archived

Antivehicular fucked around with this message at 00:56 on Dec 30, 2019

Fleta Mcgurn
Oct 5, 2003

Porpoise noise continues.
Giving up the concept of a "normal" lifestyle.

Acceptance
665 words


When Giving Up became an option, lots of people were happy to take it. The streets streamed with slump-shouldered, tired-looking people, walking with a leaden step. The government had promised full erasure of all debts to anyone who Gave Up and left the remainders of civilization, and most people had no choice but to accept. After the latest disaster, there didn’t seem much point in trying to return things to normal and continue with everyday life, and lots of people decided not to try anymore. Giving Up was a solution that forgave all transgressions and freed one from the burden of trying to keep going. It was what most people wanted- the only thing most people wanted anymore.

Tanner’s wife and daughter hadn’t wanted him to Give Up. They still had hope. But Tanner knew that hopefulness was pointless, and rather than watch his family suffer and die, he had chosen to renounce them and everything else.

When Tanner knelt to kiss his daughter, when he embraced his shaking wife for the last time, he felt nothing but regret. Sadness. Guilt for not somehow making them Give Up, too. But after taking three or four steps away from them, Tanner felt different.

The worries he’d been eaten by melted away like cotton candy. No more debts. No more concerns about whether he would see his daughter grow up. No more lying awake, terrified, imagining the seas rising and his family swept away in a wave of water and litter. They were not his concern anymore.

Tanner sighed. It felt like he was blowing his own heart out of his body, leaving behind an empty shell. No, he wouldn’t live much longer- those who Gave Up rarely did- but his family had been saved from their outstanding debt. They’d receive extra rations for a while. He was a good man, doing the right thing, even if it was literally the last thing he ever did. The feeling that he was free drowned his loss and sadness. The remaining days of his life would be dark and difficult, but Tanner felt strangely light. The burden of struggling to survive in the “normal” fashion was gone forever. His spine straightened just a bit in response.

His whole life had been about appearances, keeping up, doing the extraordinary thing. Tanner had to run faster, jump higher, score better…his family had expected a lot from him, so Tanner had learned early how to be hard on himself. When he met Janine, just as driven, everything intensified. For years, they had felt triumphant- they were thriving, doing better than so many others. They were going to win.

Then everything had started in earnest. Buying nice clothes, a better car. Furniture with names like “sideboard.” A vacation home. Janine became more concerned with their daughter’s appearance and performance. Tanner saw a pattern emerging, but didn’t bother to break it.

When the world fell, he had been almost pleased at the chance to break out of the capitalist cycle, but Janine wanted to keep going like always. Many people did. But Tanner couldn’t ignore the signs that everything was futile. He didn’t want to lie awake all night, heart pounding, scheming on how they were going to eat the next day, while Janine still talked about things like PTA meetings and getting her roots dyed. They fought about it for weeks.

Tanner wished he could turn around and tell them, Give Up, too! Everything feels better already, and it’s only been a few seconds. Let’s go free together, but he had already Given Up. He wasn’t allowed to speak to them anymore. Yet, he was comforted by the fact that when the bed finally came for them, they would feel this same wave of relief, the same answering pulse of beautiful nothingness. He had Given Up. He no longer needed or cared about anything.

As Tanner followed the crowd to the Euthanization Center, he was finally happy. Giving Up was a good idea.

Anomalous Blowout
Feb 13, 2006

rock
ice
storm
abyss



It makes no attempt to sound human. It is atoms and stars.

*
The Crossing
365 words - letting go of the urge to protect one's offspring


Laughter floats above the pavement like a flock of birds. My daughter is retreating from me, drawing further and further away, and I am powerless to stop her. This powerlessness crushes my larynx in its anxiously-wringing hands and every breath is harder to draw than the one before it. They say a hundred thousand men and eleven hundred ships once assembled in the harbour of Aulis. I am a hundred thousand wives, a hundred thousand daughters watching my dearest cross to Troy.

The streaking purple machine that carries her away is my doing. It's time, my therapist said. A necessary step. But my therapist isn't her doctor, and he doesn't know the things I know. I've spoken them to him, but he doesn't know them, the truths and worries that lodge as deep in a mother's body as the bolts and screws that hold her daughter together. He doesn't know and her doctor doesn't know that everything is safe, that the surgery was successful, that I won't be left standing widowed on the shoreline. What if she falls? What if she cracks open more than a knee?

Four girls on bikes round the corner and blonde hair waves in the breeze like flax. The last I glimpse of her is the sun sparking off the frame of her ten-speed, glittery gold-purple on steel frame and decals. I feel my fingers spasm toward her back, arms opening and wanting of their own accord.

The logo down the frame of her bike reads DIAMONDBACK.

At the harbour of Aulis, when Agamemnon made sacrifices to beguile the gods, a snake darted out from under his altar. It ascended a tree, they say, and devoured a brood of eight young sparrows.

I bite my tongue so hard I taste blood and feathers and brittle hollow bones. The splinters of all those sparrows lodge in my teeth and silence me. My daughter rounds the corner on her bike and is gone.

Agamemnon's snake ate the mother bird last. I swallow it down and let it turn my guts to cool, immutable stone.

When she falls and scrapes her knees, she'll come running home to me because I let her go.

Profane Accessory
Feb 23, 2012

God’s Chosen Vessel

Profane Accessory fucked around with this message at 19:00 on Jan 3, 2020

steeltoedsneakers
Jul 26, 2016





Bye, Barry
Released: an imaginary friend
307 words

You look over your shoulder at me, your eyes slightly apologetic. When you look away again, I’m gone.

I don't know if you look for me again.

You haven't known Grayson long. He's a nice boy. Maybe a little full-on for you, but he helps you build your confidence.

I don't know if you look for me again.

I don't know if you sit cross-legged on your bed tonight, eyes clenched hard and tight, trying to will be back into your tiny room.

I don't know if you made me or found me. One day we just were.

We built little plush caves of cushions and blankets to retreat to while you grappled with a world of contradictions. Little bastions of comfort and consistency against a tide of confusing exceptions to what should be simple rules. Your balled fist softening in my oversized paw.

Grayson is the rush you get as you tear down the hill on your bmx, wind ripping at the mess of ringlets peeking out from under your helmet.

His tiny frame hums with coiled energy, while my bulky fur always looks like I just got up from in front of a fire. He has a warmth though, a beating heart of sunshine that you're drawn to like a moth.

I don't know if your small heart is bursting with regret, your body wracked with sobs as it explodes and you come to terms with your first real loss.

I don't know if you'll find more friends like Grayson, friends who share their warmth with you and help you build your own fire inside.

I don't know if you will think about me. I don't know if you will remember me, or what you might remember about us.

I don't know if you'll be fine without me.

I don't know, but I can hope.

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Black Griffon
Mar 12, 2005

Now, in the quantum moment before the closure, when all become one. One moment left. One point of space and time.

I know who you are. You are destiny.


Chili posted:

Yeah, can't really do that. The time frame I proposed synced up with my wife's break, which would have given me more time to write. Now that she's back in, I can't really commit to anything.

Gonna have to pass, unfortunately.

well nuts

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