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CRITS Roles to Play This was all right. Had an obvious villain, a prince/king, and a hero named after a herb for some reason. Kinda seemed like there was a romance subplot that wasn’t well explored. Also too much political intrigue or whatever and not enough adventure. Sword fighting is a good time though. I think my co-judge disliked this a little more than I did, RIP. Limbo “Jarome assured her the cracks only wanted to eat the souls of company executives so they were safe.” A sentence I enjoyed. OK so that may have been a foreshadowing of the ending. Speaking of which, kinda feels like Sammy basically murdered Jerry Williamson, which is one of the things I wasn’t keen on happening in my Disney stories. Jackie and the Three Beasts Making all three kids have j names, what are you doing? Heck yeah, talking animals, imperilled princesses. This is some good Disney. Three challenges, ey. This is very fairytale. Villain dies by hubris after not accepting he’s lost, and a happily ever after. This is cool and good and so far in the lead. My co-judge didn't like this but I'm the head judge so it gets an HM. The Pirate Queen Heck yeah, a talking animal companion. A bar room brawl with pirates! Strong opening. Training montage! Aha ‘will you be my boyfriend’, I dunno why but that’s funny to me within the context, but I like it. Overall this is good too. Dragon Country Ugh this is so much buildup for such an anticlimactic ending. This is not a movie this is the first act of a movie. Helping Hands OK, well established protagonists and jerk antagonist. Potential mad science foreshadowing. Good. Hmmm kind of a nothing ending to that one as well. How I Didn’t Fall In Love (OR DID I??) Ah so this protagonist’s flaw is she’s awful. That can be overcome, my favourite Disney starts with an awful protag. Let’s see what happens! ‘tasteful cleavage’, dunno about that in my Disney Ooooh, is the personal assistant the protag? PLOT TWIST. OK well this is kind of dumb and nothing happens except the protagonist finds out she’s awful and then apologises for being awful. Abbi and the Great White North “Pajaro never failed to disappoint with a new story” this means about the opposite of what I think you want it to mean. “one end sticking straight into the with the other” sticking straight into the what? This was cute but, ultimately, not much happens. Intangibles This was just too vague and weird. Doesn’t work as a Disney because you refuse to explicitly say what the heck is going on. My co-judge really liked it, saving it from a DM. The Princess and the Adventurer Yeah ok this was good, I dug this a fair bit. The Greatest Knight Hmmm another anticlimax. If anyone wants more indepth crits I might be able to be cajoled into it.
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Jul 27, 2021 07:49
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CRITS Simply Simon - Roles to Play - could do with a bit more description - sort of lacking energy after the first scene. OK, the king has a minor illness... so what? - don't really care about this petitioners scene, sorry - I like the idea of the song but the song itself doesn't really scan or rhyme - massive timeskip explained as briefly and flatly as a Wikipedia synopsis - I think this would have worked better if it started with Cilantro in the dungeon, then flashed back to the past. And told the whole story plainly from Cilantro's POV - at the start I thought that Rose was the main character - I think the big flaw in this story is a misallocation of words. You spent a lot of time on the opening duel and the random petitioners, which weren't that interesting, and you skimped on the most dramatic parts, like Rose throwing his best friend into a dungeon. - It feels like you came up with an idea for a 90-minute Disney movie and tried to do it in 2500 words, which wasn't really possible. You needed to capture the Disney vibe without using the full narrative structure of a feature film. I wonder how many others are going to fall into that trap this week... Low a friendly penguin - Limbo - I can't say why exactly but 'Jarome' and 'Dawley' just sound like really fake names - OK, so we're doing cli-fi, Disney style?? - I'm really not getting a Disney vibe from this, it's loving grim. the idea of the kids trying to squeeze a little more profit from the already exploited land is actually pretty interesting, but definitely not in line with the prompt - I like the idea of doing a "friends split up/get back together" arc, but it doesn't quite land because Jarome does all his learning off-screen. Their reunion should be an emotional climax but instead it's just Jarome saying "I actually already realised you were right and agree with you" - so the resolution is that a) Sammy promises to work really hard to clean up the hills, even though she has been doing this for years already with no success, and b) the kids straight up murder the bad guy (with ghost magic??) Low Nethilia - Jackie and the Three Beasts - I want a bit more description in the opening paragraphs to tell me where/when we are. I'm guessing it's a generic Disney fairy tale land? - the repetition becomes a little grating around the time the third beast shows up. Repeated patterns are a powerful tool, but they work best when each repetition has some kind of variation to play with the reader's expectations. Here, it's the exact same thing over and over. - I'd like to know a bit more about *why* Jackie is so confident and so set upon rescuing the princess. I know it's a fairytale trope, but here it's hard to swallow considering that she apparently has nothing, no weapon, no plan, *and* she knows for a fact that if she doesn't come home then her dad is going to die of grief. - "Lebasi’s countenance sent a shiver down Jackie’s spine" - ok, so what did he look like? What's a Disney movie without outlandish character designs? - oh no, not another "three things" pattern... - I don't understand the rosebush task. Can't she just watch and see which one disappears? - Overall this story felt like you were doing a job. Like you were just plodding through the motions. You used a bunch of tropes from fairytales but didn't really do anything new with them. This phrase: "the three carrying all manner of rewards" - is emblematic of the whole story to me. What rewards were they carrying? Be specific! Have fun with it! - Jackie literally didn't do anything or learn anything. She just walked around, got her rear end saved by some talking animals, and overcame the final challenge by sheer luck. - Also I was sure that 'Lebasi' being the reverse of 'Isabel' would be important but nope. Low (Addendum: from your comments on discord it seems like the "plodding" feeling didn't come from a lack of enthusiasm but from you having to cut a lot of details to fit the word count. Oh well, we've all been there.) My Shark Waifuu - The Pirate Queen - "her black cockatoo, Ned" is the first detail this week that genuinely made me smile - this has real Disney vibes - maybe a bit repetitive that there are basically three scenes in a row of "Alcoforado attacks the pirates". I think the middle one should maybe be another group of Portuguese, or something - the fireship gambit is cool, but wouldn't it be much cooler if the heroes had to actually board the fireship to turn it around? - Shi Yang becoming Captain feels a little bit too easy. I think it would work better if Bao suffered some really crushing mistake that conclusively shows him he's not cut out for leadership. Or if you showed earlier that he doesn't want to be captain, but feels bound to it by duty/heritage. - the romance feels really tacked on at the end. I didn't notice any chemistry between those two in the rest of the story. - Overall, a strong story that captures the Disney vibe. Medium-High Chernobyl Princess - Dragon Country - this is a really dull first paragraph. Sorry, I don't care about your fantasy world's trade routes when you haven't even introduced a character yet - even though the start of this story is all tell no show, I still had to reread a few times to figure out that the parents were divorced (edit: after reading further I'm still not sure what the parents' relationship is) - So the brother doesn't need to sneak in, but he does anyway? I don't get that - "twenty-eight children have been killed by dragons" is NOT a Disney vibe - I really don't understand the terms of the conflict between mother and daughter. Why is it necessary for the daughter to go and fight a dragon? Just because "it's cultural"? I'm on the mum's side. Also what leverage does the father have that allows him to change the mother's mind off-screen? - I'm 100% in support of the mother hiring people to kill the dragon - I think this story suffered from a lack of focus: Is it about the relationship between siblings of separated parents? The conflict between tradition and modernity? Defiance of gender roles? All these themes were introduced but faded away in the second half. The other big problem was I didn't know why it was so imperative for the protagonist to go and get a dragon, so the mother and the Baron seemed to be the reasonable ones. Low Chili - Helping Hands - 13-going-on-65 is certainly an interesting idea for a character, let's see how it goes - took me a while to realise that 'zayde' means 'grandfather' instead of being a name - I like the idea that the grandfather's spiritual advice might not actually be very good advice - Overall: this story obviously needs a fair bit of editing but I think you know that so I won't harp on it. The vibe is more of a live action Disney movie than an animated one, which is a nice change of pace. The premise is original and allows for some decent slapstick moments. I think you need to make the bully more cruel in the first scene so that you can get the reader's indignation running, then turn it around and make the reader feel guilty when the bully gets her comeuppance. - The way the kids taught their grandfather a lesson needs a bit more build-up. Even in Disney-world, it's hard to believe that such an old man would change his ways so easily. Maybe it would be better if the grandfather actively wants to move on to the afterlife, and knows that he needs to learn a lesson, but isn't aware what the lesson is until the end of the story. Medium Tyrannosaurus - How I Didn't Fall In Love This was well-written, it had some funny moments, but in the end it was hard to find much substance in it. I also didn't get any Disney vibes except maybe the cartoonish image of the guy hanging from the tree. This story feels quite similar to the one you wrote for Picaresque week. I get the impression you can write these in your sleep, so my meta-critique is you should try to engage with the prompt more, let it push you out of your comfort zone. Medium Voodoofly - Abbi and the Great White North - after the first two scenes, my feeling is that this is cute and moderately well-written, but dull. What's the conflict? - the description of Abbi pinging through the cactus is excellent - in the end this story just didn't have enough stakes to engage me. Basically it's a story about someone changing from one hobby to another. To make this sing you would need to find some kind of emotional meaning behind the hobbies. For example, if Abbi's dead mother was also a runner and she felt she had to carry on her legacy. That's a cliche example but it hopefully shows what I mean. Medium Thranguy - Intangibles - very cool first paragraph - the last few paragraphs were extremely rushed and hard to follow. After rereading a few times I think I got what happened (protag had to choose whether to undo all his previous deals OR be a goblin for a year) and he chose to sacrifice himself. Then also he came back in the last few lines and ehh I don't know what happened there. - Aside from that, a pretty good story. - I don't agree with Chairchucker saying it was too vague and weird. The whole 'trading intangibles' thing made sense to me, but I'm already accustomed to the idea from playing Changeling the Lost. Medium-High The Princess and the Adventurer - I can't find much to pick on here. A lovely story. Buying yourself the extra words gave you a clear advantage, but I can't argue that you didn't use them effectively. - If I could complain about one thing it would be that the political situation re: the king and the chancellor doesn't make a lot of sense. Chancellor overthrows the king and locks him up (how??) then king gets out and suddenly the guards all obey him when he orders the chancellor kicked out. A Disney world doesn't need to have particularly realistic power dynamics but I thought this could have been expanded a bit. High The Greatest Knight - I didn't like or hate this. The setting was bland, the characters were bland. The climax was supposed to be a personal revelation for the protag but it felt more like she just remembered to use a specific fighting move. I actually kind of liked the Black Knight as a villain who's so one-dimensional that it's funny. Just a dude that walks around smashing and burning poo poo because nobody can stop him. Medium Sailor Viy fucked around with this message at 09:21 on Jul 27, 2021 |
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Jul 27, 2021 09:14
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In for the birthday party, will budget the snacks in due time.
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Jul 27, 2021 13:08
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In. Pizza! +300 words Thranguy will give you a Grievance from the Declaration of Independence
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Jul 28, 2021 00:25
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Taletel posted:In. "For transporting us beyond Seas to be tried for pretended offences:"
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Jul 28, 2021 02:42
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Sailor Viy posted:I'm in, give me a marginalia, can't decide what else I want yet For you: FOX POPE  And for Thranguy this Leggy Boi: 
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Jul 28, 2021 13:57
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Requesting some webcomic flavored pizza from Antivehicular!
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Jul 28, 2021 15:19
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ZearothK posted:Requesting some webcomic flavored pizza from Antivehicular! 
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Jul 28, 2021 22:08
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Chernobyl Princess posted:For you: FOX POPE Thank you! I am also taking Alcohol: Your story is split into more than ten scenes but no scene can have more than 50 words. Ice cream: Your story must be told in reverse order (but still make sense).
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Jul 29, 2021 01:31
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hey this is some dumb poo poo. this is a rework of the basic concepts of my 3rd loser i think which i hated and made no sense and sucked. out of pure hatred i scrubbed the file and lost my archive login also so i cant remember what the prompt was or what the wordcount was or even the title. no kayfabe, no need to read this it didnt come out that great this time either. but whatever, wrote it, posting it, maybe now i can move on with my life. please resume whatever you were doing aka making whatever gambit for more precious word totals for whatever this week is. this poo poo would prolly still lose all the same, different 1363 words Inoro sits on steel ley-warmed and warped, eating the fire of the Gods. Head hanging low as the phase-worm crawls into the station. As the ember of the Prometh curse chars palms long blackened, the ember fringed by peelings. He hides this as he can. Hearing in fitful snatches the chatter of those unworming. Unworming. Parasii hacks gave up any pretense of how all the Losant see the ley-crawlers. Took over their phase-plasmic and motion resonance. An insect single-pathic ghost swimming in void. As the riders phase through the skin he sees them in shadow, burnt the black of his palms against the pale green-fire of the worm that spat them out. The station hollowed out to contain the ley-crawlers braced in steel and rich with the fluorescent fungus that is their food. But then, Inoru thinks, they were choking the magicka from us. We were dying before we hacked them. Now we have the Passage. But, he thinks, swallowing the rest of the flame, the ember to cinders to dust, I’m dying now. The Prometh is burning me out. But I’ve made my study. I can call it in. Still for a moment they stay, and stare at the singed whorls of their palms. Trying to see if there’s a pattern there, but all they see is a chaotic web of frays. The peeled film translucent, like papered wax. Only then do they thought-wire a message to Control. ::I’m at Curiosity Station. The crawler came through fine. Healthy. Can I go home now?:: ::Negative, ‘Ro. Gotta put you through your paces. Can’t trust your eyes anymore:: ::My eyes are fine:: Inoro wires. ::They’ve been fine. They’ve been enough:: ::Think you need to get closer, kid:: He shoves himself up from the heated steel of the station. And as he gets closer to the worm it shucks its green light all over him in its squirming like a wet dog. Quivers even harder, and he knows it’s feeding. Pulsing ribbons of light churn out and wash over it like pooling blood flow within its fire. The cavern of warped steel juts in its silver thorns like half-moons. Like the whole place a trespassed husk, the remnants of an interred leviathan’s ribcage. Despite the heat, Inoro is cold. “What’s this one’s name?” he says, so cold he forgot to thought-wire it, and the shades he should be kin to give him askant looks with bleached eyes. “It looks old.” Despite the green-fire, faded out to the pale blanch of those which not much longer to trawl the leys. Like me, in a way. ::We call her Mercy. Yeah, she’s ancient, ‘Ro. What do you need to know for? These worms all the same. Always another creeping around.:: The thought-wire spooling itself across the bedrock of his neurals like a branding. Feels helpless. So on-type for a burnout to start talking to themself. But it bugs the shades. At last moving on, heading topside, having lived their best Passage life. Now they can melt into the ambrosiac city, so put up on the exhumed magic that every day is like a firework going nova. Posi vibes magnetic under a cloudless golden sky. “Hey girl,” he says to the station-bound phase-worm, who takes no notice of him in its feeding. “You know up there we scraped our way on scorched earth for a while. Thanks to you guys.” ::’Ro?:: ::No weird colours,:: he wires. For a second asking himself, the world, even the phase-worm if that’s useful. ::Gotcha. You’re doing good, kid, for a burnout:: 🔥 The Prometh a curse, a freak gene line triggered by the massive exfil of magicka into the world. Burning yourself out, eating yourself, the world fading away with it. Graffiti laces the alleys: OUR WORLD CONGEALED FROM BLACK GOD BLOOD. Inoro tracing the spidered lines with his fingertips. The skyline above spired in glass and chrome and the sky flush with golden light like a steady rapture. Electric glyphs in incantation binds shine down on him like stars. The alley is a tether, and like all tethers now its grounding on him is distant. So that he floats over scraped and cuffed pave, not feeling it though his sneakers worn thin. His soles torn through in blister. And yet like all tethers it’s drawn him to where he guesses he needs to be. The Slags, his home, not so much structure but tumour. A domed hive-work the blown-out texture of crystallized molten glass. Those leaving or passing into it go by like phantoms. This is where burnouts live, in case somehow their disease is catching. His room small and cramped though bare of all decal but a sleep-cot. Light slants in through the facet wall in jagged shards that sliver the floor like strewn knives. He pauses at what passes for its threshold, a force-field spun of phase-worm skin. Assured the worm was dead when they harvested its phase-skin. That’s not what’s bugging him. What’s bugging him is that a shade is sitting on the sleep-cot like it’s cool. Can’t tell gender or age. It’s all too vague now. The facet-flecked shards of light dissolve into the black mass like a black hole has made itself at home. On some unholy mission to steal even any trace of warmth from his room. He stands mute, not knowing what to say or do. For all he knows this is the last thing a burnout ever sees. ::Hey:: the shade thought-wires. He blinks away his surprise. The sitch a frenetic cascade of dark visuals before he can hold his eyes open. When he does it tableaus back to the lone silhouette. ::I’m Control:: He doesn’t thought-wire back. “I’m dying,” is all he says. “So you can leave me alone. I don’t need a living if I’m not gonna live.” Resists the urge to hug himself, though so cold he’s numb. ::It’s an after-action report. Psych profile to help us out. Wanted to know why you never actually took the rite:: He wants to laugh. Instead some wretched gurgle threatens to escape him and he swallows it back. “The Passage isn't a rite. It's a dumb trip for those who don’t get…” ::Don’t get what?:: “Whatever,” he says. “You call yourself Control as if that’s what matters. As if it’s all you can think about. But maybe it’s all they can think about too. Maybe it’s all Mercy ever thinks about.” The shade claps its hands, amused. “What I mean is,” he says, but he’s losing focus. The room is spinning, its facet concaves like sinkholes, like gravity wells for his eyes. Mired in all these pools of shadow and flecks of light like glints of frost. “There’s no difference.” ::You’re trying to say that life’s the real trip. That in our blasé we let it go, and it’s only burnouts like you that get it, even as it fades away from you:: “Something,” he says, “like that.” A fainting clawing its way through his guts to reach his head. The room still spinning. Shaking, the floor trembling beneath his feet. ::Sometimes they do get away from us:: the shade says, as if musing. ::The worms, not the trip.:: A ghost of a smile in paper white splits their jaw, gleaming in the darkness like lacquered china. ::Every time one of you burns away.:: His palm is aflame. ::Told you her name was Mercy. But she doesn’t have a name. We’re not checking on them. We’re checking on you:: No mere ember but a whorl of flame gloving him to the wrist. All he’s aware of. He tilts his head towards it. Is this it, he thinks, going out like a dog, lapping up the cancer like rotten meat? A wrenching in his brain, his heart, a furling of his peeling skin like rose petals in bloom. That insect need breaching the surface. And he wonders what it would be like if, instead of dying slow, the phase-worms could ascend. To see with no eyes the city gorged on magicka like a blood-ballooned tick. ::What are you seeing? Is it like the Passage? But you wouldn’t know:: “No,” he hears himself say. “You wouldn’t either.”
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Jul 29, 2021 04:32
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In! Gonna fill up my plate, but I want to start with some pizza. T-Rex, please give me a cool character name.
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Jul 29, 2021 05:55
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Ok I want to try one of these things so I'm in with the following things on my plate because my life isn't complicated enough as it is: Chips and Cookies! +200 words Exactly half your story is a dream, and that dream is more important than the reality “The smoke of a burning human skull will drive bees to murder.” None of your characters can understand each other, but desperately need to. Pizza! +300 words Tyrannosaurus names one of your major characters (from a Tyrannosaurus prompt) Antivehicular gives you a inspirational webcomic[i] (from an Antivehicular prompt) "It was all a dream" is not only a valid ending to your story, it's the only ending. Ice Cream! +400 words One of your characters is a narcissist. If the story is not focusing on them, they will try to tug it back to them.
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Jul 29, 2021 08:08
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Antivehicular posted:In! Gonna fill up my plate, but I want to start with some pizza. T-Rex, please give me a cool character name. Mickalene Macaw organburner posted:Pizza! +300 words Corbeau Jarry
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Jul 29, 2021 12:28
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In with the following, to start:Tyrannosaurus posted:Cake! +600 words Tyrannosaurus posted:Pizza! +300 words also I'd request Achewood and not Super Mega if that's allowed
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Jul 29, 2021 16:16
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MockingQuantum posted:In with the following, to start: Rufino Mustang
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Jul 29, 2021 17:54
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organburner posted:Pizza! +300 words  MockingQuantum posted:In with the following, to start: Sure, buddy: 
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Jul 30, 2021 11:07
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In and what goes better with cake than ice cream?Tyrannosaurus posted:
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Jul 30, 2021 16:03
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In, Divide your word count in two and write two stories. They must be connected thematically but not literally.
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Jul 30, 2021 23:59
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Jul 31, 2021 00:10
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 sebmojo brawl entry Flash song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HPSbYu-6iDs&ab_channel=KEXP Ephemera 1020 words Archive Yoruichi fucked around with this message at 05:06 on Jan 6, 2022 |
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Jul 31, 2021 10:23
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Jul 31, 2021 14:29
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Rules: - Chernobyl Princess hands you a medieval marginalia. - Your story must be told in reverse order (but still make sense). - Your story is split into more than ten scenes but no scene can have more than 50 words. Natalis Bestiam 976 words I A troll crouches in a cave. Ten thousand horsemen ride above him. He gnaws on the limbs of fallen knights he has gathered in a sack. The world is ending tomorrow. His teeth crack on something hard and round. Surprised, he pulls it out: a bloody-smeared pearl. II On the horizon, giants are fighting. On the hill, knights. Each side struggles to maintain the high ground. Then a shower of arrows falls, killing every one. After some time, a troll appears. III The witch draws back from the knight’s thigh, her lips stained cherry-red. “It’s in,” she says. “Damned if I know why you want it there.” Where she licked, the wound is already healing. The knight puts his hand there, feeling the smooth round lump beneath his skin. IV The knight slaps his page full across the face. “It must be somewhere, so find it!” His armour and clothes are strewn about the tent. After another hour, they find it under an overturned greave. He cups it between his hands. “Everything’s all right now,” he whispers. “I found you.” V They butcher the giant tortoise from the inside out. Gangs of men work in the shell from dawn until dusk. They have a long march ahead of them. Outside, the knights divide the spoils of the city. Among gold, jewels, silks and furs, he spies a single glimmer of white. VI In the city on the back of the tortoise, in the cathedral, in the sarcophagus laid out for him long ago, the priest drinks poison when he hears the tramp of boots in the nave. He hides the pearl under his tongue. No use—his jaw slackens in death. VII The priest sets the pearl on the anvil. “I know what you are,” he slurs. “And what you bring with you. I won’t let it happen.” He brings down the consecrated hammer with all his strength. It shatters, a fragment slicing his hand. The pearl rolls onto the floor, unblemished. VIII Each day after mass he feels drained and desolate. There is only so much hope to go round. He retreats to the balcony overlooking the churchyard and drinks a little wine. Surely there are worse vices. Returning from the privy, he sees something glimmer at the bottom of his cup. IX The woman sees a magpie perched on the steeple. Food is hard to come by these days; the city gates are locked, and the tortoise is always on the move. She takes out her sling and lets fly. Later, her children suck the gristle from its tiny bones. X The magpie flies day and night. There is always smoke in the air. Raptors hang in the sky above. They do not want the magpie’s life. They want the precious thing it carries in its beak. Where in the falling world will it be safe to rest? XI The queen lives in a cacophony of omens. Rains of blood. Frogs speaking backwards. Babies born without brains. One hundred soothsayers converge on the capital with the same warning on their lips. The pearl, which she has kept for so many years, she now hurls from her highest tower. XII When they found the prince, he was clutching it in his palm. They advised the queen not to look, but she did. Of all his birthday gifts, why this one? He had never favoured it before. The mystery ensnared her. She put it in a locket to remember him by. XIII At such a height, the wind blows strong from the sea. The prince cups the pearl in his palm. In its pale depths he can see a beautiful maiden: hips round, eyes beckoning, lips as white as snow. “One more step,” she says, “and you can join me.” XIV Gold, satin, fine liquors, jade, leopard skins, rubies, coloured ice, a stone swan, a silver pinecone. A bird that sings threnodies, a fox that recites the catechism, and a tiny tree that bears minuscule fruit. Among so many birthday gifts, who would notice one more? XV Deep in their ancient house, the pale women swaddle their child in black silk. They croon to it, feed it milk from their breasts. Years pass. The world sickens. Then, at last: “Sisters, our child is grown. It is time she went into the world to fulfil her destiny.” XVI A dark night. A knock at the door. A hulking figure under a cloak. “Greetings, sisters, from our master below. Rejoice! Among all his servants, he has chosen you to raise his unholy child.” In his hand is a bed of cloth. On the cloth: a pearl. XVII Stumbling through the midnight surf, he searches blindly among sea-strewn rocks. His hand grasps an oyster shell. Reverently, he cracks it open to reveal the white orb within. Above him, nameless things circle the air. “Ia, ia, she is born!” they cry. “The one who lowers the final curtain!” XVIII Great currents ripen in the deep for the coming of the one who will be worst to the world. Her birth is nearly at hand. Her gifts will be sun and open air. An upwelling carries the shell from the deeps to the servant’s shore. XIX A man, naked, skin the colour of stone, strides across the seabed. His body is dissolving; this world rejects his very essence. He has little time, but time enough. Yes. Here: from the silt he plucks an oyster. He grasps himself and, moaning, lets his seed fall inside its shell. XX Deep beneath the sea, a crack opens in the world, and someone climbs in from outside. The dark one. The sire of the end. It is not as he expected. He should have emerged on land, where his servants wait with thighs spread wide. He will have to make do.
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Aug 1, 2021 10:15
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This picture (+100 words). Hellenistic Mediterranean is the setting. Temples mysteriously disappearing is the problem (+200 words). Tyrannosaurus names one of your major characters (+300 words) (Zinaida Gar). The Goddess’s Blessing 710 words Archive Yoruichi fucked around with this message at 05:06 on Jan 6, 2022 |
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Aug 1, 2021 10:37
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Chips and Cookies! +200 words Exactly half your story is a dream, and that dream is more important than the reality “The smoke of a burning human skull will drive bees to murder.” None of your characters can understand each other, but desperately need to. Pizza! +300 words Tyrannosaurus names one of your major characters (from a Tyrannosaurus prompt) Corbeau Jarry Antivehicular gives you a inspirational webcomic[i] (from an Antivehicular prompt) https://i.imgur.com/80o0kcE.png "It was all a dream" is not only a valid ending to your story, it's the only ending. Ice Cream! +400 words One of your characters is a narcissist. If the story is not focusing on them, they will try to tug it back to them. Jarry dreams no more 2345 words “I don’t care about politics” he said, looking out the window of the Needle. He could see the lights of the protesters, some trying to aim laser pointers at the window they were looking out of. “You don’t care about politics?” “Nope, it doesn’t affect me. I just do my job and keep to myself.” Berndt looked at him in shock “What do you mean it doesn’t affect you? What we do here is exactly what the isolationists want to stop! How doesn’t that affect you?” He shrugged and walked away. *** Inside the Needle there was a commotion. One of his coworkers had passed away in her sleep. Now investigators of all kinds were skulking around the usually peaceful sleeping chambers in the Needle. Jarry Corbeau was rocking in a fetal position in a corner, muttering something but he ignored him. Jarry had always been a bit too sensitive. A dreamer dying was a big deal as the only way to open a path through the storms ravaging the planets atmosphere was for a dreamer to dream of open skies on the mountain known as the Needle, and the planet being ravaged by old wars only consisted of sand and mines. And so the dreamers were valuable, and the job itself was simply to sleep in the Needle and dream to open the skies. But no one was sleeping now with all the commotion. Though he usually tried to ignore external politics and stick to the Needle he knew that the saber rattling of the isolationists was affecting some and was probably why this was being taken so seriously. But she died in her sleep, the isolationists surely couldn’t have caused that, he thought to himself when suddenly Jarry was shaking him and rambling. “Don’t you see? Don’t you understand? They’re going to kill us in our sleep!” He pushed Jarry off. “You need to get some help, man. The investigators are on top of it and no one can get into the Needle without security access. We’re safe inside these walls!” “I ain’t gonna sleep anymore, no way!” “Alright then” He walked away and tried to ignore the encounter. *** All he wanted to do was sleep, but one of the investigators requested a ‘quick chat’ in his room and he obliged. “Thank you for taking the time to talk to me. I hope I’m not keeping you from your work.” Was that a dig at him? Some people were jealous of the dreamers for their comfortable and highly compensated jobs. But he was not going to let it get to him. “No, not at all. I’m going to sleep as soon as this is over. I’m told there are multiple ships waiting to land and leave.” “You can dream calmly at a time like this?” “I don’t personally understand what everyone is worked up about. Have you found out anything I need to worry about?” “We are still waiting for the medical examiners word, but they are being very cautious about this. A dreamer dying is not to be taken lightly.” He shrugged, sat back, and waited for her to speak. “The other dreamers decided to go into town, against our recommendations, but you decided to stay in here?” “I don’t really like going outside anymore. I almost feel naked outside these walls now.” “Hmm, alright. You like the hermit lifestyle then. I also noticed there are no mirrors in your room.” “I noticed that if I don’t focus on myself, my appearance, I sleep better. So I requested there be no mirrors in here. I can still shave myself by feel, I still wash myself. I don’t see any problem with this though some might consider it peculiar I suppose.” “Do you know if this dreamer, Venla, had any enemies who would want her dead?” “Not that I know of.” “Very well, thank you for your time. Your colleagues, Berndt and Anastasia left so you’re the only dreamer here now, do you mind if we keep investigating while you sleep?” “No, not at all. Just don’t wake me up as the consequences can be catastrophic.” “So noted.” And like that she was gone and he was free to do his job, finally. *** After performing some mind-cleansing meditations he was quickly off to sleep, and to dream. All dreamers had been taken off world to see open skies so they could dream of them, and he was immediately on a green, grassy hill with beautiful, blue skies and a fresh breeze rustling his hair. In reality he had last been here more than 15 years ago but it felt like his home, more real than reality. But something felt strange. A noise that shouldn’t be there, a background buzz that was annoying him. And there, a rustle from the woods below the hills. No other choice than to investigate. He could swear he heard cursing down there. Was that Berndt’s voice? “Hello? No one else is supposed to be here!” And that was true, this was his dream and he was supposed to be in control. He walked into the woods. Somehow Berndt was in his dream and was stuck up a tree. His pants had caught on a branch and he was hanging upside down. “Hey, it’s you! Help me down from here!” “You’re not supposed to be here! This is my dream! Get out of here!” He shouted at Berndt. Invading someones dream was not acceptable unless it had been discussed earlier. “I thought this was my dream, but I can’t control anything! Now get me down from here!” Apparently my mind was more affected by Venlas passing than I had thought, he told himself. This wasn’t the real Berndt. He tried to remove him from the dream, but it didn’t work. And the buzzing noise was getting louder. And now a crackling noise was approaching. “Berndt, what’s happening? How are you here?” “I don’t know, I was drinking in town with Anastasia and suddenly I’m here!” “So just wake yourself up!” Was it getting warmer? Maybe he was just so flustered about this whole situation that it felt that way. “I can’t! Get me down from here!” Berndt started flailing wildly. “Calm down! Don’t panic and I’ll see about getting you down from there!” But how? He couldn’t control this dream, and he wasn’t about to climb some tree either. He was starting to sweat now. “No, I need to get down now! We need to get out of here!” And then it became clear why Berndt was panicking. The forest was on fire, the crackling noise was growing nearer and nearer as was the buzzing noise. It was too close for him to help Berndt anymore. “I’m sorry! I can’t help you!” He shouted as he started backing away from the woods. Berndt shouted “Don’t go!” and flailed even more to no avail. All he could do was watch from the edge of the forest as the flames started to lick Berndt’s head. He tried to block out the screams but he couldn’t. And finally he could see the source of the buzzing noise: an enormous swarm of bees, fleeing the forest fire. Fleeing towards him. He started running but they were already stinging him. So many! They were in his eyes, in his nose, in his ears and he almost collapsed and then… *** Awake, being shaken by a screaming Jarry. The sudden awakening had left his dream not even a memory and he tried to push Jarry off him while his groggy brain attempted to interpret the noise. He ended up punching Jarry in the face, and he finally got up and ran outside to the window. You do not interrupt a sleeping dreamer under any circumstance. Outside, the storm was quickly resuming above the needle. He could see a ship that was on its take off run, too late for it to maneuver or change trajectory enough to avoid the storm now. It was swallowed up by the clouds, and he waited. And waited. He wish he could go back to sleep but his adrenaline was spiking, no meditation in the world would let him dream calmly now in time. Jarry came out and started rambling at him, but he couldn’t hear him, he was transfixed by the storm now. Maybe they made it? Please let them have made it! But the ship came back down, crashing into the town. From the view in the needle it was hard to tell the extent of the damage, but there was definitely an explosion down there. Someone had definitely died down there. His legs gave out under him and he was on the floor suddenly. Surely it wasn’t his fault? Jarry was the one who woke him up after all. And Jarry was still rambling on about something but the words weren’t registering. He got back up to his feet and hit Jarry as hard as he could again and again. Jarry went down on the floor and finally shut up. He returned to his room to wash his bloodied hands and calm himself down. *** It had been his first failure as a dreamer. They wouldn’t tell him the death toll as they deemed it would affect him too much, and dreamers were a rare breed that the planet depended on. And now Berndt had died too, they said. They suspected it was of alcohol poisoning but were waiting for the medical examiners verdict before jumping to conclusions. He was asked to return to work as soon as he felt comfortable doing it. The news of Berndt’s death stirred some strange memories in him, but he couldn’t recall them. He performed his meditations and went to sleep once again. *** Grassy hill, open skies… Had the forest always been so black? Somewhere nearby a voice: “No no no no no I shouldn’t be here I need to get away!” It was Jarry, in a panicked ramble again. “Jarry? I thought you weren’t going to dream again?” “You! I warned you! Get away!” And with that Jarry ran off into the woods. He tried to follow but Jarry was too quick. The dream was not going the correct way, and he had no control of it. How was Jarry in here? He was lost in the woods now, and understood why the trees were so black. They had been burned and were covered in ash. This had never happened before. He had taken strolls before but now everything was different, except the blue open sky. There was a loud buzzing noise, coming closer and closer. He felt an instinctive panic and woke himself up. *** Everything was black. Not even emergency lighting. He didn’t need to see to run to the window outside though, but the town below was also dark. Had the isolationists managed to disrupt all the power? But even then the emergency lighting should still work. There should be some lights down in the town. What was going on? He could just barely make out a shape in the distance but couldn’t interpret it properly. A dim glow began to light up the shape, giving it contours and color and he saw the ancient war machine that had once roamed the lands. A colossal iron wolf, a warship on legs, and on the back of it a weapon built to annihilate the hardest of fortifications was charging up. He backed away from the window as it let loose, a massive charge of energy heading his way. His entire field of vision was filled with the red energy. How did the isolationists manage to get a hold of one of those? How did they have the resources to repair and operate it? He could taste the ozone right before it hit him and then… *** Grassy hill, open skies, black forest and loud buzzing. It was coming back to him, the forest had burned down in one of his dreams. Berndt had been there. Jarry had been there. Something was very wrong. He walked down into the forest to investigate the buzzing noise. He walked through the forest covered in ash, coughing from it working its way into his mouth, his nose, his lungs. After some time he stumbled upon a clearing that he was certain was not supposed to be there and he saw her. Anastasia was standing in the middle of the clearing, holding something smoking in her hand. She looked at him and said: “Did you know? The smoke of a burning human skull will drive bees to murder.” And he saw that the object she held was Berndt’s burning head. And the buzzing grew louder as bees swarmed him. Anastasia laughed “Once I have killed all of you, I will be the only dreamer! I can have anything I want! I might even give the isolationists what they want!” There was a scream. Jarry, appearing suddenly from the woods, tackled Anastasia to the ground and started beating her. “Get out of here!” Jarry shouted. He stumbled away as the bees stung him but most of them were swarming Anastasia and Jarry. He willed himself awake. *** Awoken, he grabbed a knife and went into Anastasias room. She was deep in her dream. He stabbed her multiple times. He looked down on his bloodied hands but felt nothing. The next few days were a haze. He had killed a dreamer and though he claimed self defense there was no proof. Killing a dreamer had only one punishment, even for another dreamer. There was no energy to care any more. He faced the firing squad. He had felt naked ever since he had been removed from the walls of the needle and he was exhilarated at being outside and wished he had gone sooner, but now it was too late. The squad fired. *** The investigator scratched his head. This was a big deal, a make or break a career kind of case. The dreamer, Jarry Corbeau, had died in his sleep.
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Aug 1, 2021 11:22
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Your story begins and ends with the same line. +100 words Here Comes the Birthday Boy 681 words "Here comes the birthday boy," they shout, as I am pushed along at the head of the procession. Children weave in and out of the adults surrounding me, blowing on noisemakers and setting off firecrackers. It makes me want to weep. I am the birthday boy. My father was the birthday boy before me, and his father before him. My family has been, collectively, the village's birthday boy for the last century. You wouldn't think anyone would marry the birthday boy, but all the presents add up to a pretty comfortable life--you just have to accept that your first-born son will also be the birthday boy. "Here comes the birthday boy!" Someone behind me sets a toy crown on my head. We are almost to Pars Andrik's house now. Today is his birthday, but I am the birthday boy. I will blow out the candles for him, and I will open the presents and try to make nice, thankful comments for each. This is the birthday boy's duty, to save others from unpleasant social situations. As we begin to climb the last hill to the house, marching into the setting sun, I begin to slow. My legs hardly seem to respond. I have been the guest of honor at four other birthday parties today, and I have eaten sausages and cake and watermelon at each one; this is also the duty of the birthday boy, to make sure all the food so carefully prepared is sampled and enjoyed. "Here comes the birthday boy," a small boy screams, skipping backwards up the road ahead of me, eyes locked on mine. I am uncomfortably warm and rather drunk from all the birthday punch. Summer is the worst time; there seem to be so many summer birthdays. I stumble, and immediately there's someone on each side of me, holding my arms, half carrying me forward. Mayor Landers chortles and slaps me on the back, offering me a drink from his hip flask. The smell of the apple brandy makes me feel sick, and I break for the edge of the road, vomiting up pink frosting and chunks of half-chewed cake. When I am done, patient hands pick me back up and guide me back to the road, amid cheers: "Here comes the birthday boy! Don't forget the birthday boy!" I experience Pars Andrik's party in a daze, half comatose from the day's sugar and alcohol. He seems to be a little upset, but it's his own drat fault for being born in August. I suppose I'm not showing all the signs of enjoyment they expect. You can't demand one man take on the social and culinary birthday obligations of everyone in the town, and pull it off perfectly day after day--but of course that's exactly what they expect, because I am the birthday boy. I take a proffered glass of schnapps and force an appreciative smile for the toast. After the party, I walk home slowly, alone in the dark. My belly aches with five birthday meals and five birthday cakes. I wonder if I could just keep going, burn all that food walking all night to the next town... but the birthday boy doesn't get to go to school once he's learned to read, doesn't get apprenticed to anyone, doesn't know how to do anything but enjoy his birthday parties. The lights are still on at the house, and my daughter meets me at the door. I gingerly kneel down, stomach sloshing, and give her a hug. "The baby came while you were away, Papa," she says, "and I had to run all the way across town to get the doctor." I stand up slowly and totter down the hall. The nurse meets me at the bedroom door and hands me a bundle. I turn back the swaddling, afraid of what I'll see. I close my eyes and wrap the blanket back around my son. Stepping into the room, I walk to my wife's side and say the words, hoarsely, unwillingly, as I give the baby to her. "Here comes the birthday boy."
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Aug 1, 2021 18:02
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Party Princess Vanessa smiled a blissful smile, white teeth reflecting in the champagne glass. She bobbed her head to the slow pop music. Sandy and Astrid had thrown her the perfect princess party. Her one special day, to make up for 364 others spent in dead-end retail. The cake looked phenomenal. 🎂 Vanessa watched Sandy dance to the throbbing beat of the new song. She shook her head and took another nibble of the nachos. She couldn’t imagine having this kind of energy. And of course, Sandy did it all in jet-black platform boots. So tough, so impressive. Best friends forever. 🎂 Champagne had been replaced by a soda; the night was young, she had to pace herself. There was Astrid, in an intense discussion with another guest. Bespectacled, mousy Astrid - the smartest girl Vanessa had ever known. How often had she saved both her and Sandy with some insight or handiwork. 🎂 A game had erupted. The guests were milling in a dense cluster, shouts from Sandy and accusations from Astrid protruded from it like loose strands. Vanessa stood leaned against a wall, picking at the strands like a playful kitten. It was great that they could have fun without her, too. 🎂 “I like the action,” Sandy said, clinking glasses with Vanessa. “Thought this was gonna be boring but you really made something happen.” “Thanks!” Vanessa beamed. But then a cloud cast a shadow over her light. “Wait, didn’t you organize this?” “Naw.” Sandy emptied her glass. “Not my thing. Rather Astrid’s.” 🎂 “I like your other friends,” Astrid said, munching on some chips. “Sandy can be a bit too…short, sometimes. But these are good talkers.” The nacho tasted off to Vanessa. “Didn’t you invite them?” “Why would I invite people to your party?”, Astrid asked, a vacant look in her eyes. 🎂 Another game for the others, another wall to lean on for Vanessa. Condensation from the warming soda dried on her hands. Her friends should take more credit for making her so happy. She felt tears forming. If only this party could last forever. But tomorrow, back to serving thankless customers. 🎂 “Hey, princess! Get out of your ivory tower.” Sandy put her hand on the wall next to Vanessa’s head. Astrid appeared on the other side. “These games are awesome. You should enjoy what you came up with!” Vanessa shook her head. “They weren’t my idea. Play without me, I’m good!” 🎂 It was the most magnificent slice of cake one could imagine. The fondant was like the fence of an enclosure full of your favorite animals. The bottom was fluffy like your favorite pillow. The cream seemed like you could bathe in it. Vanessa wasn’t hungry. Something was gnawing at her. 🎂 “Don’t you want cake?” Astrid smiled invitingly. “It’s so good. It’s the perfect climax to your perfect party! Come on, dig in!” Vanessa lifted the fork, but froze. What lay behind the pushy mask of Astrid’s empty smile? Did it falter for a second, revealing anguish? And where was Sandy? 🎂 Astrid was gone. Vanessa stood alone in a party full of people she didn’t know. The cake smelled like heaven, but she wanted earth. What was going on? She felt a shiver run from her spine to her hands. The fork clattered on the plate. Were had her friends gone? 🎂 This was ridiculous. The party was supposed to be fun. She’d enjoy the cake, then find her friends. Vanessa lifted the fork again - There was Astrid, shaking her head. Vanessa frowned. Astrid’s smile returned, like a drained glass of champagne. Was there a door behind her? Did she indicate it? 🎂 Again, Vanessa was alone. No door, no Astrid, no Sandy, only cake. Delicious beckoning sweet and beautiful cake. The only constant after the party had turned confusing. Vanessa couldn’t find the fork, but no matter. She’d dig in with her hands. It was her party, and she could be messy! 🎂 Someone slapped the plate from her hand, splattering cake all over the walls. It was Sandy! She grabbed Vanessa by the shoulders, it hurt. She yelled something, but Vanessa couldn’t make it out through the static the shock had caused to erupt in her ears. The cake! A ruined mess! 🎂 Alone again! Sandy, vanished, avoiding accusations. Vanessa scanned the crowd. Was there a black-dyed undercut? Did she even see the glint of Astrid’s oversized glasses? But whenever she thought she spotted a trace of them, her gaze was drawn back to the cake. Even the broken crumbs looked inviting. 🎂 Vanessa kneeled on the floor. Cake stained her grasping hands. What was she doing? Nobody seemed to mind. The milling crowd didn’t judge her. Would Astrid? Would Sandy, who had tainted the cake? Would Vanessa? The door had appeared again. Stay for floor-cake, or leave to find her friends?
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Aug 1, 2021 20:36
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Party Crashers The sign hung askew over the entrance. Some of the neon tubes were still lit up, casting irregular shadows over the locked double doors. Eternal Party of your Dreams, it had once read. Virtual reality promise turned to real world nightmare. The dream had died, but the dreamers hadn’t woken. 🎂 Sandy tapped the heel of her steel-toed boots alternating with her baseball bat. Her slicked-back hair and slick leather clothes shone in brilliant black. “Are you gonna be done soon, or should I test this baby on the lock?” Her voice dripped like tar off samesuch colored lips. 🎂 Astrid adjusted her glasses for the third time in twenty seconds. Sweat dripped off her brow onto her sweater, mingling with drool from the small lamp clamped between her teeth. A lock of drab brown hair tickled her nose. Ignoring Sandy’s yell, she finally managed to cross two loose wires. 🎂 “Behold.” Astrid pushed a rust-speckled button. With a sound like a goat dying in agony, the doors opened. “Well done.” Sandy’s approval was terse. “Let’s pull Vanessa out of dreamland.” “Think we can do it?” An indignant tap of the bat. “We’re her best friends. Who, if not us?” 🎂 Inside, the only light was again from tubes still working by chance. Sounds off shuffling and moans came from the shadows. “They really sealed all of these people in here,” Astrid said. “Most aren’t people anymore.” Emaciated figures wearing virtual reality helmets appeared. Their mouths were caked in dried blood. 🎂 Sandy’s bat smashed the brittle arm of a VR zombie. The creature stumbled sideways. “Caaake?” emerged from between teeth like weathered fenceposts. “Sugar’s bad for you.” Sandy splintered the fence and the face behind it. Astrid’s sweater obtained a crimson pattern. Gritted teeth holding back vomit, she swung her wrench. 🎂 Having dealt with the first wave of people trapped in the forever fete, hungering for treats of flesh, the two women snuck through maintenance tunnels and back offices. “Will we even recognize Vanessa?”, asked Astrid. “Hush!” Sandy lowered her voice to a growl. “She’ll be wearing pink. You know her.” 🎂 “Go on without me!” Sandy’s scream was punctuated by her bat shattering goggles, but two more ravenous zombies grabbed her arms. “I can’t!” Astrid tried to pull one of the creatures that had ambushed them away, but it lashed out, broken nails breaking skin. She had to run, leave Sandy. 🎂 Two VR zombies gorged themselves on the innards of another, believing it pizza or cookies. Once hungry again, one would eat the other. Astrid hoped the moist crunching would mask her footsteps. Her sweater was drenched in blood and tears. How could she go on without Sandy, tough, strong, dead? 🎂 The helmeted zombie leaned against a wall and slowly nibbled on a rotten rib. Her pink dress was gore-stained. “Vanessa?”, Astrid whispered. Suddenly, the zombie jerked towards her. “Cake?”, a sweet voice asked. Vanessa lunged at Astrid, who barely managed to stun her with the bloody wrench. Astrid ran. 🎂 In a corner, lost deep within the facility, Astrid hugged herself, the sweater worthless against her shivers. Sandy was dead, and Vanessa seemed beyond help. Could she even get out, at least save herself? Or did she owe it to Sandy’s mad legacy to try once more with poor Vanessa? 🎂 She did. Vanessa was leaning against the wall again. “Why did you do it, Vanessa?” Astrid had to speak through a veil of tears. “How could we miss the signs?” She touched the VR helmet. “Can I pull this off without hurting you? Will you even appreciate me doing it?” 🎂 “Cake.” That wasn’t Vanessa’s voice. Before Astrid could react, a zombie had grabbed by the shoulders. She tried to get away, but mad hunger made the grip on her unbreakable. “Cake!” Teeth dug into her. A metallic clunk. A bruised, bitten, bleeding, but alive Sandy pulled the broken corpse away. 🎂 “Snap out of it, drat it!” Sandy shook Vanessa, who drooled a little in response. “Cake?” “No cake!” Sandy’s iron grip on her wrist made Vanessa’s hands go white. “Party’s over!” Astrid clubbed another zombie while Sandy tried her thing. Bits of brain and broken bone splattered the two women. 🎂 “Don’t do it, Sandy.” The leather-clad amazon stopped trying to dislodge Vanessa’s helmet. “Why?” “I’m pretty sure you’ll fry her brain. She has to want it.” “Oh, because you’re always the big brain expert!” “Caaake?” “For gently caress’s sake, Vanessa.” Sandy shoved her away. Astrid meekly tried to comfort Sandy. 🎂 Sandy’s tears were white-hot. “We can’t leave her.” “Caaake!” “She’ll alert everybody. Sandy, please. I’m just so relieved that I didn’t lose you. Let’s go. Maybe she’s happy with her party.” With effort, the woman in black turned her back on the one in pink. “Doooor?” Astrid’s eyes widened.
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Aug 1, 2021 20:37
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Oh boy, a birthday buffet! I'm loading up! Should I get some cookies? Man, that's tempting, but I want some cake instead. I'll just...keep them in mind. [Divide your word count in two and write two stories. They must be connected thematically but not literally. [used as inspiration, but my stories are literally connected (+0 words)] Oh, but chips! Those are fine to start with. [Exactly half your story is a dream, and that dream is more important than the reality (+200)] Salty. Need something to drink. [Your story must start and end in the same location. (+100)] Pizza, awesome! But I spoiled my appetite with the chips  . I'll share my slice. [Your story is "Campy Gory Girl Power" (+300; or rather +150 because only one story is that)]Cake! I've been waiting for that... [It’s someone's birthday! (+600)] Phew, I'm stuffed. Time for some high-octane fun. [Your story is split into more than ten scenes but no scene can have more than 50 words. (+1000)] in total: 1950, spread over two stories. I only used 800 each, 16 scenes with exactly 50 words.
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Aug 1, 2021 20:38
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Yoruichi posted:MAKE SURE YOU KEEP A NOTE OF YOUR FLASHRULES AND THE ASSOCIATED WORD BONUS SO YOU CAN INCLUDE THIS INFORMATION WHEN YOU POST YOUR STORY SO THAT YOU DON'T MAKE YOUR ARCHIVIST SAD POST YOUR FLASHRULES WITH YOUR STORY
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Aug 1, 2021 22:14
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Cake (+600): It’s someone’s birthday! Soda (+100): Your story begins and ends with the same line. Soda (+100): “I still owe you an …” Chips and Cookies (+200): Two female characters must have a 200 word conversation about something other than a man. -- On Ice 989 / 1,000 words “I still owe you an actual present.” Sandra spoke the line without thinking. Before her, conjured into being by the ship’s holo emitters, an image of Angelique flickered and fizzed. After three months running through the simulation, Sandra could see the cracks by their absence - it lacked the tiny imperfections of her wife, slumbering away in the cryopod three decks below. The image, taken from five hundred hours of security footage, glossed over the half-chewed nails and split ends. The personality, driven by the memories of the real Angelique, fell back on the same old routines and teases. “What, seeing you isn’t enough?” The image looked around at a scene only it could see and that Sandra had to remember. “I’ve never seen the canteen look this fancy! You didn’t have to wake up early just for me!” “It’s your birthday - I wanted to get you something to remember me by,” Sandra said. That line was the most effective follow-up she’d found so far, opening up a whole realm of conversational space. Half the dialogue tree she’d mapped out started here. “I don’t want you forgetting me while I sleep.” She’d originally said it with a soft chuckle but after three months the joke had lost its charm. “I never could,” the Angelique image said with a smile. “Seriously, Sandra, this is perfect. I was just going to have an extra pudding ration or something before bed. I love it.” Sandra looked down at the checklist. “Happy birthday,” she said, without looking up. “What do you want for a present?” It was a crude attempt to refocus the simulation but it usually worked. “I don’t want anything except to spend the day with you,” the image said, smiling. Sandra sighed and rubbed eyes. So it was going to be one of those sessions. “What physical object do you want for your birthday? As a present, from me.” The image froze, mouth half-open, for several seconds. When it resumed, it was in a sudden burst of sound and motion. “Idon’twantanythingexcept tospendthe day with you.” Sandra groaned and put the checklist down with just a bit too much force, the sound echoing around the empty bridge. “What object would you be happy to find waiting for you when you wake up out of cryo?” It was a risky move, drawing the simulation’s attention to the fact that it was outside of the scenario it had been based on but Sandra had seen this sort of response loop before. Once it got stuck in a particular response it tended to stay there, no matter how illogical that response became. “What gift would you be excited to receive?” Then, as an afterthought: “Anything out of the ship’s replicators.” The image jerked its head down to one side at an unnatural angle and for the first time, lost its smile. “I don’t want -” “Forget it!” Sandra snapped, slamming at the control panel. The image vanished, the bridge temporarily dark as the lights recalibrated - when they kicked back on, painting the room in sterile white, Sandra felt suddenly very small and alone. Breathe. In. Out. She glanced at the sheets and sheets of paper taped over the viewscreen, blocking out the depths of space with branching paths of dialogue and arguments and notes. It has been a joke at first, finally getting a straight answer from her wife. What was three months of talking to a simulation when she usually spent six months trying to figure out what Angelique wanted for her birthday? But the lights were a little bit too bright and the environmental settings were a little bit too cold and all the jokes had lost their charm. Try again. She tapped the controls and the lights dimmed, the image of Angelique appearing before her once more. The simulation waited for Sandra to start but the words caught in her throat. Minutes stretched out. “What do you want?” Sandra croaked at last. “I don’t want anything,” the image of Angelique said. It tilted its head around. “Did you do this? I’ve never seen the canteen look this fancy! You didn’t have to wake up early just for me!” Another loop. The hair on the back of Sandra’s arms rose. “Earrings,” she snapped, not giving the simulation a chance to respond before carrying on. “A diamond the size of your head. I’ll steal the Mona Lisa out of storage for you if that’s what you want! Just tell me what you want! Please!” The image flickered and the smile seemed that much sadder. “What do you want?” it asked. “I’ve never seen the canteen look this fancy!” It froze like that, waiting for Sandra’s input. Sandra stared at it, through it, where the decision tree taped to the viewscreen was just about visible when the image faded and flickered and finally shut off. She sat and she thought and when the ship’s clock chimed the hour she called up the crew roster, scrolling forward through the years until she found Angelique’s name. Nowhere near hers, of course, but she could fix that. For a day. When she cleaned up the viewscreen and recycled the paper, she saved a single scrap just large enough for a couple of lines. She wrote on it and she took it down three decks to her wife’s cryopod and she taped it to the glass there, facing in. For the next three months, when the lights were too bright and the environmental controls were too cold, she would leave the bridge and go down three decks and sit there, by the glass. When her six months were up and her replacement was thawed, she climbed into a cryopod of her own. She took nothing into the ice but herself, two servings of pudding in each hand and the memory of the message she had taped to the glass. “Come wake me up. I still owe you an actual present.”
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Aug 1, 2021 23:25
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What She's Having Cake (+600): It’s someone’s birthday! Words: 600 Grant stood in front of the cakery and in the bay window he saw his reflection of internal terror. For some people making decisions can sometimes be difficult, for Grant he would be wracked with cold sweat. Before his older sister had passed away, growing up with her was easy. She made the calls; he went along for the ride. What would she get, a strawberry spongecake? Sprinkles? Lemon curd? If he could just remember, it would make everything fine. “Uncle, let’s go,” Anna said. The whole cakery was her idea because his sister would never buy birthday cakes. No one liked the same thing, and his sister refused to deal with the fallout of children not getting their way. Grant momentarily thought about what would have happened if his sister had died when Anna was still a child. What on earth was she thinking when she drafted up that living will? He probably would have just bought 10 cakes instead. Gulping, he nodded, ran a mental tabulation of his meager checking account, and followed his niece inside. The cakery was tiled in small hexagons, a mosaic with no discernable pattern. The various tiles made Grant’s eyes lose focus, but it was either that, or what seemed like an equal number of cakes packed into the refrigerated display cases. Despite the chilly air in the patisserie, Grant was becoming drenched. Today would have been his sister’s birthday, and out of habit, they spoke about it as though she was alive, just momentarily indisposed. Vanilla cake was out of the question, lest every bad thing his family thought about him be true. Chocolate was also boring and ineffectual; how dull that your best idea after vanilla could only go as far as chocolate cake. Tres Leches intimidated him, and his lactose intolerance would see to further public embarrassments. Salted Caramel would expose him as a sexual deviant he long suspected his family assumed of him, and Lemon Meringue reminded him of when he frosted his tips in middle school. “You know, I don’t even know what my mom would want, haha,” Anna laughed. “I don’t think I ever saw her eat cake.” Grant had seen his sister eat cake once. It was at her wedding. Their mother had baked it, and she raved about it. Grant just couldn’t remember what it was because he had been paralyzed during the entire ceremony, and into the reception. He crouched down, pretending to scan the bottom rack of a display case. When he thought Anna wasn’t looking, he buried his face into his arms. Guilt had a funny way of welling up sometimes. He sat there like the time he pooched his sister’s wedding toast. A task that had been sprung upon teenage Grant the night before, he would say to defend himself in the prevailing years. He distinctly remembered asking if there was anything he had to do before he accepted being her ‘maid of honor,’ and she had assumed he meant in addition to the toast. Everyone got to have a chuckle, and Grant added another incident to the list. Here it was again, screeching into the void; he was going to ruin another event because he couldn’t pick a loving cake to get. A hand rested on his shoulder. Anna gave him a loving, knowing smile. “It’s okay, get what you want,” she said. “We can buy them by the slice here. It’s what mom would have wanted.” Grant nodded, tears in his eyes. Maybe he would get two slices, and keep his family guessing.
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Aug 2, 2021 00:06
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Cake (+600): It’s someone’s birthday! Soda (+100): Your story begins and ends with the same line. Chips and Cookies (+200): Two female characters must have a 200 word conversation about something other than a man. Many Happy Returns 900 words *Captain’s Log, THE GO-GO’S (VFC 399) 31 JUL 2722: GGS has entered the Birthday Zone to celebrate a very special birthday…* The ISU Very Fast Cutter The Go-Go’s cut its overdrive and drifted on inertia through a marvelous cloud of incandescent gases and crackling energy. “Behold, the Birthday Zone!” declared Captain Belinda Carlisle, standing proudly underneath the main observation dome. Above her, a rainbow of color shimmered and shifted like a cross between an oil slick and a neon dance rave. The assembled crew applauded. The color-shifting clouds of the Birthday Zone were a wonder of the galaxy. Nobody was sure if the liquid crystal particles were naturally occurring, or the remnant of some ancient civilization’s attempt to build an HD TV the size of a solar system. What everyone could agree on, however, was that the Zone held the highest concentrations of Birthday Magic in the known galaxy. According to superstition, a wish made in the Birthday Zone was almost certain to come true. “This was totally worth the extra fuel we expended to get here in time for Matilda’s birthday,” said Lt. Sarah Crittenden, the Chief Engineer, marveling up at the lightshow unfolding above the dome. Captain Carlisle stood up on a chair and made a toast to Matilda. “Science Officer Matilda Matthews, you’ve saved my butt and the butts of every woman on this ship too many times to count,” said the Captain. “So when I saw that we were within range of the Birthday Zone to be there in time for your birthday, I knew I had to pull every string possible to make sure you had the best birthday ever!” Matilda blushed and did her best to be humble before the hail of accolades from her grateful crew. “Reversing the polarity of the engines to repel that space jellyfish was a stroke of genius!” “Thanks for curing my space pox!” “You didn’t judge me when I went too fast and got turned into a giant catfish.” While everyone gathered around Matilda to wish her a happy birthday, Zerinka, the ship’s Navigator, stood off to the side at parade rest. “Not your kind of party, Nav?” asked the Captain. “I don’t think I shall ever understand the Earthling obsession with ‘birthdays,’ complained Zerinka. “Is it not merely the celebration of coming one year closer to death?” The curmudgeonly Skulltronian claimed to be an acolyte of the Path of Pure Logic, though most of the crew agreed there was nothing logical about being a constant pessimist. Captain Carlisle laughed boisterously and wrapped her arm around the Zerinka’s shoulder, squeezing her close. “Zerinka, it’s not about coming one day closer to death, it’s about being grateful for the year you just enjoyed.” Carlisle swept her arm across the heavens in a grandiose gesture. “I see.” Zerinka rubbed her chin. “So you do not celebrate birthdays for years you do not enjoy. This makes a little more sense.” “Well, no,” said Carlisle. “The quality of the previous year doesn’t really factor in to whether we celebrate a birthday. It’s more about gratitude for just being alive I guess.” “I see no reason why simply existing is cause for celebration,” countered Zerinka. “There are many circumstances in which death might be preferable to the continued pain of existence. My people—” “Have a remarkably low rate of auto-euthanization for a bunch of depressed party-poopers.” Lt. Glenda threw her arms around the Captain and Zerinka. The ship’s Force Projection Officer was already very drunk considering the party started only ten minutes ago. “Look, okay.” Glenda leaned heavily on the Captain and Zerinka as her legs wobbled beneath her. “Okay, look. Birthdays. We celebrate birthdays because nothing in life is guaranteed. You gotta seize life by the horns because nobody knows how much time we have left!” The Chief Engineer butted in. “You’re coming at this the wrong way,” she said. “A birthday celebration isn’t about seizing life by the horns or being thankful for surviving another year. A birthday is a day someone’s friends set aside to celebrate how special that person is to them. It’s about spending time together and working to give someone you love and care about a perfect day.” Sarah gestured for the others to look over at Matilda. The four all turned to look. The Science Officer was laughing joyously at a joke Tina “Catfish” Lyon had just told. PX-T-11, an android The Go-Go’s had rescued from a planet that had destroyed itself in a nuclear war, walked up behind the captain and tapped on her shoulder. “Captain, why do humans celebrate birthdays?” asked PX-T-11, cocking her head slightly to the right like a curious puppy. “Alright I’m out. I’m not having this conversation again.” Captain Carlisle struggled to extricate herself from Glenda and Zerinka. “It’s time for the cake.” Captain Carlisle got back up on the chair and tapped her glass with a fork to get everyone’s attention as the ship’s cook wheeled in the cake. “My friends, I love you all so much!” said Matilda. “This really has been a perfect day. I just wish every day could—” “Don’t tell us or it won’t come true!” interrupted the Captain. Matilda nodded and blew out the candles. The air sparkled with Birthday Magic. *Captain’s Log, THE GO-GO’S (VFC 399) 31 JUL 2722: GGS has entered the Birthday Zone to celebrate a very special birthday…*
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Aug 2, 2021 00:09
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The Weight of Happiness Word count: 869 Cake +600: It’s someone’s birthday Ice Cream +400: Your story must be told in reverse order (but still make sense). https://thunderdome.cc//?story=9927&title=The+Weight+of+Happiness a friendly penguin fucked around with this message at 23:20 on Oct 16, 2021 |
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Aug 2, 2021 01:26
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FLASH RULES posted:Cake! +600 words The Fishmonger's Tale 1273 words After a hot day and a miles-long trek out to the decrepit keep, the fish stank. Rufino did his best to keep the monstrous thing at arms-length, but it was heavy. Certainly heavier than the pike and walleye he usually traded in. He wasn’t even certain where the thing had come from, but whatever abyssal deep coughed it up wasn’t local. At least, he’d never come across a four-foot-long grey plank of ugly in his time as a fisherman. Rufino wasn’t certain why anyone would want something quite so repulsive, but the letter said it was for a birthday, and those sorts of special orders were always good. Thus he found himself trudging through mud with a reeking sack of grotesque sea-meat as night fell. The note was very specific on that too, that the centerpiece of the feast should arrive no earlier than dusk. Wizards. Mad, every last one of them. The tower came up on him faster than seemed right, sneaking over the horizon and jumping to land in his lap. Didn’t make the mud-trudge any less miserable, but at least it was done. Done is beautiful, Rufino always said. Or rather, the gold they give you when you’re done, that’s the beautiful bit. And this nutter in the tower had guaranteed the fish’s weight in gold. A good haul unto itself, as Rufino’s aching back and shoulders would protest. He didn’t want to consider how he was getting the gold home just then. The tower was a sheer, unbroken expanse of stone. Or really, a pile of stone. “Pile” was the more fitting word for the particular level of grandeur the wizard’s spire evoked. A set of heavy wooden doors were the only way in, as far as Rufio could see. He’d always assumed doors were a bit passe for wizards. Why fiddle with a doorknob when you could bend time and space to put you where you please? Rufino lowered the sack with the fish to rest on a relatively mud-free cobblestone and gripped a large brass knocker on the door, giving three sharp raps. “Come in!” called a voice from inside. Come in? thought Rufino. Wasn’t very wizardly. Or really all that dignified in a non-wizardly sense. Shouldn’t there be a horrendous flesh construct to escort him to some aetherial orrery? Hells, he’d even take a cthonic lair. A self-serve entry to some ramshackle pile of rocks was not on the list of wizardly expectation. Rufino sighed, shoved a door open, and shouldered his fishy burden. As his eyes adjusted to the moonlight gloom of the tower, he realized there was no roof or floors above to impede the moonlight. There really wasn’t much of anything. Wasn’t even a floor, which seemed particularly inhospitable, though at that point Rufino figured he should be happy there was even a wizard still about. He, at least, struck the necessary wizardly image. Well over six feet tall, sporting a hoary beard that stretched at least half that, and a hat so tall and pointy one might wonder if he was compensating for something. Truly the figure of an imposing magister, and he even took the trouble to glow a bit. The sickly green light that seemed to roll off the wizard in waves illuminated a rough wooden table before him, and beyond that, a gaping hole. Rufino could hear the crash of the ocean from far below. “Bring the specimen forth!” called the wizard. Before Rufino could move, he added “And watch where you walk. That first step can be a regrettable one.” Rufino edged around, back pressed against the wall, fish clutched before him. It wasn’t entirely necessary given that there was enough room for two or three to walk abreast without risk of falling in the gaping maw, but he always thought it respectful to lend these situations the gravity they deserved. After what felt like eons, he reached the table and disgorged his sack. The monstrous fish flopped to the table with a fleshy splat. In the blink of an eye, the wizard had drawn forth a knife and plunged it into the fish, carving out a chunk of flesh that could politely be called “outspoken”. He raised it up, chanting perverse syllables in some unpleasant language that made Rufino blush, despite not having any idea what was being said. The wizard opened his mouth, apparently to consume the fetid fishblob. Before he could stop himself, Rufino gagged. The wizard eyed him with a look that could have withered an oak tree. “I do not presume to dictate to you the ways of flounders and seals--” (it did not seem fit to correct him in this moment) “--so I would ask you to leave to me the esoteric manoeuvres of arcane summonings, Mr. Mustang!” Rufino was too busy trying to recall that Mustang was his own rarely-used surname to respond, and as a result entirely missed the wizard consuming the chunk of fish. Imagine, dear reader, a flamingo trying to swallow a golf ball and you’re most of the way there. Following his impromptu meal, the wizard uttered forth more magical incantations, though in a voice more queasy than commanding. A thunderous rumble seemed to rise up out of the ocean and shake the very stones of the tower, sending some of the highest and smallest blocks tumbling to the water below. Rufino cast about for something to steady himself, grabbing the table and holding on for dear life. With the next tremor, though, he overcorrected and sent the table tipping over. The wizard cried out in panic, diving for the remains of the fish that were about to tip off the table and into the maw below. In a moment of impromptu heroism that Rufino would retell in taverns for years and years, he leapt to grab the hem of the wizard’s robe before the magus could follow the fish down into the maw. But in the way these things always seemed to go for Rufino, he firmly planted his foot on the fish-sack, which was still imbued with fish-goo and seawater, and promptly shot out from under his shoe like a malicious banana peel. Feeling that he’d given it his best effort and discretion is the better part of valor, Rufino let go of the wizard rather than follow him into the briny deep. As one last sign of respect, Rufino pointedly ignored the wizard’s dying howl as he plummeted hundreds of feet to the ocean. At least he died with some dignity. There was a bare moment of silence, but since nature abhors that sort of thing, it was shattered by a monstrous roar. Rufino crawled to the edge of the pit, sticking his hand in something wet and unpleasant along the way. Apparently the wizard had managed to save the fish, if not himself. Not a bad fellow after all, Rufino thought. Peering down into the darkness, Rufino saw a trio of huge red eyes ringing a mouth of incredibly large teeth. Something grey and cracked floated nearby, and after a moment of scrutiny Rufino realized it was the shell of a gargantuan egg. “Why, you’re just a wee bairn! Happy birthday, whatever you are. There was meant to be a wizard to meet you. Well, I guess he did meet you, in a way. Don’t worry though, I know all about the ways of flounders and seals, and we’ll take right good care of you.” And with that, Rufino picked up the horrendous fish and pitched it in the hole. He was met with a roar that he truly hoped meant “thank you.”
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Aug 2, 2021 02:11
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Flash Rules (10):
****** Private Memory Files of Worn Node 41719 Observing the Conflicts Relating to the Imperial Church’s Attempt to Control the Milky Way Spiral Arm Sector 6d9 2800 words A post-human Eyes of Light neophyte, a Faithful refugee, and a Node of the Autamarchy all board a ship. The ship says, “What is this, some kind of joke?” It didn’t actually say that, though, when I boarded. Instead, it said, “If your components will be damaged by 25G acceleration and transition into warp, please get in a pod.” The human, Tau Mary, stopped glaring at the post-human and ran for the first pod. “How do I…?” she started to ask, right before the membranes reached out and drew her in with a squelch! The post-human, Priestess Cataline 405nm, calmly looked around the slick fleshy walls of the ship and asked, “Will my antlers fit?” The ship, Gravity is the Situation, replied “Yes. We accelerate in five seconds.” The three of us could all detect Cataline 405nm’s heart jumping in fear, but none of that was betrayed by the regal steps and upright posture that she approached the pod with. With about 32 milliseconds left before departure, with the other two passengers safely sealed away, I asked over the datastream, <May I have non-proprietary sensor access?> The ship didn’t reply, but as my metal chassis slammed against the chitinous rear wall of the ship, I started receiving a stream of images and datalogs, far beyond even my processor’s capabilities to track. <Truncated>, I amended. A moment later, the WAP (warp-accelerated antimatter projectile) hit the planet we’d just left, and there was a blinding burst of gamma radiation. I added several emotional notes to my entries for the Autamarchy: Reaction: Surprised. Did not expect to live. Reaction: Dismayed. The heretical colony of Violet and its archaeological digs were obliterated. So many lives wasted and so much knowledge lost. Stellar-political implications: Likely casus belli for heretical breakaway, the Violet Order. Expect war between them and the Imperial Church of the Eyes of Light. I watched in awe through the ship’s sensors, staring at where the mantle of the planet had been pierced, where globs of lava and bloomed out, and as the atmosphere burned, a ring of fire embracing the planet. It was beautiful, in the most terrible way. Reaction, I added to my record. Overwhelming awe and sadness. I had already known the Gravity is the Situation was packing some serious tech when it picked us up. Instead of staying in orbit and launching a shuttle, like a normal ship, it had actually gone into the atmosphere. Cataline, Tau Mary, and I had been standing on the roof of the Amaranth Temple (it was a bit of a story how we got there after most of the planet was already evacuated; suffice to say it involved several unlikely coincidences). Somehow, the ship had projected a field out that had torn away the entire temple and a half-kilometer of the ground beneath it. It wasn’t manipulating electromagnetism, like a tractor-beam—that only worked in space. It was doing something else entirely. Diplomatic: this Node recommends the Autamarchy investigate formal alliance with the unnamed eco-anarchic space-based faction. <Actually>, the Gravity is the Situation broadcast, <You’re not going to be sending them that note. We don’t enter into formal relationships with states>. <You can read my thoughts?> I asked, unnecessarily. <The problem with computer-based consciousness is that if you build all the brains the same way, all using the same language, you can figure out how they think. Biological brains, with their psuedorandom growth, can only have thought-trends picked up on, unless you have an extraordinary long time with a single specimen.> <I see>, I said, and made another note. Existential crisis: The Autamarchy exists at the whim of the unnamed eco-anarchic space-based faction. Civilization-ending security flaw discovered. Personal note: Requesting visit to therapist upon return. The acceleration stopped, and I found myself floating through the ship. Deep in its flesh, in the x-ray spectrum, I could see the tiny bursts of nuclear radiation all around as its cells guided individual uranium atoms into each other for the most precise fission I’d ever seen. It was a brilliant solution to the food-into-energy problem that most living ships ran into. Nuclear energy was a lot easier to carry around than, say, loads of potatoes. Near the rear of the ship, I could sense the powerful magnetic fields containing the antimatter. That would be for the warp bubbles and weapons. The two pods opened. Tau Mary made a gurgling sound as she emerged, then vomited, though the colors were wrong for human internals. The ship quickly absorbed the fluid while the woman looked around wide-eyed. As I floated by, her eyes narrowed and she glared at me. I waved. Cataline also vomited, but she did so regally, wiping her lips with the corner of her dress as if she were at a formal dinner and had just told the waiter that the vintage of wine he’d brought was not acceptable. “Would you like some gravity?” the Gravity is the Situation asked. “Yes, please,” said Tau Mary. Parts of the room began to luminesce, and I felt the gentle pull. Interestingly, the internal gravity the ship was generating pulled Tau Mary and Cataline in two other directions, so we all ended up standing on different walls, staring up at each other. <You see the Eyes of Light fleet pursuing us, right?> I asked the ship. Six battleships, two fleet carriers, and a fabricator by my count. <Obviously,> it said. Out loud, it said, “I suppose you’re all wondering why I gathered you here today.” Cataline snorted. “You just saw what the Imperial Church did to that planet. If you have any sense of justice, you’ll ally with the Violet Order and ensure they can never do that again.” Tau Mary interjected. “You sure you didn’t mean the ‘violent order?’ Your people had no trouble killing off mine. We came to you as refugees, and you—” “We did no such thing.” “Or perhaps you’re not wondering at all,” Gravity is the Situation said. “So I’ll tell you: This edge of the galactic spiral contains a number of novel ecosystems untouched by human-kind, spread across forty-eight planets. War erupting in this region would mean those big fabricator ships would be looking for material, and would probably destroy them, irrevocably. We would prefer that those ecosystems remain untouched.” “There can be no peace with war criminals,” Cataline announced. “I didn’t say we wanted peace. There’s other ways to protect them. You want peace though. You really do.” “Why did you save us?” Tau Mary demanded. “Because the Node there asked nicely,” the ship replied. The two of them looked at me. “It never hurts to ask.” I was also monitoring the situation in space. The Gravity is the Situation was still accelerating, albeit not as quickly, and somehow, the acceleration wasn’t detectable on the ship. The Eyes of Light fleet was attempting to catch up. The ships weren’t visible anymore, but their warp bubbles were. That meant everyone involved was burning antimatter. It seemed unlikely to me that this ship had more than the much larger ships, which meant, by my reckoning, we were doomed. “Why us though?” Tau Mary asked. “You can represent the Faithful,” the ship said, then to Cataline, “And you, the Eyes of Light faction. And you,” it said to me, “the Autamarchy.” “The Autamarchy are just observers,” I protested. “I know you believe that,” the ship said. That shut me up. “Unfortunately, my position is such that I cannot officially represent the true church,” the heretic said. “True church my rear end,” Tau Mary scoffed. “But she’s right, I’m not one of the Blessed. I can recommend it to my archdiocese, but--” The ship made a trill of annoyance, interrupting her. “These are arbitrary hierarchies. You are representatives.” “You don’t have that authority,” Cataline said coldly. “Neither do your leaders. Nevertheless.” <This is probably intractable,> I said. “Worn Node,” the ship replied out loud, “I don’t need you all to resolve your differences. I need you to exist in such a way that you are not forces of extermination. Let us talk metaphorically: A tree and a fungus will never reconcile because they are fundamentally different. But they live in symbiosis: Trees need decomposers, and fungi needs photosynthesizers. Even roles that consume each other may exist in harmony. The beetle needs the woodpecker so that it does not destroy the all the trees that makes their food; the deer needs the wolf; the wolf needs the deer. None are asked to reconcile or become each other. But while the monkey who slays a single snake is justified, the monkey that seeks to destroy every snake in the jungle has done evil.” “That’s anthropomorphism. The nature of the Universe cannot be seen by a human eye,” Cataline said. “Yes, because I’m talking to various flavors of humans. If I was talking to a tree, I’d be using pheromones and explaining it very differently. But you see my point.” It was not common knowledge that the Autamarchy’s robotic hive had, thousands of years ago, come from humans. <What wave of human expansion were you from?> I asked. <I wasn’t> it replied. And that shut me up again. “There’s no living in harmony with the Eyes of Light. God created humanity in Their image. The Eyes have decided to blaspheme by mutilating their bodies. They’ve chased us from our homes—” “Oh shut up,” Cataline snapped. “You still believe that infantile scripture—that God wrote a book for one planet. Funnily enough, it says you can have dominion over every living thing that moves on the Earth. But you decided that wasn’t convenient, so you decided that all the earth-like planets were yours to pillage. Do you know what your so-called ‘Faithful’ did to Jata 3a?” “Doesn’t seem as bad as what just happened to the planet behind us,” Tau Mary said, teeth clenched. “What is more likely? That God wrote a book, or that the true nature of God can be observed by studying the Universe itself?” Tau Mary shook her head. “You’ve closed yourself off to the word of God. Of course you can’t hear Them. Or the truth.” “The idea that you can understand the universe and God using basic evolved features—absurd. We don’t see reality. You know that, right? Or maybe you don’t. We just see electromagnetic waves reflected off atoms, as interpreted by the brain, by default. You still just see visible light. But the Eyes of Light will not remain static. We will change ourselves to better see reality. You are free to keep your head buried, though. Humanity has moved on without you.” The two continued, but I was only half-listening. Another part of my attention was on the approaching fleet. It seemed they were catching up to us. The last part was on my internal thoughts; I was not transcribing them as I usually did. The Autamarchy considered itself above the petty conflicts of the near-humans. “Bears and wolves avoid each other,” I finally said. Both of them turned to me; Tau Mary looked at me like I was a turd, while Cataline merely implied I smelled like one. “You both want to look for god in your own way. Neither needs to kill the other over it. Stay away from each other.” “Where? My people are refugees now, with no—” “You just need a place?” I said, at the same time the ship said, “If that’s all you need, I can help build a space station or two.” “The Autamarchy can help build it,” I added. “Assuming your factions sign treaties of nonaggression. Just them—no treaties for you,” I told the Gravity is the Situation. “I don’t do treaties,” it said. Cataline said, “This is all irrelevant. The heretics will destroy what they can’t control. It’s their word they need.” “Great!” Gravity is the Situation said. “I’ll settle that shortly. You two take a look at the galactic map." A holographic projector grew out of the middle of the room, and a shift in the gravity caused us to float next to each other around the newly grown table, rather than across the room from each other. My attention was fully on the outside, though. Warp bubbles were only supposed to move in straight lines. Once you formed one, it couldn’t maneuver; that was just the nature of stretching and contracting spacetime. Nevertheless, the ship’s warp bubble had curved, bringing the incoming fleet completely out of alignment. They’d miss the Gravity is the Situation by a parsec. And they wouldn’t like that. WAPs were fine for destroying planets, but a warp-capable ship was just going to move out of the way. The fleet’s warp bubbles flashed off, revealing the ships. Slowly, their maneuvering thrusters fired up to change their direction. As they did, the Gravity continued to spiral around, until it was nearly on top of them. It was suicidal. Then, the fleet began to move again. Or rather, parts of it. Suddenly, there was a storm of metal flying in all directions—entire bulkheads zipping off, while a turret tore itself lose and moved the opposite direction. It was as if the ships were being disassembled—except the life support systems remained intact. The rest of the ships—turrets, engines, armor—all gathered themselves in a single spot. Then, there was a flash—a burst of x-rays erupted from a small singularity. For a moment, space warped in front of us, and there was a little black hole, blotting out the stars. Then it vanished, and in its place was blob of metal, perfectly spherical, and so hot it was glowing. It was a beautiful thing to watch, more like an artist with a paintbrush than the battle I had been expecting. <You can manipulate fundamental particles of gravity?> I asked. <Sure,> the ship replied. <Can you teach us?> I asked. <Absolutely not,> it said. A screen grew above the holoprojector, the edges of the membrane pulsing slightly. The screen lit up, and a man appeared, wearing a stiff white uniform, with the same light-infused eyes on a dark face that Cataline had, though he had a long set of spines going down his back rather than the antlers. Someone in the background said, surprised, “Oh. They answered the hail! Wow.” The uniformed man said, “This is Admiral Croc Matisse of the Eyes of Light. Why have you attacked us?” The ship sounded like it was instructing a child. “You blew up a planet, idiot. Did you think there wouldn’t be a consequence?” “His name’s Croc?” Tau Mary muttered. The admiral stiffened. “This is casus belli.” “That’s fine,” the Gravity is the Situation said. “You can declare war on me. Meanwhile, I’d like to introduce you to three other factions who you’re already in conflict with, and you’re going to negotiate a treaty together, since you all seem to like making arbitrary rules to follow—or not, if it’s inconvenient.” That conversation went a lot longer, but in the end, the Eyes of Light military group realized they were rather at the mercy of the Gravity. I, for the most part, stayed out of it, except to say that any Node of the Autamarchy could act as a representative, and that I thought it was quite likely we would ratify the result. When it was all done, the screen swapped to show the vast space around us, and Tau Mary started out at it pensively. “Do you think it’ll work?” she asked no one in particular. “Maybe,” I said. “For a time. Most things are ephemeral. Even stars.” “The faithless will break it. And the heretics. Neither abide not being able to dominate others,” Cataline said in her usual cool tone. She was looking at the screen as well, eyes darting about, counting stars. “Our cities are ash. Few things grow from such ruin.” “As are ours,” Tau Mary said, with the still-bitter tone that implied thanks to you. I joined them. “Every one of those stars started as dust,” I said. “Perhaps we are honored to have such a beginning.” The Gravity is the Situation said nothing to us; it was busy sending off warp-encased packets of radio signals in all different directions as it gathered the various hollowed-out ships around it to tow. Perhaps it wasn’t a permanent resolution, but as we moved, I felt a bubbling romanticism welling up. I didn’t dare record it as a note, nor my unfounded sense of hope, but I marked the day on my calendar. With some luck, this was the day that a new peace was born.
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Aug 2, 2021 02:18
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Cake! (+600) Character Name: Falcon Friday (+300) K-Drama Trope: Love Triangle (+300) Theme: Opposites Attract, Character Archetype: Fae (+300) You must have a happy ending. (+100) One character is non-binary. (+100) Your story must start and end in the same location. (+100) You are limited to two locations. (+200) Gatecrashers From Another Dimension 1945 / 2000 words Removed! rohan fucked around with this message at 11:20 on Dec 31, 2021 |
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Aug 2, 2021 02:53
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CAKE, someone's birthday (+600) Pick a card, any card. Use it in your story. (+100) You must have a happy ending (+100) Antivehicular chooses a comic (+300) Drowning 741 words Maybe drowning is not so bad after all. When you’re in the Desert any droplet feels like nectar. I found myself there after the dragon exiled me. Her verdict was that I did not deserve to live, nor was I worthy of death’s release. My punishment would be immortality and a curse to forever wander the Desert, dreamless. The landscape didn’t offer anything to the eyes, just an empty horizon to fill with regrets, nowhere to retreat to except within. The sand gleamed with a sickening intensity that stole the stars, I had no shadow to make me company. I walked towards what I felt was a direction, aware that it would become a circle. I relieved the trauma of my trial and the years of failure and devotion to the dragon that preceded it. They were the only memories that I could recall in my self loathing. I grew thirsty and hungry and tired and yet did not die, my body and mind wasted away and yet I did not die. Months? Years? Time lost all meaning. I wished I could drown. Eventually that was all I could think of, an ocean filling and erasing me. I continued to walk, it was not even perseverance at that point, just habit. The Desert stayed the same. Eventually I arrived at a simple heresy. What if the dragon was wrong? Something unravelled and later that night it began to rain. It was not enough to drown me, it wasn’t enough to give me hope or relieve the thirst that burned my all, but it was enough to make me feel different and to think of something different. I stopped walking for the first time since my trial and sat down, letting my hands feel the sand with the curiosity of a child. They were soft and they were real unlike the condemnations my mind kept throwing at me. I laid down and closed my eyes. Some time passed as the sands flowed around me, burying me. An object (a small sheet?) dug its way between my fingers, but I was enjoying the ground’s embrace far too much to give it immediate attention. I knew it was alright, there was time and in that time the sand eventually unburied me. An eon, a minute, there was no difference anymore, I stood up and felt the object, a card with a mirror for a face and a blacker than black black on its back. I saw the Desert in the mirror, but nothing of me. I could not remember my face. It was a relief. I held onto the card and wondered what I could remember. The cookie jar for one, such a sweet memory. I spent so many nights looking at it wistfully as a child. I’d grow and I’d reach it and I’d live the happiest day of my life and then it would migrate somewhere out of my reach, for a time. I’d always get to it eventually and as fleeting as our meeting was, it was always worth it. It was wrong for my grandmother, it was right for me. What I did was wrong for the dragon, it was right for me. Neither the dragon nor I had the right to turn my love into this. I could feel another lock of my prison breaking, I revisited the memories of my childhood, recognized me in them, I walked and danced and played in the desert and I rebuilt that version of myself, I looked at the card and saw the gap-toothed child smiling through a bloody nose, surrounded by family and friends. I had been so loved, I was still loved. The dragon was wrong, I deserved to live and I would. I found a door in the Desert and opened it. I woke up from the coma a week before my birthday. Maybe I would never walk again, maybe I could never think like a normal person again, but I was alive and loved and I accepted that was enough. The scar would be there forever, but no one was angry at me for what I had tried to do to myself, they were just glad I was there, still around, and so was I. When the day came everyone was there, everyone but the dragon, but it was fine, I had a new life to live and maybe I could be less melodramatic about it this time.
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Aug 2, 2021 03:55
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Cake! +600 words It’s someone's birthday! Pizza! +300 words Tyrannosaurus names one of your major characters (from a Tyrannosaurus prompt): Mickalene Macaw Ice Cream! +400 words Your story is a Psychological Christmas Creature Feature Secret Society Period Piece About Parenthood Alcohol! +1000 words * Your story is split into more than ten scenes but no scene can have more than 50 words. Fledgling 775/2300 words The night before Mickalene is born, Hannah dreams of jungles, rain-drenched green on green. There are flashes of color in the storm, defiant wings aloft. She is nowhere in the scene. Hannah awakens to birth-pain with birdsong in her ears, and she knows. This time, a daughter. *** Mickalene walks early and talks earlier. Soon she's leaping everywhere, climbing everything, endlessly impatient to see something new. Her brothers call her a little monkey, but Hannah knows better. Hannah thinks of her own slow childhood, of storybooks and foolish brothers. Her daughter is an alien creature. Thank God. *** Mickalene sees her first parrot in the window of a pet shop. It's brilliant, blue and gold. "Can we buy it, Mama?" says Mickalene. "Can we, can we?" They can't, but Hannah gives Mickalene ten minutes at the window to stare at the bird -- to see her soul mirrored. *** The speakeasies call the beasts to Harlem, more every year. The younger Sisters are forever on the hunt, and the distilleries in the sub-basement of the Bluebird Club churn out wolfsbane. Mickalene's initiation will have to come sooner than Hannah would like. Hannah swallows the fear and makes wolfsbane grenades. *** Mickalene at sixteen is tall and strong, golden like her father, with Hannah's untamable hair. She wears a bright frock under her winter coat when Hannah takes her to the Bluebird Club for the first time; she is dreaming of jazz and dancing. Mickalene at sixteen is so, so young. *** For three months before Mickalene turns 17, from the autumnal equinox on, Hannah makes her excuses at night to haunt the rooftops. Her wings have been sheathed too long. (Her husband Alfonso only nods, smiles, sends her off with a kiss every night. Some things are known but unspoken.) *** The first gift for Mickalene's 17th birthday is a pendant from the Sisterhood glassblower: a macaw feather, unreal blue, on a golden chain. The second: a shabby secondhand coat, stinking of old sorrow. The beasts hunt by scent. The third: a bandolier of grenades. *** Mickalene's birthday is the winter solstice. "Christmas on the other side of this, baby," says Hannah, as Mickalene dons her hunting gear in the foyer. "Think of Grandmama's cooking." "Thinking of a new coat," says Mickalene. The secondhand coat's too big on her -- she looks childlike. She is. *** There's an alley behind a few of the speakeasies where the drunks go to ramble and the beasts go to eat. Mickalene hunkers down in that stinking too-big coat; in the evening dark, all her brightness is hidden. Hannah watches from the rooftop. She will not intervene. She cannot. *** The rich white man has a knife in his hand. He walks sober, smiles too wide, and Hannah wants to swoop down on him. "Little darling," he calls. "You all right?" Mickalene rises, feigns ignorance. Hannah forces herself still. Even in the dark, she can see the beast's fur sprouting. *** The knife takes a slash out of Mickalene's coat, but she grabs the beast's wrists and sends the blade flying. He doesn't fight it. He's seven feet tall, clawed, moon-fanged. Mickalene's bones crack as her wings unfurl. Hannah aches in sympathy. She must stay still. A fledgling must fly alone. *** Hannah initiated at 21. It took her five minutes to tame her wings, five minutes of grapple with the beast. The scars on her hip still burn red and angry. Ten seconds after Mickalene's wings sprout, she flies. Hannah's daughter is an alien creature. Thank God. *** The beast is too hunt-crazed to navigate the fire escape. It tries to climb, staring up at Mickalene with eyes like hateful stars. The wolfsbane grenade hits the bridge of its nose. The beast's fur sloughs off. Blood extinguishes the stars. Mickalene throws another grenade, then another. *** When Hannah descends to meet her daughter, all the Sisters follow her from their own perches. Hannah bows, white wings folded around her shoulders. "Mickalene Macaw. Welcome to the Sisterhood of the Red Feather." Mickalene glances behind her; the beast's corpse is gone. The Sisters work quickly. *** They walk home together: Mickalene still adrenaline-high, Hannah tired and aching. Calling and retracting the wings hurts worse every year. "Christmas is coming," Hannah says, hungry for something to say. "What do you want?" "I told you, Mama -- a new coat." Mickalene is smiling. "And to burn this old thing." *** They have a Christmas bonfire on the roof, just mother and daughter, young huntress and old. The terrible coat burns well enough. The new one will be in scarlet satin. Hannah sketches it in her mind as she watches Mickalene on the rooftop, dancing alone. Scarlet and blue and gold.
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Aug 2, 2021 05:28
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Cake (someone's birthday) Pizza: Pizza:Love triangle? Love triangle. Pizza: Artemisia Gharial Alcohol: Your story is split into more than ten scenes but no scene can have more than 50 words Nineteen Moments of Eternity 999 words Memory Sometimes Autumn remembers: fighting off boarders on a ship in the South China Sea, rapier wet with blood and spray. A bed of rose-red cushions set out in a walled garden, feeling like the inventor of sex itself. Drowning slowly in a white hospital bed. Remembers. She does not imagine. Mythology In the beginning was a line, and a spark. And there was motion. The spark shot down the line, burning, hissing, sweating heat and smoke. And so it burned for a long time. The line was long, but not infinite. It had an end, and the spark raced toward it. As One Does Artemisia Gharial buried the wavy-bladed ceremonial dagger into the head archon's gut. It was not a practical weapon. She had to apply far more force to pierce skin, muscle, organs. His mouth, underpopulated in teeth by half, slipped open and bathed her in swamp stenches. She left it inside him. Ministry of Health Gabriel Florence listened to the intern as he described the situation outside. Not coherent, but it painted a picture, mostly in red. "The street," the boy said. "Well, I mean the pavement. Burst upward, like stalactites. No, that's not. But right up through, you know, his chest." Again, he thought. Perspectives on the Fall of Rome Autumn Chanterelle has mastered the knack of sleeping silently behind her glasses as her teacher drones on. She's done the reading. Beyond the occasional pop quiz she has no use for the lecture. Autumn dreams sensual dreams beyond her experience, of being railed vigorously by legionaries fresh from the wars. Fixations Artemisia spent six days lying still in her grave, hoping she could fool some reaper on other business into taking her as well. She learned that while she eventually stopped being thirsty, hunger remained. On the seventh day she heard noises. Ear-worms? No, only Gabriel come round with a shovel. Mythology Again The spark flew down the line. The thief was there, uninvited. They had no name; this was before names. This was before hands, too. The thief invented one and grabbed at the spark. It burned. The thief made another hand, proof against heat, and stole a piece of the spark. When is a Crypt At the deepest part of the ocean, at the bottom of a trench too narrow to have a name, there is a tunnel. Strange fish live there, in utter darkness. At the deepest part of that cave is a basalt chest. Inside that chest is Gabriel Florence's true crystal heart. Emergence The ground first opened up during the Great War. They were there, were impaled by the stone spikes. For one, a mere insult to dead flesh. One felt every pain but knew healing would come. The third, dying, turned from face to face for comfort before their soul sought rebirth. One Must Imagine Prometheus Happy This was Artemisia's thought, hearing the myth from Hesiod for the first time. She remembered her own time on the rock, punished for that first crime. There was no moment she could not have wrenched the nails out of the rock and driven them through the neck of the eagle. Twenty, or Two Hundred Thousand Something On her twentieth birthday, early in the evening, Autumn remembers everything. Lives upon lives, from joyous hunts in the days before language to the topless towers of Illium to secret tunnels on the moon. She remembers all, and remembers remembering, nearly endlessly cascading twentieth birthdays. She remembers every death, too. The Adversary In the empire before this civilization, on now-sunken lands they first came together, truly. They had met before, in times before names and words, each recognizing the other. But this was they first time they could trade words. What they said is: "Here is our enemy. Let's go kill them." Careenium Autumn reels under the weight. The tindance waits her here hereafter. Phoenix phones callert and cavort. The legs cannot hold. Autumn roughly slouches toward couches, feinting at a fall. So many memories coloiding and painting the grey matter red. And in it: two frenzies, sometime raveling and levering longlife loose. Cavalry Gabriel led the charge, mounted on a dappled longbeast and armed with an alchemic pistol-axe. Artemisia was just behind on her own dozen-legged beast. This was a day to avenge her, now no doubt quickening in some womb continents away. The enemy's line was vulnerable. He spurred the beast faster. The Wyrm It stood taller than houses. It was clad in steel-tough scales. Claws to tear and rend, a mouth to chew or devour. The scales were not unbreakable, but each one that touched dirt spawned a soldier, ready for the fight. With arms and magic joined, Artemis and Gabriel pushed forward. A Quiet Moment "It seems like I'm always pulling you out of some grave." "You don't have to, you know." "Don't I?" "If I didn't know it wouldn't work I would even try. Well, not often." "I like to think I'm worth living for." "Of course you do." "Am I not?" "She is." Digits It took some time, but Autumn's mind was able to correlate its merciless contents, including two strings of digits. Landline numbers. She wondered if they still kept them. She wasn't ready to call. She turned on the television, seeking escape. Two minutes into the news she was dialing his numbers. Three Against The Wyrm was bigger, faster, more dangerous. And the clumsy modern armies had, in failing to defeat it, spawned a small army of scalespawn. Against it were three immortals, or nearly so, in a convertible Mustang, roof down to accommodate the rocket launcher on Artemisia's shoulder. Autumn floored the gas. Mythology, Ultimate The Spark, as ever, travels down the line as fast as logic will allow. The line is not infinite. It has an end. And at the end is the explosive death at the end and beginning of all things. Some day the spark will reach the end. But not today.
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Aug 2, 2021 05:36
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Ice Cream (+400 words): Thranguy will give you a Grievance from the Declaration of Independence. "For transporting us beyond Seas to be tried for pretended offences:" Offense Or Offence? 936 words “This sucks,” Lee said as he stared out into space. He swore that the tax collector was taking too much. One snide remark later, and he had been tossed on a ship to the nearest “Civilized” planet for trial. The problem was that at the ship’s current speed, it would take ten years to arrive. A knock on his door broke Lee away from his thoughts. “Yo, is anybody still living here?” a man said. Jerry was a lanky middle-aged man. He wore a grey duster almost every day, along with a pair of goggles that rested on his forehead(which Lee had never Jerry use in all five years of living with him). “Smartass,” Lee said without looking away from the window. “Holy Jesus, Lee. Aren’t you going to celebrate your birthday?” Jerry said. “Why start now?” “Well, maybe because ol’ Jonah decided to cook you a cake. I guess it’s more of a pie than a cake, but he tried his best with what he had.” “I’m still not going.” “Look, consider going to this a favor to me. Remember when I fixed that hologram of yours? The one that dances.” Lee’s skin flushed red, “You promised that you wouldn’t speak of that! Alright, if it means so much to you, I’ll go.” The ship’s hallways gleamed from cleanliness. Lee was glad that the ship cleaned itself, and he imagined the other prisoners thought so as well. The mess hall was the largest room on the ship. Still, it wasn’t that roomy. It only had one table and four chairs. Two of the chairs were already occupied by a couple of men. Calvin was in his early twenties. He wore wire-framed glasses and a button-top dress shirt. He was staring at his holo-reader; Lee guessed he was reading Macbeth or some other allowed reading material. The other man, Jonah, was the oldest in the group. He had long graying hair along with a beard that reached down to his navel. Jonah was a priest as well as the ship’s occasional chef. Lee truly believed that the priest had the power of God on his side. After all, It was a continuous miracle that none of Jonah’s facial hair ever found its way onto the food that he prepared. In the middle of the table sat what looked to Lee, the bastard offspring between a chocolate cake and apple pie, with a little lit candle smackdab in the middle for good measure. “So this is the famous cake everybody’s been talking about?” Lee said in a dry tone. “Happy birthday, son! It’s been praying for you, and it’s great to see you out here instead of being locked up in your room all day,” Jonah said. Calvin finally looked up from his holo-reader, “Happy birthday. Jo made that monstrosity that you see there out of leftovers.” “It is not a monstrosity! It’s a new dish. I call it the pie cake.” Jerry spoke, “Alright, Lee. Why don’t you make a wish and blow out the candle?” “Yeah, then everyone can dig into my new creation!” “You better wish for a new tv or something,” Jerry said. “It’s not like this wish will come true,” Lee said sardonically. The flame flickered in and out of existence as Lee half-heartedly blew. “Come on, son. You got to do better than that!” Lee gave Jonah a sidelong glance before continuing. The candle went out with a cheer from the group. Lee stood stoic. Jerry approached the pie-thing with a knife, “Finally, we can eat,” he said while cutting himself a slice. Jonah spoke while eating a slice of his cake, “Did you I ever tell you how I got on this ship?” “Yes, you told us twelve times already,” Calvin said while poking at his slice of cake. “Lee hasn’t heard it yet. Have you, Lee?” Jerry said. “No,” Lee said. Calvin groaned as Jonah continued his story, “I was seventy-five, back then. A pregnant woman had come to my church. She said them imperial agents kicked her out of her house on account of them having suspicions that the lady had housed rebels at one point. She swore to god that those accusations were untrue. I thought that was not right, so I decided to speak to those agents. Next thing I know, I’m on this ship charged with contempt.” “So, what’s the point of your story?” Lee asked. “No point. Just passing time is all.” Calvin spoke up, “I know the point of the story. The empire wants to send all the troublemakers on a long journey in the hopes we end dying of old age. Why do you think they sent us without any cryogenic pods?” Jerry spoke next, “Hogwash, Empire didn’t send us with any cryos’ because they’re too cheap and incompetent.” “Careful, Son. The captain might be hearing, and he might not like us talking bad about his Empire.” “gently caress it, I’m already in this bitch. And I doubt the cap’n and the Empire are on good terms considering they assigned him to guard us.” Lee got up and began walking to his room. “You aren’t going to grab a slice, son?” “No, I’m good.” Calvin went after him, “Hey, hold up.” Lee turned around. “Listen, the boys and I are planning to play cards tomorrow. I don’t suppose you would mind joining us?” Lee was about to decline the offer but then thought about it more. Sure it was miserable on this ship. But it was probably preferable to be miserable in company than miserable alone. “Sure.”
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Aug 2, 2021 06:19
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