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Flesnolk posted:I was feeling sick so I'm gonna try to get a redemption in this week. If I successfully do so I'll enter this week too. No toxxing though because every time I do that, I panic-bullshit some unreadable nonsense and that really isn't helpful practise at all. so you might write a story or you might not, (probably not) good to know, i've made a note
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Aug 10, 2021 21:22
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In NEVERMIND Weltlich fucked around with this message at 22:54 on Aug 10, 2021 |
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Aug 10, 2021 22:20
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in with There was once a land of sand, and sand, sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand give me my ending plz
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Aug 10, 2021 22:55
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crabrock posted:in with he had a strange name, and he was a very big boy indeed.
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Aug 11, 2021 00:01
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Weltlich posted:In The child of two cats, and a tiger, a clown, a horse, a bird a ship and a dragon, stood on either side of the threshold of the Gatehouse, watching the throng of travelers who came in from all around the world, before he had any idea what was going on.
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Aug 11, 2021 00:02
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Thranguy posted:
Dunno if this is the place to post reactions but this is my photo, thanks for choosing it. I like the story, feels like an excerpt from a William Gibson novel. To add some interest to the photo, about 24 hours after taking that photo my car broke down in the middle of nowhere, it was -17C (1.4F), and I came as close as I may ever come to dying a noble death due to exposure and not some lovely old person death due to eating too much salt. I eventually was rescued by a passing vehicle after 5-6 hours. VelociBacon fucked around with this message at 00:33 on Aug 11, 2021 |
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Aug 11, 2021 00:29
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VelociBacon posted:Dunno if this is the place to post reactions but this is my photo, thanks for choosing it. I like the story, feels like an excerpt from a William Gibson novel. Crits are always welcome. Stay and write a story!
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Aug 11, 2021 00:34
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In with It’s the end of the world, it’s the end of the world, it’s the end of the world, it’s the end of the world, it’s the end of the world, you’re dead.
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Aug 11, 2021 09:57
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Last line: The whites of my eyes shimmered, as if my mind were dancing.
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Aug 11, 2021 10:51
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In.
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Aug 11, 2021 14:04
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this is really funny. okay i'll do it
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Aug 11, 2021 15:55
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Week 470 crits First of all, I'd like to thank all the participants who submitted. I hope that you found the lovely selection of photos from The Dorkroom to be inspiring and thought-provoking. And if you did enjoy them, why not take up photography in earnest? Personally, I've found it to be a very rewarding creative outlet. (I may or may not be prouder of my photos than my stories, but that's neither here nor there.) Anyway, this was a rather middling week. None of the stories were catastrophically bad, and none of them particularly stood out to be a clear winner. I also think that none of the stories ever addressed the theme of collaboration in a meaningful, memorable way. Take this as a challenge to better your craft. flerp - The Hurt This was generally well-written, but it seems to dash towards the ending after the band-aid scene. Strange, because the story was still way below the word limit. The protagonist's brother doesn't do much, so I didn't really get a proper sense of collaboration in this story. In fact, at one point I surmised that the brother was actually dead or something, but thankfully that wasn't true. Yoruichi - Because I Love You I feel like this story was written to toe the "no erotica" rule. Strictly speaking, it isn't erotica, because the naughty bits aren't the point, it's about a couple trying to work things together after a catastrophic accident. I'd be fine if the story leaned on the plot, but it busied itself with the porn-y stuff, much to its detriment. The mind is willing, but the flesh is weak, I guess. If this were a lesser story, I would've DMed it. MockingQuantum - The Attic This story gave me some profound feelings, and then immediately dropped the ball by introducing a twist, which brought the story down several notches. I felt that the author was trying to be cute with the twist, dropping it out of nowhere (the way Neil seemingly ignores Emily completely took me out of the story, until I realized that everything beforehand was just the protagonist's memories). I think the bigger paragraph break is misplaced--if it had been moved one paragraph down (which ends with Emily hugging the protagonist) it would've worked better, to signify the end of the flashback. I would've liked it a lot more if the story also addressed the protagonist's feelings about Emily, because their decision to sell the house comes off as abrupt and unearned. I didn't feel anything but bewilderment coming into that line. Hawklad - Effluence Cool sci-fi story. I like the worldbuilding on the post-ecological crash, it feels fresh. The stakes are well-outlined, and they managed to make me worry about Elene's father. However, I didn't really find the collaboration theme at work here, as an unwitting robot doesn't really make a good collaborative partner. At the very least it ends on a hopeful note. Not bad, but I wished there was more. t a s t e - The Summit As I read the initial paragraphs, I had the sneaking suspicion that these characters were puffing themselves up and trying to look bigger than they really were. And the big twist at the end is that they're just a bunch of hormonal teenagers fussing about a school dance. I felt like my precious time was wasted as the story went on a tangent about someone's stained shirt, and before I knew it the story was over. I did feel that you tried hard to capture the reader's attention by pointing out the dynamics within the group, but ultimately none of the characters really connected with me as they just postured around. Personally this was my loss candidate, because it just meandered along without saying anything meaningful. Idle Amalgam - Lived In Cool pfp/post combo. This was a story about an unlikable couple encountering a creepy haunted house. It's barely a story because it spent so many words outlining the house in graphic, horrific detail, but I don't know, I just didn't care. (I found the disgusting imagery pretty neat, but it wasn't enough to save this tale.) Also the final paragraph is weird because it's Derek's phone calling, so why would it be calling Derek? Why does Kayla carry a gun around? So many questions. Thranguy - Owls and Matchsticks A fun little caper that has an abrupt ending that's very much a leap of logic. So what if Jeb turned out to have an artistic side? So what if they turned the log into some neat things? Why should I care? You had more than enough words to fill out the characters, make them someone to root for, but they just bungled their way into the end. At least it was fun and light, though. Chairchucker - I’m Hungry, But I Ain’t That Hungry Yet So this was better after multiple readings. I thought there was a huge leap of logic between "Jack is held at gunpoint" and "Jack eats the brains of three grown men". The prose is so parse it's maddeningly obvious that this story was crammed in the last minute, but it somehow works. There is a beginning, a middle, and an end, and aside from that quibble I couldn't find anything else to complain about. But I didn't think this story was good, only decent. sebmojo - Flamingo Dreams This piece made me feel something. I can't describe it very well, but it's melancholy acceptance in a nutshell. The world is equal parts absurd and awful, and there's not a damned thing we human beings could do to change that. But we have the power to react and respond, and sometimes holding hands with someone you barely know, sitting in a couch as the waves carry you off to God knows where is a valid thing to do. Climate change sucks, guys. A younger me would've detested this story, but now that I'm a little bit wiser, more tired, I can appreciate this dreamlike story where not much stuff happens. I guess the only glaring flaw we noticed was the "one week later" line, which made us think of the logistics involved for the characters to have survived just stranded inside their house.
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Aug 11, 2021 17:41
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In. and uhhhh  , I guess. I ended up not submitting last time I entered.
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Aug 11, 2021 19:38
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derp posted:this is really funny. okay i'll do it I was playing with my dog, Mark the brown Labrador, and I had forgotten that I was also playing with a dead man. The moon stood on its own two feet. Zurtilik posted:In. and uhhhh When I was a boy, I was fond of the story of the pirate god.
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Aug 12, 2021 03:00
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Aug 12, 2021 03:12
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The short, dirty, and dirty-looking ship that weighed three tons and was three feet in diameter landed on a desolate and green plain.
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Aug 12, 2021 05:23
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🎂 THUNDERDOME HAPPY BIRTHDAY CAKE TIME BIRTHDAY RECAP 🎂 Thunderdome had its 9th birthday! You wrote stories! And now you can listen to Tyrannosaurus, sebmojo and I talk about them! Huzzah! 
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Aug 13, 2021 03:52
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Tyrannosaurus posted:Uranium Phoenix, for saving Thunderdome, also gets a reward of 69 bonus words to call in at any time for any prompt. Huzzah! Archived. Uranium Phoenix fucked around with this message at 06:25 on Sep 5, 2021 |
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Aug 13, 2021 16:32
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Aug 13, 2021 16:46
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There was once a man who lived for a very long time; perhaps three thousand years, or perhaps a thousand million years, maybe a trillion or so, depending on how the scientists look at it.
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Aug 13, 2021 21:09
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Just Another Thursday 1,025 Words Oh, you’re a coward little fool, as if you couldn’t bear to leer at a Prunker or white-clad bodyguard quickly emerging from a shady, storm-damaged area of the city. You bring shame to yourself, your family, and the denizens of Rodrigostan. Garbage cans are no more fit to be seen from the street than a tumbleweed soaked in puss. We have tried to explain and tried to be reasonable. If your garbage cans are seen again, we will be forced to write even more letters. Do not doubt us. Presiking Nedward I fold the letter up and place it in my rocket. Jill, my mother-in-law ambles down the stairways and begins counting before she can even see what is happening; she knows me well. “5,4,3,2,1” She hits one and lower the kitchen window, toss the rocket out of it, and watches as it lands in the garden and finds the hole leftover from yesterday. It tips itself down into the ground. “And how many more rockets are you going to send into the earth’s core before you finally shake the lint?” Jill asks. “At least one more, it seems.” I open up the can of chunk light tuna fish the same way I have done the past several months. I fish out the hidden nickel in the contents of the can and hurl the front door of my house open. Nickel in hand I march straight to city hall. Amidst the groanings of my fellow Rodrigostans and the effete protests of the unarmed Prunkers, my walk is routine. “There goes Joe,” one of them says, “what do you think of him and his quest?” He asks of his neighbor. “He’s a putz,” his neighbor says. I don’t disagree but I am a putz with principles and I’ve had one too many letters from the HOA condemning me and my lifestyle. I’ll blow up the earth’s core with rockets before I roll over and tolerate their inane snowglobing. I arrive at city hall and meet the Prunker who’s in charge of guarding it today. His name is Gabriella, and he’s a real gun of a witch. Maybe I’ll get to kill him. “Oh Joe, this again? Must we really?” I say nothing. He knows I mean business and that I’m not going away. He rolls his eyes and extends his hand. I take it and we sing the ceremonial song of protest as we Scottish reel afront the steps of parliament. Oh ‘tis fine a day to register complaint Nor act with indecency or high minded restraint I debase myself and my fellow Prunker too So that my words shall ring true. “And you can keep your loving nickel.” Gabriella says to me as he slows. “Now now Prunker, you are to take my nickel, and consider it an offer of good faith.” “gently caress you and gently caress your faith.” He spits a purple lozenge onto my shoe. I remove my French Foreign Legion pen from my breast pocket and perform a makeshift tracheotomy on him. My fellow townsfolk are none too pleased with me expressing my right of citizenship and hurl chairs and baked goods at me. Rules are rules though, and I am following them. I insert the wooden nickel into the fresh cut on my oppressor’s neck and begin my mile-long trek up the stairs of city hall. Every eighth step, I kneel untie my shoes, switch them to the other foot and tie them back again. I may be a dissenter, but I’m not an animal. It’s not long before I have arrived at the doors to city hall. They’re small today, they must have sensed I’d be here. Last week they were much larger. I squat down so that when I knock my eyes are level with the peephole. The window opens and I open my mouth in turn, the sweet nectar of papaya juice shoots through the window and tickles my tongue. “Thank you for bestowing upon me the kindness of the greatest of fruits.” “Get the gently caress in here so you can screw up our Tuesday, and leave.” “Ah, but is it not Tuesday but Thursday, and with that welcomed audit have I not contributed meaningfully not only to our society but to your own very---” “Yes, yes, now just please, we’re really swamped today, we didn’t think we’d catch you with the audit test, just come in.” “Such a gracious invitation.” The door swings open and the ground quakes beneath my feet. The building shakes for a moment and then steadies. “Woah, did you all feel that?” “Ha! One question down! One more and we’re sending you down the slide.” My host points to the nearby opening guarded by a bored white-clad middle-aged bodyguard with a receding hairline. “Don’t you try and distract me with your sexual objects,” I say. My chest is puffed, and I am ready for anything they may tempt me with today. The version of me last week? Sure, he takes the bait, but not today, this is not just another Thursday. They shepherd me to the Presiking’s quarters, but only after we turn our first corner do I realize how compromised I am. There are thousands of them, Stanley. Thousands of white-clad bodyguards. Hanging from the rafters, poking out of the curtains, crawling and giggling under the rugs, and playing grabass with one another in such a manner that I can hardly contain myself. “Is there a problem?” My host asks through a urine-drinking grin. “Can you just…” “And that’s the start of a question! Prunkers! To the Slide!” I am hoisted by my calves to the great slide, and as I am summarily jettisoned from the estate, I feel the ground quake as I begin my descent down the slide that will ultimately eject me out of the town’s rump. The quaking doesn’t stop. It swells and grows such that it feels like the whole world beneath might explode. And then it does. And all of my rockets careen from this god-forsaken place in the pursuit of somewhere more just and kind. Godspeed, my rockets.
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Aug 14, 2021 03:31
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First line: It’s the end of the world, it’s the end of the world, it’s the end of the world, it’s the end of the world, it’s the end of the world, you’re dead. Last line: The whites of my eyes shimmered, as if my mind were dancing. God’s Mind Danced 350 words Archive. Yoruichi fucked around with this message at 10:11 on Aug 30, 2021 |
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Aug 15, 2021 10:53
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Surviving to Immortality (1144 words) I have just been informed that the debate over the question “is it right or wrong to have immortal souls” has been finally brought to a conclusion. “Sorry, can you repeat that again?” Dr. Hong, the informant herself, pauses for a minute. I met Dr. Hong about fifteen minutes ago. She didn’t seem the type to answer one of life’s eternal questions, but then again . . . No! She’s talking, listen this time! “. . . a high chance of survivability.” Ok, yeah, that’s what I thought I heard before. *** It was probably just a few seconds, but also an eternity, before I responded. “Wait . . .” Breathe. “Wait . . . sorry, wait . . .” Breathe! Stop stammering and loving breathe! “Wait, a high chance . . . “ Breathe! You got this! “It’s ok, take your time.” She was looking at me, patiently, not an ounce of annoyance in her eyes. Probably not a good sign. I inhaled, exhaled. More than once. A lot more than once. “Thanks.” In, out. Focus. “I’m, um, I’m not sure what I was expecting . . .” (breathe!) “. . . it, it wasn’t that.” She smiles, slightly, leaning forward on her stool. “You sure you don’t want anyone here with you today?” I shake my head. A couple more slow breaths, trying to visualize the words, then failing, as they leave my mouth on their own accord. “So, when you say survivability, are we talking about . . . are we talking about the nerve, or are we talking about me?” Still nothing but patience in her eyes as she responds. “I’m talking about you. We have to sacrifice the nerve.” “Oh.” She is looking into me, right through me. I’m pretty sure she knows I’m lying to myself. About having this. I don’t have this. Not at all. I’m not sure how long we sat there. Probably not long. Probably an eternity. “So what does that mean?” Dr. Hong smiled again. She has a pleasant smile. If it was practiced, it didn’t show. The smile is disarming, distracting me from the conversation. I don’t remember anything else she says. *** ENK-ENK-ENK-ENK-Enk-Enk-Enk-Enk-Enk-enk-enk-enk-enk-(enk)-(enk)-(enk) The sounds, once deafening, are now fading away as the fluffy body surrounds my head. Breathe! It’s fluffy arms are closing around my throat. Something else pushes down on the top of my head. Pushing my face into the fluff, blocking all air. The sound has disappeared now. I can’t even feel it vibrating around me anymore. Breathe! I’m tight in here, walls pressed up against me on all sides. It would be claustrophobic even if I wasn’t being softly smothered alive. But I manage to yank my left arm free, a needle ripping out of my forearm, cold liquid leaking onto my back. The attacker up top is pushing with a lot more force now, trying to stop me from moving. My face is completely surrounded. At least it’s going to be a comfortable death. No! loving breathe! You got this! There is a new pair of hands. Warm hands. Rough hands. Pulling my left arm back, but without success. I manage to snake my hand to my throat, my fingers sinking into the plush demon currently choking the life out of me. Snatching it, I rip it down, off of my throat, down past my body, past the nest of wires and tubes. Another needle rips out of my arm. My right arm this time. But I have the bastard, down by my feet, stomping the soft life out of it, as its friend continues to seal around my head. The rough hands grasp my left arm. It’s not coming back up to help. Wires and cords tense, catch, snag as I fight in vain. Everything is getting dark. I feel my breath catching in my throat, but I also feel my shoulder working free from the wall. I shrug, hard, throwing my face to my chest, free from suffocation, just briefly, gasping loudly for air. My hearing returns immediately, like surfacing from the ocean. ENK-ENK-ENK. An alarm is ringing as well. I can hear voices. Some are down by my feet. One voice emanates from the walls. “We need you to relax. Just breathe. Focus on your breaths. Inhale, exhale, breathe. You got this.” *** “It won’t be like last time. You will be asleep before we take you in.” Dr. Hong is smiling, patience in her eyes. At least from what little I can see of her. I’m lying on my stomach, slightly tilted to the left, face to the side. Trying, failing, to ignore the pain. “No more pillows. Please.” I’m joking, but I’m not. I’ve been asleep most of last week. Morphine will do that to you. The nurses keep telling me it’s best if I don’t remember everything right now. It will help my body heal faster. But with sleep comes dreams. Dreams of being suffocated. Comfortably suffocated. Dr. Hong, almost laughing, reassures me. “No, no more pillows. Just a couple scans to make sure everything went well from yesterday.” Yesterday. I don’t remember yesterday. Supposedly it took twelve hours. Today will be longer. When they came to get me this morning, Dr. Hong had been ecstatic, almost giddy, describing how well yesterday went. Gabe, her resident, asked if I wanted to see any of the film. I could see the image on his phone already. Me, I assume, lying face down. The skin of my back flayed open, draped on a hook to either side of me. I politely declined. Gabe asked for permission to show it to some of his colleagues, which was fine. It felt nice to be a part of something he wanted to brag about. I could feel one of the drain tubes beginning to pull on my back. I shifted, slightly, looking to the right this time. Towards Gabe. “So, assuming I’m all good, you’re just going to wheel me over and finish this?” Gabe responds. “It depends.” “On what?” “On whether you spend an hour throwing pillows and ripping your lines out again.” I laugh, then curse, loudly, as flames shoot through my spine. A hand rests down on me. Trying to steady me, to reassure me. “It’s time. Are you ready?” It’s Dr. Hong, but the voice is distant. We had stopped moving. The room is small, cold, swimming in the vapors of soap and alcohol. Someone is injecting a solution into one of my lines. Another hand comes to rest on my shoulder. Just the slightest bit of pressure, comfort. My vision is fading. I’m flashing back. Back to the demon pillows. To suffocation. Back through the scans and operations and tests and shocks and pain and puking and needles and worries and sweats and chills and sleepless nights. But mostly back to the questions, questions of the unknown, questions without answers, questions that have dominated every waking moment lately. Survivability. Probability. Immortality. “I’m ready.” Breathe. loving Breathe! You got this!
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Aug 15, 2021 17:29
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Me and Mark 975 w I was playing with my dog, Mark the brown Labrador, and I had forgotten that I was also playing with a dead man. I had looked away for a second when a bee flew past. Or maybe it was one of those flies that looked like a bee. Then Mark ran up with a stick. I went to grab the stick when I remembered I was still holding the dead man’s hand. I found the dead man after dinner in my backyard, all wet from the rain. He was long and heavy and wearing a blue pinstripe suit. He had dark, curly hair and I couldn’t move him. I grabbed his hand and tried to pull, but he was like a sack of stones. I worried something might tear. Mark was running up and down the yard. I thought ‘I got to get this dead man away from Mark.’ But I didn’t want to pull anymore in case I tore something. Then I thought, ‘I’m shaking hands with a dead man.’ That gave me a funny feeling. I shook the dead man’s hand real hard like we’d just agreed on a business deal. I bet he was a businessman for real. He had the striped suit. I thought maybe he was a billionaire. A billion dollars, I couldn’t imagine. And here I was, making a billionaire shake my hand. That made my heart jump around like a puppy. I shook his hand real hard so his arm flopped like a fish, and he couldn’t stop me. He was so rich, but he had to do what I wanted. That’s when I forgot the dead man for a second. Mark ran up with a stick and wanted to play, and I forgot I was playing with the dead man. The dead man went completely out of my head--his suit and all his billions were all gone. It was only me and Mark and the bee, then I forgot the bee too. For a second I was another me who didn’t have a dead man in his yard. I was just a normal me playing with Mark. Then I remembered the dead man, and it wasn’t so funny anymore. The puppyheart feeling didn’t come, and I just felt worried and gross. I dropped the dead man’s hand and it flopped in the grass. I wiped my fingers on my pants. Mark was jumping at me with the stick, so I yanked it out his teeth and threw it in the tall trees. I watched Mark run after the stick, and just like that I forgot the dead man again. It was just me and Mark, and the trees, but they didn’t count. Just me and Mark alone. Then I stepped on the dead man’s arm and he was back again, long and heavy and right there. I thought ‘if I wasn’t seeing this dead man he’d be gone, and I could keep being normal me with Mark.’ So I grabbed the dead man’s hand and pulled him toward the trees. But he was like a bag of bricks, and I worried something might tear. Mark ran up to me with his stick. I was going to grab it but I thought ‘no, I can’t forget.’ I pulled the dead man toward the trees, but he was so heavy I thought his arm might come right off. That’s when a bee buzzed past my face. Or maybe it was a fly. Some flies pretend they’re bees to scare the other bugs. I wondered if those flies ever forgot their stripes were fake. Maybe they sometimes tried to sting a real bee and got in trouble. I went to swat at the bee, and that’s when I remembered I was holding the dead man’s hand. I dropped his hand and it landed all limp like a dead snake in the grass. The dead man laying in the wet grass and dirt made me feel a little funny. He couldn’t ever get up unless I helped him. A businessman in a striped suit, and with all that money, and he’d have to beg me to pull him up. I could say ‘you lay there!’ and he’d have to do it. Even when the sun went down and even if it rained, he’d be stuck there in his suit, getting wet and filthy. That thought made my heart jump around like Mark with his stick. Mark was nosing around the dead man’s crotch. When Mark nosed at guests I’d smack him, but now it made me laugh. I could let him keep on nosing there, and the dead man would have to take it. It was all up to me. Thinking about that made my heart buzz around like a bee. Mark jumped up on the dead man’s chest and was nosing around on his neck and growling. Little eager growls like when he wanted to play. Mark played rough sometimes. Sometimes he’d bite if I didn't tell him to stop. Sometimes I’d even egg him on. Mark always listened to me. That’s when the bee flew past and I spun in a little circle trying to swat it. Or maybe it was a fly. There were a lot of flies buzzing around. Or maybe they were bees pretending to be flies. I saw my house with the porch light on, and the light was shining right above my chair and Mark’s bed. It was getting shadowy outside and I felt like I was far away, even though the house was right there. I liked to sit on the porch every night with Mark and watch the sun set. ‘I’ll do that’ I thought. Mark was growling and tearing up one of his toys behind me. I whistled for him, and we went back to the house together.
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Aug 15, 2021 22:17
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First Line: The child of two cats, and a tiger, a clown, a horse, a bird a ship and a dragon, stood on either side of the threshold of the Gatehouse, watching the throng of travelers who came in from all around the world, before he had any idea what was going on. The Greatest Show on Earth 1168 Words The child of two cats, and a tiger, a clown, a horse, a bird, a ship, and a dragon stood on either side of the threshold of the gatehouse, watching the throng of travelers who came in from all around the world before he had any idea what was going on. They certainly weren’t there when Clovis had raised the gate at dawn. No bandits had been waiting to sack the town that morning and no army was seen marching down the long road from Val-Mazer. With nothing to do until he lowered the gate at dusk, Clovis had gone back inside and started a fire in the small gatehouse stove and put on a copper kettle. His tea was just poured when he realized the sound of passing carts had come to a halt. He poked his head out of the gatehouse window to find exotic merchants and local burghers milling around in the road while their oxen shat and chewed their cud. They were staring at something on the roadside—and Clovis took a moment to gawk as well. A clown was perched on the siderail of a ship which had pulled over onto the shoulder. One might be tempted to call it a wagon, but it had a prow and a stern and a mast that would surely prevent it from passing through the gatehouse. A small menagerie had disembarked from the dropped gangplank. “What’s the meaning of this?” Clovis asked the clown as he pushed his way through the stunned burghers, almost tripping over a large lizard with pantomime wings tied to its back. “Do you have a permit for this circus?” “We’re not a circus today,” said the clown. “We’re on holiday.” “What?” “All year long, we come to a new town every day and put on a show,” the clown said, jumping from the ship to unhitch the big Percheron draft horse. “But today, we’re the audience. Does the town have a permit for that?” Clovis stared, his mouth working opened and closed with no sound coming out. Did the town have permits for vacationing circuses? He didn’t know. Truth be told he didn’t know anything about permits of any sort. He only asked because it had seemed like a thing that he should ask about. Finally, he said, “If you come with me, we can talk to the mayor and maybe he will issue you a special permit for your holiday.” “No,” said the clown, gesturing at the crowd. “Today, we aren’t the circus. They are.” “That’s absurd!” Clovis shouted. “They’re just villagers, not an act.” “And yet I am watching them perform,” the clown said as a merchant’s horse reared up on its hind legs, spooked by the tiger lounging on the ship’s stern. Clovis thought quickly, trying not to fall into the clown’s idiotic trap. “What about concessions? All circuses must have concessions.” The clown pointed to the ostrich, which was ravenously gulping down tangerines from a merchant’s cart. “That’s just stealing.” The clown tossed a guilder to the merchant. Pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration, Clovis looked down to see the ship’s kitten batting at his bootlaces. He quickly scooped up the small grey tabby before it could topple into a nearby ox pat and tucked it safely under his arm. The kitten purred happily. “Fun for children of all ages,” the clown said. “I’m going to talk to the mayor,” said Clovis. --- He found the mayor sipping cold rosewater in the manor garden and resting his eyes. The sun glinted off the man’s bald head and he opened one eye as Clovis approached. “Your Honor, there is something we need to discuss.” Clovis said, juggling the kitten to his other arm so he could salute properly. “Can we not? I’m a very busy today.” The mayor peered into his almost empty glass. A moment later a valet stepped forward to refresh the drink, and new droplets of condensation dripped down to fall on the mayor’s linen robe. “It’s just, your Honor, that a situation has developed that falls outside of my job description.” “And just what is your job description, Clovis?” He shifted uncomfortably, “Well, your Honor, I raise the gate at dawn, and lower the gate at dusk.” “Just so. It is your job to raise and lower the gate, and it is my job to hire someone to do your job and every other job that needs doing,” said the mayor while fanning himself with a folded piece of paper. “I understand, your Honor…but who should I talk to about issuing the town a permit to act like a circus for the afternoon?” The mayor stopped fanning himself and slowly opened his eyes to fix Clovis in a baleful stare. Then he unfolded his fan and spread it on the lawn table before calling for an inkwell and pen. Clovis watched as the mayor scrawled something on the paper before he snatched it up and thrust it toward the gatekeeper. “Congratulations, Clovis. You’re hired,” he said. “Any questions now?” Clovis slid the kitten into his tunic pocket where it was content to vibrate while he read the crinkled paper. The paper bore a single line that said, Clovis, Town Registrar of Circuses. “So, your Honor, I am the person who issues permits for circuses?” “Yes.” Clovis took a moment to let that sink in. “Are there any other duties associated with this post, your Honor?” “Yes,” said the mayor. “gently caress off.” --- “All right, I declare this town a circus. This permit shall be valid until…sundown?” Clovis looked at the clown who had climbed back up on the ship’s siderail, and the clown nodded. “You heard me, people. Get circusing.” The crowd mumbled and milled, a few of them taking the cue to move along since they’d never once entertained dreams of running away with the circus. Most of the burghers kept staring as if they’d never seen a tiger on the deck of a wheeled ship before. Clovis ducked into the guard house to make it official. He found a half-dried pot of ink and an old crow's feather quill. He wrote the details of the permit on the back side of the unfolded fan, then dipped his thumb into the ink pot before pressing it onto the permit as an ersatz seal. As an afterthought, he took up the quill once more and made an amendment: Clovis, Registrar of Circuses, Vendor. Then he tacked the permit to the gatehouse door to make it all official. Taking his now cold cup of tea from that morning, he walked out to the side of the ship and offered it to the clown. “Drink for a guilder?” The clown shrugged and dipped into a pocket for a silver coin. “How’s the show?” Clovis asked, handing over the teacup and then the kitten. The clown took both, then a deep swig of the tea. He poured the rest on the ground. “It’s the worst.”
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Aug 15, 2021 22:59
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First line: I say I am at sea, because I am standing upon the ocean, and look out across the barren, vast throng of the sea. Moving On Word count: 1162 https://thunderdome.cc//?story=9954&title=Moving+On a friendly penguin fucked around with this message at 23:21 on Oct 16, 2021 |
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Aug 15, 2021 23:46
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The black stone was aching from the rain 963 words archived. Tyrannosaurus fucked around with this message at 15:39 on Jan 10, 2022 |
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Aug 16, 2021 02:21
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La vie est trop courte pour boire du mauvais vin 1138 words Felix the Paw was sitting at the table of his favorite restaurant, the “Bordeaux” in the town of Bordeaux, when his father, Cincinnata, came in to say good-by to the restaurant. The place’s poor location and unsearchable name meant that it was empty, as usual, which suited them just fine. "A glass of the house red, please," Cincinnata said to Celine, the proprietor, sole employee, and friend. She poured an extra large glass. "It's on me," she said, smiling. Felix scowled-- Celine only gave out free drinks on birthdays-- but lifted his glass to his father's. "Santé," he said. They drank. Cincinnata drummed happily on the table, then, when Felix wasn't forthcoming with conversation, turned to Celine and ordered a large plate of frites. He munched on a few, then offered them to Felix. Felix shook his head and Cincinnata went back to drumming. Finally Felix couldn't take it anymore. "You're awfully cheerful for a man who's going to prison tomorrow," he said. It came out harsher than he intended. Cincinnata leaned back, like a cat stretching in the sun. "Only got 18 months, what's not to be happy about? Paul just got out after five years, you know." "Yeah, I know. Still, going to prison doesn't seem like something to celebrate." His father tossed a frite, caught it in his mouth, and winked. Felix rolled his eyes and was about to respond when the door opened and the rest of the crew piled noisily into the Bordeaux and settled in at the too-small table. Celine brought over three wine bottles and four glasses. Felix was squeezed up against the window, which didn't improve his mood. “How’s it going, Paw?” said Lucien the Wheel, lighting a cigarette. “Don’t blow smoke in my face.” “Grumpy, are we?” said Claude the Key, pouring Cincinnata another glass of wine. “Don’t worry, your pops will be out quickly. He’s on his best behavior in prison.” “Have more wine,” said Anais the Smile. “Celine, can we get more frites, please?” “Some of your deep fried frog legs too, cherie,” said Lucien, winking at Celine. As always, she blushed. “Capital idea,” said Paul the Hand. “Cincinnata, you’ll be at Gradignan, correct? You have to connect with my friends, they’ll ensure you’re treated right …” Felix busied himself with pouring more wine as the voices washed over him. He wasn’t worried about his father-- God knew Cincinnata had been to prison before-- but he couldn’t understand why everyone else was so happy about it. “Was it like this before?” he asked Claude. “When Paul went away?” Claude lit his own cigarette off of Lucien’s. “Well, Paul went away for five years so it was a little different. Plus, his missus wasn’t happy at all. Didn’t even let him out of the house for those last two weeks.” “I reckon she just wanted him all to herself,” said Lucien, making an explicit gesture with his cigarette. Claude laughed his big belly laugh. “Was she as happy to see you coming back, Paul?” He clapped Paul on his beefy shoulder. “I’m surprised she let him out for this,” Anais said, smirking into her wine glass. “A gentleman never tells,” said Paul, to hooting laughter from the rest of the crew. “Your mum won’t have time to miss me,” Cincinnata said to Felix with a grin. “Ugh, Papa,” Felix said, turning away from the group to stare out the window. Their cheerfulness irritated him, like a cat being petted backwards. “Aw, don’t be sad, Felix,” said Anais, misinterpreting his gesture. “Here, have a frog leg.” “I don’t want a frog leg,” he said. The crew sniggered at his petulance, which only annoyed him more. “I just don’t get it! Why are we celebrating? The payoff from the job wasn’t even that good! And Papa’s going away, so no more jobs will get planned until next year at the earliest.” His frustration petered out. “It’s not so bad,” said Anais. “We’ll just get straight jobs for a while, il n’y a pas de quoi fouetter un chat. Celine, do you know if the Ours is hiring?” “You’re still new to the game,” said Claude kindly. “You’ve got to take a long view of things, we all have.” “I for one am looking forward to some quiet time with my wife,” said Paul. “Me too,” quipped Lucien, and the table erupted in laughter again. Their mirth rekindled Felix’s ire. “Are you serious? That job was a loving disaster and here you all are, laughing away as if it were nothing. He's going to prison, for God’s sake! Don’t you have any shame? Regret? Or is it all a big joke?” The rest of the crew stared at him, but his father went straight to the heart of the matter. “Is this about the alarm, son?” Felix looked aggressively out the window so the others couldn’t see the emotion on his face, and nodded. “Ah, it was only your third job with us. The alarm on that jewelry case was real old-school, you couldn’t have known about it,” his father said gently. “I hit a bollard during the getaway on my second job,” said Lucien, taking a puff on his cigarette. “I didn’t spot a guard and got caught, did a year for that one,” said Anais. “Yeah, but it’s not fair that Papa has to take the fall for my mistake,” Felix said, gripping his wine glass too tightly. “We’re a team, we look out for each other,” said Claude. “Do you think I would go to prison for five years for just any group of people?” Paul rumbled. “What’s more, we’re family. I’d gladly take the fall for anyone here.” Cincinnata gave Felix a hug. “Especially you, my son. And one day you’ll do the same, if not for me, then for another one of us.” “I know, Papa.” Felix couldn’t bear the four pairs of eyes staring earnestly at him (five if you counted Celine, who was pretending not to listen), so he pressed his face into his father’s shoulder. “It’s just … I’m sorry.” “Sorry for being such a killjoy?” said Lucien. Felix flipped him off behind his father’s back. Cincinnati squeezed him tighter. “There’s nothing to forgive, son.” “Les chiens ne font pas des chats,” said Claude. “You two are so sentimental.” “It’s sweet,” Anais said. Grinning, Cincinnata let go of Felix. “Ah, it’s only 18 months. I know that’s a long time for you youngsters but I’ll be back before you know it.” Felix smiled back. His father was always right. “To Cincinnata the Boss!” Paul raised his glass. “To the boss!” the rest of the crew cheered. Felix joined them. As he grabbed a few frog legs, Celine brought over two more bottles of wine. The celebration of being together had only just begun.
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Aug 16, 2021 02:44
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Starting Line: When I was a boy, I was fond of the story of the pirate god. Another Treasure Hunt 1200 words. When I was a boy, I was fond of the story of the pirate god. He is said to have been a fearless and benevolent figure who gladly shared the wealth of his finds and plunder with the poorer folk of these Red Islands. He was said to be a mortal like us who was chosen by the Gods one day and ascended to join them at the Eternal Throne. Never to be seen by man again! The Pirate God's day of ascension was celebrated with many festivities. As a child, my favorite was when parents would plan and hide caches of treats to be found by teams of children in the style of mock treasure hunts. Beyond all the fun, it was ultimately an exercise in teamwork and gumption! Some kids would view it as their chance to grow rich on candy and toys, while others would make it a day of camaraderie, sharing the loot generously amongst their crew. I was always one to believe in the latter, and it was a philosophy I took with me into my own years as a Captain. ------ We came into ownership of a map after swindling it off some haughty Islanian treasure hunter types, looking to claim the riches of the Red Isles for themselves. We’ve come up empty as much as richer off such maps, but I had a good feeling about this one. It appears to be from the Great Age of Sailors, and if the map is true then the treasure will be unlike any we’ve encountered before! ------ “Captain, this island, the heat is unbearable!” My navigator Keipy shouted. I couldn’t disagree, we were on foot a mere two hours out and I could already feel the weight of the heat becoming too much. There wasn’t much to be done about the humidity, but we could at least shield away from the sun for a while. “Make way to the canopy.” I ordered, pointing towards the clump of trees not far from us. "First we nearly get crushed by the storm last night. Now this island is trying to cook us alive!" Shouted my first Mate, Odenis. "Aye, but we've been through worse before. Besides, it was Lumbus' work that got us through that storm. Feels like she broke drat near her whole body trying to keep us afloat. We cannot make her efforts for naught." I replied with a littlest bit of humor I could manage in this heat. We sat for a short while longer, catching our breath, but not getting much cooler. I think I may have given the sun too much credit for the heat. The humidity didn't respect the shade. “I think this is as much of a break as we’re going to manage on this godforsaken isle! One thing we seemed to agree on is that we needed to get to the center of this miserable, little hellhole before we can really begin the hunt. So waiting around here isn’t going to do us much good.” I continued on with my walk, knowing the crew would follow without complaint. Another hour of misery and finally we felt confident we had found our starting point. ‘At the heart of the land, where the wilds grow thickest’ began the map’s riddle. This seemed clear enough. I’d imagined we would find a miserable tangle of trees somewhere in the center of this island and so far that proved to be true. We set up a makeshift camp at the best of a clearing we could find. The heat had worn some of my men to the limit. "You all should rest as best you can for now. Odenis, I and Keipy will scout ahead." Keipy was best at making heads or tales of these sorts of maps. So we three went forward into 'where the wilds grew thickest'. -------- The map itself seemed understandable enough to Keipy and we found our way to the mouth of a worn dug out. "Doesn't look like nature's work, does it?" Keipy noted to us. "I just hope this hole is how it should be and not the work of someone who came before us! Suppose we best get a bit digging in…" he trailed off as he rolled the map up and into his pocket. His other hand gripped the shovel he brought with him. We all got to work quickly. Not much time passed and the work was near unbearable. "Perhaps we should come back with the men." Odenis suggested. "I'd hate to get the whole crew out if this isn't where we need to be" I replied, my eyes still on the hole we had begun to dug. My attention however was quickly pulled away by a yelp from Keipy. He was suddenly out of view, swallowed by the Earth as his shovel found a sink hole. A thud followed, then a terrible groan of pain. "Keipy!" I approached the hole with caution, not certain if the ground would give way further. Keipy called back, his voice in pain. "Captain… I think this is it." I signaled to Odenis to return for the crew. "Can you walk, Keipy?" I shouted back into the hole. "Not…" He let out another pained sound. "Not well. Though what I can see. It seems promising!" A smile creeper over me, a bit of good news finally. The crew finally arrived and we dug out the rest of what we soon realized to be an old stone structure. With great caution we worked our way to poor Keipy. Down there in the light of our torches I realized this was no simple hidden hoard. The stonework was caked in dust and dirt, it had been a long while since another soul last stepped foot here. Our long walk was finally ended as we sighted what appears to be a large metal trunk. I cleared a segment of the dust with my hand and the metal shone bright in the torch light. The very container seemed to be made of gold. "Yah!" The crew shouted in excitement. Our first real sign of booty! We pried open the Golden coffer… or perhaps I should've said coffin. Inside we found merely the skeleton of some old wretched soul. I scanned the corpse slowly. Not even a gold tooth to pocket. As all hope was beginning to flee a small icon caught my eye. The age of this structure and the symbol could be no coincidence. This was the mark of The Pirate God himself. Had he been no myth? "Egads!" Odenis exclaimed. "Surely you know what that four toothed skull means, Captain!" I nodded back. Then Odenis reached out, his hand grabbing at the small metal ring on the boney hand. "Odenis, we cannot loot such a thing! Bust of a hunt or no-" It was as I spoke that the back wall of the tomb began to shake and creak. The torch light caught the glimmer of metal: gold, silver. Then the dancing color of a rainbow of gems. "God is good, they say!" I exclaimed. "God is good!" The crew shouted back. I suppose even the Pirate God's generosity extends beyond the grave.
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Aug 16, 2021 03:08
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Breathe 1166 words The short, dirty, and dirty-looking ship that weighed three tons and was three feet in diameter landed on a desolate and green plain. Inside The Pillar, monitors beeped and blinked regularly but among the crew all was jittery agitation. Deme inhaled the stagnant mix of sweat and oil and nervousness, turning her eyes left and right at her fourteen companions, all seated in a row. The bespoke craft had taken into account her exact proportions, measured with millimeter accuracy - the ability to move her head was an extravagance it had not occurred to the engineers to include. She tensed her fingers as the timed muscle relaxants that enabled her to sit motionless for the journey were flushed out of her system through the IV in her spine, replaced with a stimulant cocktail. Her heart accelerated. Four spindly legs capped with padded feet sprouted from The Pillar and anchored it to the ground. The colonists breach-birthed out of the bottom of the ship, one after the other. Jed, then Dax, then Holly each disappeared from view, dispatched with a low bleating from the ship and the churning of stale air. She inhaled and held it. Close, recycled air filled her lungs. Restraints gave way, and she dropped to the ground, sending an ache through her thighs. The colonists darted all around in a din of activity, with Captain Trice at the center barking orders. “Milo, get the atmospheric sampler further away from the ship. Carla, soil analysis happens after core sampling, not before. Damnit Skylar, where is the magnetic field reading?” He slid into command naturally, his air of command heightened by his excellent posture. At four foot five inches, he possessed a desirably modest height. He alone among the crew stood up straight, never once having to duck his head under ceilings that creeped lower every year. The crew scurried about, noisily assembling tools to poke and prod at this strange new world. She turned upward to catch the frame of a mass spectrometer as it slid down after her and dashed clear of the ship to set it up, Mit and Dan running parallel to her with the spectrometer’s power cell. “Electron microscope is down” Dax called out before dashing off to assist Carter with the titration apparatus. Deme turned to examine the narrow cylindrical object which chirped an angry complaint. Sweat pooled on her brow as she ticked down the well-worn troubleshooting checklist - power cell’s full, interior sights aligned, ah the BIOS had faulted hope a restart fixes YES okay. On to the next. Set up, check, fix. Repeat. The memory of the specter on the radar, the competing colonist ship briefly glimpsed on their approach, hung miasmatic in the air. Every second wasted was another square inch they surrendered to competitors. No-one spoke of the prize they competed for, the grand reward for having found a new niche which the ever expanding mob of humanity could fill, relieving the unbearable pressure of teeming masses pressed in such close quarters that the sun had become a matter of abstract theoretical knowledge rather than workaday fact - space. One square foot of land divided among them for every million square feet of usable planetary surface they surveyed. Based on the model estimates, it would come to just under sixty square feet each - positively palatial. But every moment spent daydreaming was a moment surrendered to her ruthless, unseen rivals to lay claim to vast swaths, robbing her of precious inches. Faster, faster she worked. Merciless motors clipped at her fingers, drawing blood that mixed with oil, lacing the airborne melange of sweat and oil with a ferrous tint. Then all of a sudden she was finished. The mass spectrometer, moisture collector, and UV spectrum analyzer - her assigned machines - beeped cheerfully, churning measurements into useful data. “Captain! All done! Where next?” she called out amidst the noise. “Sit tight!” was all he managed in reply before he barked at Ash to calibrate The Pillar’s radar to beam their data back home. So she waited. At first her eyes darted between companions, searching for some task to contribute to, pent up energy from days of anticipation ricocheting around inside her seeking release. Ears sifted the din, scanning for signs of distress. But as her attention shifted from Dax to Jed to Holly to Mason, she realized there was nothing for her to do. The mental checklist, pored over hundreds of times in preparation for this moment, was finished. So she waited. Suddenly, she became conscious of her breathing. She inhaled air redolent with strange smells - musty and organic, but pleasant. Alive. Her ribs expanded. She hadn’t thought about her ribs in a long time. She looked out into the distance. The green plain stretched as far as she could see. At about a hundred yards away, her vision blurred. Nobody she’d ever known had needed to see so far. “Where’s the optical renderer?” she shouted to no-one in particular. “Uh, here”, Micah responded, tossing her a device which she strapped over her eyes. 1,250 feet away, according to the rangefinder, an enormous rock rose out of the ground and asserted itself towards the sky. The top was dusted in soft white. At the bottom, a layer of shimmering green swayed back and forth supported by thick legs of brown. The din of shouting and machinery faded. Far away, the water trickled delicately and the shimmering green rustled. She looked down, and beheld tiny tongues of verdant fresh green. A strange, twitching creature ambled up one, popped open hidden wings, and flew away. She took off her shoes. The tongues tickled her toes. The ground felt soft and wet. She pressed her fingers into the loamy soil. No thoughts, only sensation. She put one foot in front of the other, and moved closer to the big rock. Someone was shouting her name, but she ignored it. Soon the shouting faded away. Now there was only water and rustle. She came to the water at the edge of the shimmering green, a languid ribbon of clear blue through the field of tongues. Across the river, a four-legged creature with large eyes drank of the water before trotting off back through the brown legs and out of sight. The big rock towered above, silent and regal. Her comm link screamed through the tranquility like a knife. Words poured out, unparsed and ignored. She silenced the device, then removed it, followed by her stained coverall. She spread out on the grass and stretched her limbs as far as they would go. The tongues below cushioned her bare skin. From above, the sun warmed her. In the corner of her vision, The Pillar ascended away. She breathed in again, filling herself with the organic melange. All around she heard the twittering of strange flying creatures, the dry snapping of falling brown, and always the rustling of moving air. And space. In all directions, as far as the rangefinder would go. Open, quiet space.
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Aug 16, 2021 04:00
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The Uncertainty Principle flerp fucked around with this message at 21:23 on Dec 31, 2021 |
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Aug 16, 2021 04:12
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Lovingkindness 1157 words Hail the Sky Rabbits! For they bless our mountaintops with the ice that feeds our rivers and our crops with their bountiful fertilizer. Hail the Sky Rabbits, for their mercy upon us is like that of a mother’s love, everpresent and everlasting. Hail the Sky Rabbits, for they are an omen of bright days and festive nights. We sit in a circle around the fire under the shadow of what Joachim, Annette, and I call Mount Cashmere, murmuring the words just like we have a thousand times before. It’s just some nonsense we saw scrawled on a stone, but it’s comforting, familiar, safe. I can forget that Annette keeps threatening to find her own way home. For the thirty seconds we’re holding hands and muttering the prayer, I can forgive Joachim for waking up at night and skimming off our rations. Weeks ago, the three of us went to tour an apartment in the suburbs, and when we’d finished looking at the overpriced place, we stepped out into a different world. We haven’t seen any other people, but when we repeat the prayer, we feel a little less alone. The others crawl into the tent, and I think they’ve gone to sleep, so I use the moments to close my eyes, take a few deep breaths, and to just notice the chill of the breeze, the air in my lungs, and the dampness of the earth. Then I hear something move in the reeds and I twitch so hard I bite my tongue. “Peter, you’re supposed to keeping watch,” Annette says. She’s carrying her bag. “No, please,” I tell her, “you can’t give up yet. We’ll figure this out.” “Have you considered that maybe we won’t? Where’s your sense of urgency? I feel like you think you’re on some adventure. Maybe you’ll see a Sky Rabbit or a Sea Eagle or, well, whatever you need for your next D&D campaign.” “That’s Joachim, not me.” “Hm,” she says, and considers me. Even before we ended up in a forest from another world, I’d always harbored this fear that Annette saw straight through me, that she knew the nastiest things I thought about myself were true. She shrugs. “I guess you’re more the type to look into a monster’s eyes and say ‘I’ve just found enlightenment.’ Look – I’ll cover more ground alone. I’ll light a fire every night. So if I find a way back once you climb the mountain, we’ll find each other again. I promise.” I don’t say anything as she vanishes between the night a strand of coniferous trees. She made the decision that was right for her, and I know I’m powerless to change that, even if my heart screams out, and the thought enters my head that I have to explain this to Joachim. +++ But Joachim doesn’t ask in the morning. We say the Sky Rabbit prayer at sunrise and make our way to the foot of the mountain. We look for a path upward, circling smooth impassable slabs of granite in vain. Without Annette orienteering, it’s quieter than usual, except for the birds of the forest making strange rattling squawks. Joachim and I never say much to each other; we were less friends and more mutual hangers-on of Annette. I am always searching for words that live in my heart when I am around Joachim, and I can never find them, so I say nothing, as I have given up speaking the words birthed in my head. And then the noise from the birds suddenly stops. Joachim stops moving. “What do you think that is?” he asks, pointing up at a pointillist cloud, a mass of thousands of indistinct creatures. “It’s a flock,” I say, the only words I know to be true, even as I notice the fear nipping at my nerves. “But let’s find cover.” The mountain seems as impassable as ever, but there’s a fallen tree lying across a couple of boulders. Together, Joachim and I push two smaller boulders on the other sides, to make a shoddy but passable shelter. We huddle inside, jamming ourselves into a gap between boulder and tree and huddling together. My nerves twitch again, not because of any mysterious shadows but just because Joaquim has bit his lip so hard it’s bleeding and his jaw is churning away. “I knew it would happen eventually,” Joachim says. He’s chewing a strand of his untidy hair. I breathe in, out, feeling the dewy air on the tips of my nostrils. “Look at us.” “Not sure what you mean by that.” “Annette. Leaving. I mean – look at me. No one else would want to – could even stand – well, she was patient. Even when I forgot to wear deodorant. Or when I wouldn’t stop talking about Rush for like, a whole year. I thought she wouldn’t get sick of me. And, well–” He raises an arm and shrugs. I feel twin threads of pity and irritation within me. I acknowledge them, try to let them drift on, but the resentment snags. “You said ‘us.’” “Well.” He wants to let it drop but I won’t break eye contact. “You just… you never say anything. Annette said, well, something about you having a ‘calming presence,’ but… well, when I talk to you, it’s like looking in a mirror facing another mirror. I know it’s like, your religion, so no offense, but it’s like looking into the void.” “My religion? You think emptiness is my religion?” It’s so absurd that I laugh. It starts to rain, a sudden downpour, big drops thumping on top of the log. “I thought you were like, Zen.” “Zen,” I repeat. “Do you even know–” I stop myself. I realize there’s an ugly, mean smirk on my face and feel shocked into shame, that I’m sitting next to the only other human being I could meet for the rest of my life, and, for all of my practiced detachment, every inch of my wild mind wants to grind him into powder. Joachim’s head is down – he’s used to being looked down upon, excoriated, and I realize he’s just waiting for me to slide into that role. “I’m sorry,” I say. “There’s just so much garbage inside me that I have to stop and listen for whatever isn’t–” “poo poo,” Joachim supplies. “Basically, yeah.” “No,” he says, “that’s not rain we’re hearing.” I’d been so focused on Joachim that I missed it. In the crack of light between log and boulder, little raisins were falling from the sky. Carefully, Joachim and I crept up to it, peering up, and, indeed, soaring in the thousands were the fabled creatures. Joachim and I took each other’s hands. We were still looking for Annette and a passage home, but somehow I felt like things were looking up. In unison we said: All hail the Sky Rabbits!
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Aug 16, 2021 04:36
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When Montante Encountered Camarata (A Recollection Recorded by His Pupil Valdes and Further Edited by Andrade) 822 Words It is, of course, a trifling matter in the ordinary course of things, if a certain writer were to write a novel, which is a book of stories, which is a book of characters, wherein every detail of the story is stated, together with a brief description of the theme which it concerns.1 It is an altogether different matter, however, when that writer lacks the means to express himself in said fashion and must instead rely on his speech and memory to convey the intricacies of his tale. Such was the predicament of Montante, who by unhappy circumstance lay bound upon a pile of straw across from the infamous Camarata.2 Montante had been seized at his salon, and while several of his guests had claimed themselves accomplished pugilists, it was according to his expectation that they had raised no argument when Camarata’s men made plain their business with him. The men had dragged Montante through the streets like a dog, and though he offered no resistance along his journey, they had expressed their revulsion toward the man, or perhaps rather his work, with secreted blows. What should have been a walk of minutes instead seemed to stretch for hours, and when Montante was finally thrown upon the floor of his cell he nearly wept from relief.3 Time passed, as it does, but Montante could not distinguish the days from the nights in the damp darkness. He was occasionally fed, and more rarely provided the opportunity to speak with a passing guard regarding his imprisonment. Never, though, could he find relief from the pain emanating from his tightly bound hands. Montante came to understand that he was being made an example of, though he could not reason why. Camarata had made his intentions plain, after all, and in his effort to excise base art from the city (be it pornographic, heretical, or otherwise undesirable), the man had several times singed the outer reaches of Montante’s circle.4 Still, Montante’s own work could hardly be compared to that of those previously persecuted. Indeed, his novels often reflected his own principles of piety, self-sacrifice, and love for community. His association with more avant-garde types was a testament to his profound openness to his fellow man, as well as his encouragement of their burgeoning talent. Montante was a man both intelligent and self-aware, and as he lingered in painful confinement his confusion rendered the experience all the more distressing. Eventually, Camarata descended and joined Montante. It struck the writer, then, just how imposing his jailer was, and immediately he cursed his misfortune in lacking the means to record his thoughts about the man’s unusual traits.5 The two men regarded each other, each relishing his own role in the dynamic before Camarata crossed the room and cut Montante free. To the writer’s horror, the rope had warped his fingers such that he could no longer form even the most foundational positions with his hands. At once, both men knew that Montante’s days of writing had passed him by. Camarata spoke.6 He was freed, then. Before Montante left, the two wept together. 1Ah, if only it was so! These were, of course, Montante’s words, and he was a genius. 2One’s first reaction may be to consider Camarata the Butcher. This Camarata, however, precedes the Butcher by several decades. Any relation between the two is unsubstantiated. 3Records suggest Montante was imprisoned beneath the Great Eastern Plaza, where today lies the headquarters of the Stefano Exporting Company. 4Here one must recall Llopis, Godoy, and perhaps Caycedo, though his relationship with Montante was likely negligible. 5Out of respect for Montante’s suffering, I will similarly withhold description of Camarata. 6Valdes did not directly record Montante’s account of Camarata’s speech, but on the tenth anniversary of his mentor’s death, Valdes published this telling with an introduction that served to speculate as to Camarata’s motivation for imprisoning and silencing Montante. To that end, I have constructed a monologue of sorts that encapsulates these observations: “Montante, I have come to deliver you from this place, but also to ensure your perpetual imprisonment. I take no pleasure in this punishment, for I see faint traces of the beauty which once ran through your work as water now flows through the grand canals that bore me here tonight. You are called ‘genius,’ now, but where once you inspired Godliness in your writing, you now exude only self-absorption and indolence masquerading as reflection before God. What's more, Montante, your work has abandoned purpose and occurrence, and instead dwells slothfully on the simple state of existence. God’s grace is not afforded to those who simply be, but rather to those who do, and in lacking the doing you reject God’s grace. In return for perverse idleness, I impose it upon you. Let us reflect upon the grace and beauty that once was.”
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Aug 16, 2021 04:48
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First line: The first day I met my future self, I was aboard the old dirigible that lay in wait for me on the far side of the moon. The Process of Separation 1153 words The first day I met my future self, I was aboard the old dirigible that lay in wait for me on the far side of the moon. He looked like the simulation had predicted: skin paled by years of lunar living, thin hair retreating from a creased forehead, cheeks hollowed and scarred; but still, unmistakably, me. His eyes — my eyes — watched as I entered the hold and sat in the chair opposite. ‘Lunar Timeline one-three-seven,’ I announced, adjusting my lapel mic. ‘Session one. Attendants: Jay Kent, age 37—’ ‘And Jay Kent,’ future-me continued, ‘age 52.’ I looked across the chrome table at him; clad in the orange jumpsuit of the prison timeline, shackled hands resting in his lap, his expression impassive. I tried to imagine how I’d feel, if the events of my own timeline had led to this moment. Tried to anticipate what emotions lay behind the stoic facade; tried to imagine how different we really were, under the surface. ‘Do you know why I’m here?’ I asked. ‘I know what you’re here to do,’ he said. ‘But you’re a damned fool for getting talked into this.’ ‘I came here willingly,’ I told him. ‘Jesus, you are young,’ he scoffed, a familiar smile playing on his lips. ‘“Willingly”. I suppose you also gave “informed consent” before taking the portal to this timeline. You know how many people never get back?’ ‘Rich of you to talk about risks,’ I said, frowning. ‘Only one of us has a death sentence.’ ‘So far.’ I met his gaze and held it, before resting my hands, fingers laced, atop the table between us. ‘Let’s talk about what happened after Calypso,’ I said, keen to get the session back on track. ‘It would help to establish when we diverged.’ ‘When we diverged,’ he echoed, sitting back and folding his arms across his chest. ‘Somewhere between Calypso and you being a crony for the federation, I suspect.’ I leaned forward, steepling my hands under my chin. Roderick, my liaison, had told me to expect digressions, tricks, and mind games; but I was to hold firm against them. If anyone could get into the head of my future self, he’d said, it would be me. Eventually, every future self would fall to the younger. ‘In my timeline,’ I told him, ‘I’m a decorated soldier. Happily married, five-year-old son, on the fast-track to becoming an airship captain. I’m here for the citizens of my station, yes, but I’m also here for me. What could happen that would make someone like me plot to destroy station X-23?’ ‘You’re a lucky man,’ he said, leaning forward to mirror my pose. His restraints shone in the overhead light. ‘But what’s more fragile than good fortune?’ I didn’t say anything; just watched and waited, as the academy had instructed. I wondered, briefly, if he’d also received the interrogation training in his own timeline. Our intelligence hadn’t been able to trace his timeline after Calypso, but that wasn’t too surprising: my own timeline heavily obscured my identity, as it did for any soldiers deployed during the Lune–Deimos conflicts. In the absence of any contact from future timelines, we’d all assumed that my alternate future selves had all perished in the conflict, and that my timeline alone had survived. Which is why it was so surprising when a timeline sent a distress call last month, advising that somebody matching my own genetic makeup had led a failed terrorist attack on their timeline’s largest station, waving the flag of Deimos. Future-me raised an eyebrow, sat back in his chair. ‘What do you think they’d do,’ he asked, nodding his head toward the one-way glass, ‘if you weren’t able to get anything out of me? Do you think they’d promote you to captaincy if they knew you were capable of this in another timeline?’ ‘I—’ The ship shook suddenly, and I was thrown from my chair to land on the cold floor. Future-me stayed seated, an arch smile playing on his lips, as if he’d been anticipating this. Because of course he had, I realised. Future-me stood and walked over, kneeling down to look me in the eye. Outside, I heard voices shouting, the ring of boots across the deck, sporadic gunfire. ‘You asked when we diverged,’ he said. ‘The truth is that we never diverged. Everything I’ve done — everything I’ve become — was just a way to get you here.’ ‘What for?’ I asked, stupidly. ‘It’s been fifteen years,’ he rasped, leaning forward. ‘Fifteen years away from Charlotte. Fifteen years away from Patrick. But there’s still time,’ he continued, smiling. ‘There’s still time for me to be his father.’ The door hissed open and three people entered, all wearing red jumpsuits with black gloves to elbows and black leather boots. Pirates. The captain, her long hair falling over a metal eyepatch, holstered her pistol and approached. ‘Jesus, Jay,’ she started. ‘I forgot how young you used to look.’ One of the pirates approached future-me and bent down to unlock his restraints. Future-me stood and rubbed his wrists, looking down at me with an expression I barely recognised. ‘We can’t secure the portal forever,’ the captain said, looking at us both. ‘Jays, if you have anything to say to each other, now would be the time.’ ‘I hope you can forgive me,’ future-me said. ‘I think, eventually, you’ll understand why I’m doing this.’ ‘No—’ I start, lifting myself up. ‘You can’t—’ But he was already leaving, walking out toward the deck, where the portal I’d used to come here would still be active. The portal back to my own timeline. The portal back to my own life, my own Charlotte, my own Patrick— ‘Now,’ the pirate captain said, turning to face me, ‘you have a choice. You can stay here,’ she waved her hand over the railing, ‘on the moon in the prison timeline, or you could go back to our old timeline, and join our crew.’ ‘I’ll never join the Deimons,’ I spat. ‘I’d rather die here than raise a hand against my own people.’ The pirate captain knelt down before me, taking my chin in her hand. ‘I’d forgotten you had such spirit,’ she smiled. ‘Listen carefully. I’m going to think you’re a spy, when we first meet. I’m going to try to kill you. More than once. But eventually you’ll gain my — our — trust. Eventually you’ll learn to fight like the best of us. And then, only then, will you be rewarded.’ ‘Why would I fight for you?’ I asked; but I already knew the answer. ‘You won’t fight for us,’ she said. ‘You’ll fight for your son. And the chance to see him again.’ *** The first day I met my past self, I was aboard the old dirigible on the far side of the moon.
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Aug 16, 2021 04:49
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First line: “I am Eilie, and I am here to kill the world.” And I’ll be Fine 1092 words “I am Eilie, and I am here to kill the world.” she declared with a bit more pomp than she intended, eventually she would get it just right, but it wasn’t this time. The Gate emitted amused waves of curiosity and replied “The world is scheduled to be killed tomorrow.” Eilie didn’t like that, that much was evident on her astral manifestation, this was a definite first “Uh. My ride already left, can't we anticipate it?”, the Gate’s sardonic aura answered her question before she completed it. “What am I even going to do until then?” she wasn’t quite sure how to move time forward in this plane. “You could enter the world and just let time flow through you. Hang out, you know? Choose a nice spot to do it, the Kill.” --- “I am Eilie, and I am here to kill the world.” she declared more casually than she intended. The people around the campfire just stared at her. Their expressions carried confusion and concern. Eilie didn’t get the confusion, all living things could understand her words and she was pretty clear. She didn’t get the concern either, it was directed at her and her appearance should have been that of a healthy member of the observer’s species. The three humans around the campfire looked at each other, then at her. The praying mantis expressed (“Right on!”) with enthusiasm. “That’s correct, little one. Could you tell me of a good place to do it?” “Hey.” (“The waterfall nearby! It is the biggest in the whole world!”) one of the humans spoke “Eilie, you said? Are you okay?” the biped approached her with caution. Eilie quickly verified the mantis’ information “It is not, my friend, but I can tell it carries importance to you.” then she turned to the humans “I am ‘okay’, I am merely early.” (“Yes, I killed my last mate there, he was so handsome.”) One of the other humans snorted and started laughing “My god, what drugs are you on, woman?”, the atmosphere amongst his pack grew lighter. “It is always good to kill what we love, I am glad life has granted you such a sweet memory.” the atmosphere amongst the human pack grew darker, they all backed away “I am not on drugs, I am on reality.” they seemed unconvinced. “Guys, I think she really needs help.” the first human to address her spoke (“Thanks, I am glad too! He gave me many young ones.”), again that baseless concern. “I do require aid to move through linear time and I am seeking a good place to start the kill.” one of the humans, the snorting one, ran away, the silent one froze. Eilie could tell the first speaker was really worried now “You and your surviving young will have the honor of witnessing the greatest event in this world since its creation.” The protagonist amongst the humans cursed at the coward of her pack, (“Sounds awesome! When is it?”) and then turned back to the Executioner. “Look, Eilie, why don’t you sit?” then she directed her frustration towards her companion, “She’s not armed, Brandon, get some water, I think she’s on a really bad trip, a really really really bad trip.” Eilie noted the silent one was obedient, the leader looked at her and attempted to express calm “I am Hellen, just have a seat and focus on your breathing.” “It should be tomorrow.” She experimented with sitting in her human form in a similar way to how she saw the humans doing around their campfire when she arrived, it felt kind of awkward “This is a strange way to pass the time, but I thank you for your effort. This is a work trip for me, but there are worlds where it would be considered a bad trip.” Eilie considered the woman’s last suggestion “You shouldn’t be concerned about my biology, there is none.” Hellen’s eyes widened and she took a deeply patient breath (“Oooh, when the sun comes?”), Brandon handed her a transparent bottle filled with water, which she then handed to Eilie, who had to read through a large ephemeral volume of human history to understand its purpose and means of use. It took her a quarter of a femtosecond. The woman was relieved when she expertly opened the bottle and drank it in the human way. “No, tomorrow, my friend. Time means something very different for me.” “What is it about tomorrow?” Hellen asked, intently watching Eilie. (“Ah, okay, I will just wait then.”) “That is when I will kill the world, I arrived early and my ride to work could not both deliver and retrieve me on the same day.” she felt something that her human form expressed as a sigh “Your patience becomes you.” (“Thanks!”) “Yeah, I know the type.” Hellen said and looked towards the man “Anything is an inconvenience when you don’t want to do it.” “Hey!” Brandon found his ability to talk, this time in protest “Come on, just let it go.” “You are welcome.” Eilie considered the mantis and the seed of a plan emerged “Hellen, you and Brandon have little time to resolve your issues, I recommend you do so instead of projecting your problems onto me.” She had learned a lot about humans while figuring out how to use that water bottle “I appreciate your empathy and concern for my well being, it is laudable. I cannot reciprocate, but I can assure you that I am well and I invite you to consider the wisdom of the praying mantis.” Hellen and Brandon looked at each other (“Thanks! We really are quite wise, you know”) and at what they perceived as a very strange woman. He whispered to her “Let’s just leave, she said she’s fine”, she whispered back “No, she isn’t.” but she knew that everything the woman had said was true. Eilie delicately picked up the insect, “I like you, I have an opening for an intern, we could use someone who knows how to kill with love. How do you feel about existing in five dimensions?” (“Sounds really cool!” the mantis eagerly replied) And then both Eilie and her apprentice disappeared. Hellen grabbed Brandon’s hand and held it tightly. They stood there quietly, for a while, until they and the entire planet heard a voice. “I am Eilie, and I am here to kill the world.” she declared exactly as she intended and hell followed her. Hell, in this case, being a trillion astral mantises picking a fight with everything and winning.
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Aug 16, 2021 06:06
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First sentence: Long, glowing tongues trailed from your mouth as you listened to what was being said across this kingdom of ours, but growing a little more somber since the week that caused us to proclaim general war. Worm 917 words Long, glowing tongues trailed from your mouth as you listened to what was being said across this kingdom of ours, but growing a little more somber since the week that caused us to proclaim general war. The pulsing threads that swooped down through the ceiling and into your ears were dimmer too, as city after city--and the people in them--disappeared from the net, swept away by the Worm. Though you were only Under-Sirdar for the west coast, you were now top of the chain of command. The bunker was busy. With my command permissions enabled, I could see the virtual overlays our subordinates were using, maps and tables "hanging" in mid-air and updating constantly. I allocated a comm thread and pushed it across to you, rendered into my visual cortex as yet another glowing tendril issuing from my mouth and soon clicking into your left ear alongside a dozen others. I kept it short, formatted in battle syntax: ###LEGATE HOANG//UNDER-SIRDAR ALVAR#COUNTERMEASURE.PARTITION READY# Your response was slow, almost 500ms before I even got an ACK. You were multiplexing heavily, pushing your context switch implant to the edge. For nearly two days we had been routing emergency supplies, requisitioning ancient stockpiles of standalone computers and trying to get them out to the cities that were still alive. The partition would leave them disconnected from the Machine, trapped inside their own skulls, but alive, safe from the Worm. On the other side: us, the military, hopefully still operational on an uninfected network. From across the bunker, Lieutenant Pietersen fed me a condensed report of the Worm's progress. In the last hour, it had entered the Barony of Chicago, slowing down as it chewed through the minds of the people there, forcing their brains into recursive computation until they succumbed to convulsions. I integrated the numbers into my mnemonic dataset. Slowly you trimmed down your outgoing/incoming connections until only a few remained, and we communicated real-time, in a more casual mode. ###ALVAR//HOANG#Did you ever get caught in a netsplit, Hoang?# ###HOANG//ALVAR#Once. In Tenochtitlan. A power substation failed and the EMP knocked things out for almost an hour. I don't remember it well. Traumatic.# ###ALVAR//HOANG#It's going to be more than an hour for them. It might be forever. I don't know how many will make it.# Then, Sirdar, you did something that surprised us all. You stood, cleared your throat and actually spoke, addressing the handful of officers in the bunker. "I'm told the partition is ready. Excuse me for speaking aloud," you said, with your voice a bit hoarse and unsteady from disuse, "but if we're going to disconnect the whole population, even to save their lives, and force them to live as mere humans, I will give the order the way a mere human would. Legate Hoang, deploy the countermeasure." I recovered from my surprise quickly and launched a worker routine. Results came back to me as failsafes were triggered, firewalls slammed shut, and explosive bolts detonated in facilities deep underground and far away as the partition was deployed. The feel of the Machine became different, empty, almost hollow. We had just separated half a billion people from the net, and now it felt too big for those few thousands of us left online. You sat down heavily. Your face was pale; were you thinking about the panic as millions of people found their minds curtailed, their communication limited to crude vocalizations, cut off from the Machine? You engaged your command authorizations and send a broadcast order. ###ALVAR//ALL#FOREACH BATTALION { CHECK INTEGRITY; RECURSIVE; REPORT }# Reports began to flow back almost immediately, visualized as tendrils of light snapping suddenly to the ears of the officers around us. Pietersen gave us the condensed results. ###PIETERSEN//ALVAR,HOANG#97% of units report systems are clean. Still waiting on confirmation from Puget monitoring station.# You responded within milliseconds, ordering all communications with Puget severed, but new reports were already coming in. Other units announced the arrival of the Worm, moving faster than it ever had before. It tore through the sparse military net, and the minds on the net, as though it knew we had almost beaten it. Like it was angry. ###ALVAR//ALL#FOREACH PERSONNEL { DISCONNECT; DISCONNECT; DISCONNECT }# Being closest to you, I received your final broadcast order first. I activated my emergency disconnect, overrode the warnings of my implants, shut them down as fast as possible. I felt my mnemonic dataset go dark. Losing my math co-processor and logic enhancer left me feeling confused, fuzzy, unfocused. The hardest was the comm implant, the constant feeling of connection that had been with me since childhood. All the cortico-visual overlays faded, leaving only a drab, dim room. Looking over, I saw Lombard jump to her feet, then Pietersen, then you. Your eyes stared blindly ahead. Then Lombard started to shake, gently, and Pietersen next. It was the Worm; you weren't fast enough, it got into your brains before you could disconnect. I used my stunner on all three of you, zapped your implants, but you were the only one who could even walk. I couldn't think of anything else to do. I brought you up to the surface. Does any of this sound familiar, Sirdar? It's very strange to just… talk. It's so slow. Do you remember anything? Will you say something? It's very quiet, being disconnected. Dark, too. There's lights in San Francisco. We'll walk there later, once you've had some rest.
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Aug 16, 2021 06:56
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Special Transaction: 1050 word limit, after sale of 150 words to crabrock in exchange for six sand The cat was fine; Metatron saved it from being run over and decided to keep it. 1044 words The man who was not Jack the Ripper had been promoted four times in the last two years. Upon consultation with the law, it turned out any criminal proven innocent by an act of God is automatically qualified to become an executioner, and he started the next day. Regardless, the man really was excellent at killing people, the Detective mused to himself as he walked past the latest public execution. He’d been shouted down every time he brought this up, though, so he supposed it was immaterial. At least the man’s talents were being put to good use. He popped the last of his lunch into his mouth, and winced as his teeth ground against a grain of sand. drat stuff was everywhere these days. The exoneration of the man who was not Jack the Ripper was the first Act of God in the city, but it wasn’t the last. It started with big, dramatic interventions: proving the accused to be innocent, or saving a wagonload of orphans. Lately, however, God seemed to be giving input on a lot of things; there was a chips shop near the station that had seraphim fluttering around its roof for weeks. “And those things’ve got eyes all over, and big booming voices that burrow into your skull,” the proprietor of the shop told the Detective. “I’m fairly certain one of them ate my cat, too.” The Detective nodded absently and walked away eating his chips. At one point he might have been spurred towards an investigation, but those days were over. That day he came back to the station to find a pile of sand on his desk, with a note indicating that it was not to be moved, by divine request. The Detective began to gingerly pull papers from beneath the pile, but was interrupted before he could get very far. “Been a request for you from the executioner’s guild,” said the Chief Inspector, with a look that might have been smug; the Detective had given up on reading expressions along with investigating. It was just as well that it came to this, he thought to himself as he walked the sand-strewn cobblestones. There wasn’t much of his job left to speak of. The man who was not Jack the Ripper was waiting for him, of course. There was a glowing aura around his body, and the Detective could hear a chorus singing from somewhere. “Thank you for coming to see me,” the man said. “I’ve been hearing a lot of good things about you.” “You have?” the Detective said. He wasn’t sure what anyone could’ve said about him, other than ‘asks too many questions’ or perhaps ‘eats too much.’ “Indeed! In fact, I have a special assignment for you.” The man leaned forward, his voice low. “I hear that you’ve been looking into the matter of our recent spate of divine interventions.” “I-” “You needn’t deny it, friend! That’s why I’ve brought you here; I’d like you to keep doing it!” “You would?” “That’s what I said,” the man said, and his expression twinged for just a moment, in a way that the Detective thought he should recognize but no longer could. “Well? What do you think?” The Detective thought for a moment. He didn’t trust the man, but what else did he have to do? And the thought of being able to do some real investigation again was an enticing one. “I… accept,” the Detective said finally. “Excellent!” The man rose and shook the Detective’s hand. “It is a true pleasure to have you on board.” The Detective blinked, and he was standing outside in a part of town he didn’t recognize. A line of people stretched before and behind him, leading up to a platform in the distance. As he took in his surroundings, there was a fanfare of trumpets and he saw a bright light coming from the platform ahead of him. He tried to get a better look at what was happening, but his ankle was manacled to a chain running along the line of people. A few moments later, everyone shuffled forwards a few feet, dragging him along. “Do you know what’s going on?” the Detective said to the man ahead of him, but got no response save a glare in his direction. The woman behind him didn’t even bother to glare at him, staring past him as if he didn't exist. He looked around, trying to understand what was going on. The platform ahead seemed to be some kind of stage, where each person in line stood for a moment until the light and trumpets came. Was this some test of divine intervention? He looked around, but he couldn’t see any people save those in line with him. A fine dusting of sand eddied around his ankles. The line crept forward in silence, and the Detective realized that the platform was not a stage but a gallows. A spike of fear shot through him, but from watching the proceedings it didn’t seem like anyone was actually being hurt. As soon as a noose was fitted around a neck, divine blessings shone from the heavens and the prisoner was freed. As he drew near the platform, the Detective saw the man who was not Jack the Ripper standing by the trapdoor lever and beaming. “Hello again, Detective!” he said. “I’m so glad that you could join us. Don’t worry, it won’t be a moment until you’re done here.” “Oh, well… that’s good then,” the Detective said. “Come right this way,” the man said, bending down to unlock the manacle. “Ah, and you wouldn’t want to forget this!” The man passed him a large hourglass, it’s top bulb filled with trickling sand. The Detective opened his mouth to ask why he needed an hourglass to be judged by God, but then the man who was not Jack the Ripper was ushering him onwards and he had no time to say anything. The platform afforded him a good view of the surroundings. The buildings lining the street looked flimsy from here, as though they were paper cutouts that could be knocked over by a breeze. The noose was settled around his neck, and the Detective waited. Sand blew through the quiet streets.
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Aug 16, 2021 07:15
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The forces are perfectly simultaneous, and there for the same reason 1,350 words (+150 words from selling 6 sand to curling iron) There was once a land of sand, and sand, sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand sand “Um, Mr. Jim?” said Barry the intern on his first day creating planets. “I think the world generator is busted.” Jim sighed, spun slowly in his chair, and gave the monitor a quick glance, like he always did when a new intern thought something wasn’t going right. “No, everything looks good, it’s just a lot of sand.” It was always the intern, never the machines. They’d worked for billions of years nonstop, the only mystery was how the bureaucracy kept sending him interns that didn’t know anything about planetary design. “Because in the training I did the other day it said that there are usually rocks and stuff.” Jim nodded. “Usually there is. Today it’s just sand.” “Is that going to be okay?” Jim shrugged. Barry fiddled with his console. “Aren’t you worried?” Jim shook his head. “I got trillions of planets I can’t remember a thing about. I’m not gonna remember this planet by the time we start the next. Trust me, everything’s gonna be fine.” Boring is what he should have said. Best not to crush their spirits when they’re only… however old. The intern watched the console print out line after line: :/> sand :/> sand :/> sand :/> sand :/> sand ad nauseam The sand swirled in the maw of the behemoth world generator before the dust cloud slowed to a gentle but uneasy rest as a shadow against the backdrop of the nebula. Then almost imperceptibly, the gravity of the planet below gently pulled it home. It gave the illusion of an infinite cosmic hourglass. Barry fidgeted in his seat. “What if it never stops? We just sit here forever?” “You got somewhere to be?” “I would like to see some water or volcanoes I guess. Something exciting. Something new.” “There’s nothing new to see,” Jim said without looking up from his book. “Oh.” The kid sat and looked at Jim’s unsympathetic face in silence until he could remain incurious no longer. “Is there rock underneath?” Jim pointed to the composition monitor. “Nope, just sand.” Didn’t they go over this stuff in training anymore? “Not even a molten core?” Jim sighed once again. He deliberately closed his book and set it down on the control panel. “I don’t know how many times you want me to repeat this, bud, it’s just sand. I don’t have any more answers right now than you do. You flip enough coins, eventually you’ll get a string of all heads. It’s just a numbers game. It doesn’t mean anything. The universe is chaotic and the same all at once. And sometimes it’s just sand.” “How big can an all-sand planet be?” “Dunno. I guess it will eventually collapse down on itself. Fuse that sand into something else. But maybe it’s not an all-sand planet at that stage.” Jim shrugged and jotted the question down on a notepad next to the control panel. “My list of questions to ask when I get back,” he said, gesturing at the paper with the pen. Barry looked at the notepad. “But it only has the one question.” “Never really wondered about anything before. Just a paycheck.” Jim looked out of the window and down at the shift dunes the size of continents. “Man, imagine trying to walk on that though. You try to take a single step and the whole planet shifts under you. A few grains of sand tumble down the side of the dune, picking up more and more until it’s an avalanche. Even if you pick your foot back up, it’s already started, going, unstoppable.” Jim’s voice trailed off as he stared down at the planet. Barry checked the monitors, the logs, the links to the world generator. He ran through his entire checklist of protocols and guidelines in his internship binder. Every so often he glanced over at Jim, who was still watching the sand fall onto the planet, moving his lips in an inaudible conversation with himself. “We should give it a name,” said Barry. “I’ve always wanted to name a whole planet.” Jim nodded, but his neutral-bordering-on-happy countenance morphed to a frown. “Sure it’s nice at first. Name one after each of your family members. Your friends. People you like but don’t know that well. Celebrities. Characters. Pets. But you know, you run out of ideas. So you just start putting in nouns. Verbs. Until you run out of words you know, so you just make up random words that mean nothing. You try putting in jokes to see if anybody’s paying attention, but they aren’t. You try and find out if there’s any sort of character limit, but there’s not, and out there is a planet with a name that’s actually just an entire book I copy and pasted into the console. The only thing you can’t do is give a planet the same name, and you can’t give a planet no name. After a while it’s just easier to leave them on default. So sure, go ahead, give it a name.” Jim swung the console toward Barry, and it stopped directly in front of him. “Give it a go if you want.” Barry smiled and typed “PLANET BARRY.” He submitted the name, and immediately the input field turned red and the ship’s speakers went bzzzt. “Knew a Barry in high school,” said Jim. PLANET BARRY2. bzzt “I knew a few Barrys I guess.” PLANET BARE-E. bzzt P TOWN B BOI. bzzt Barry turned to Jim who only smirked back. The intern continued to type any combo of words or letters he could think of, finally resorting to just smashing on the keyboard for a while, but the response was always the same. bzzt. bzzt. Bzzt. “I told you, there’s nothing new.” Barry nodded and transcribed Jim’s words into the console. Bzzt. “You’re not my first intern.” Barry’s hands fell to his side and he leaned back and let out a sigh that sounded like it could have been Jim’s. “So there’s nothing new, nothing matters, just keep building planets to increment the ticker by one? Collect the paycheck and that’s it?” Jim picked up his book and opened it up to where he’d left off. “Took you longer than most of the others, but you got there. Training’s done.” Barry and Jim sat on the bridge of the spaceship, nonchalantly orbiting the accumulating sand. They did not speak to each other again until the world generator sputtered to a stop and the last of the sand fell from it. It dinged “done” over the ship’s speakers. “Time to move to the next planet,” said Jim. Barry stood and walked to the window, resting his head against it, peering down at the planet. Had it been the first he’d helped create? Or had he created millions and forgotten about them already? “If you want to give it a name, now’s your last chance,” Jim said, his lips pressed tightly together to stifle a laugh. Barry looked over at Jim and opened his mouth to say something snarky, Jim reckoned, but instead he walked over to Jim’s console and picked up the notepad. Barry typed the question into the console and submitted it. Instead of the expected bzzt the speakers dinged again. The ship orbited Planet What Happens When Too Much Sand? Barry smiled down at his first of many planets like it was his own son. He was a beautiful planet. He had a strange name, and he was a very big boy indeed.
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Aug 16, 2021 07:17
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Encrypted Relay-Packets from the Edge 975 words The first star I saw was a blue one, which became a scarlet one, and then a gold one, and green, and finally a yellow one, which for some years afterwards seemed to be an ebony one, or even a bubbling mass. Then white, then blue again and I had a brief minute of hope. But there was no return of the Ganymede, no signal returned from the relay's pings. I think that may have been when I began to go mad. We may have been all a bit mad when we got to Kitesh system. Or before that. Normal, well-adjusted people don't sign up for the scout corps, to travel outwards, year after year and wormhole after wormhole, until you die of old age or stumble across a gate that closes a loop back into known space. We were twenty years in, sixteen gates and seventeen long trips planet to planet. And we found something extraordinary. The scout corps purpose is twofold. First, we're looking for trouble. And we know it's out there, somewhere. Every world in known space is a ruin, war-wracked systems devastated by some scourge tens of thousands of years past. Whatever was responsible is out there somewhere. If a scout ship finds them, we can send the signal down our trail of relays, each one self-destructive after passing down the alarm. Hasn't happened yet, but when it does Earth will know which direction to point our defenses, which direction not to run. And second, we're looking for tech. Ways to fight them. Precursor ruins, and that's what we found, and not just a Mapmaker outpost or Trickster tessalisk, but an honest to goodness Builder site. And not off in an asteroid belt but orbit-linked to a wormhole. "Don't you see?" said Captain Shardess. "That must be a Builder system, on the other side." She was impatient. Protocol suggested a longer wait at the site, following directions sent down the relay chain, doing archaeology by proxy with week-long communications lag. I agreed with protocol. She wanted to go quickly. The decision was made to split up, for the Ganymede to return for me after a survey of the world on the other side. We were all more than a bit mad, I think. If we had waited another week we would have seen the star shift on the living map. Any wormhole can be a time machine. Is one, in fact. It's just of no practical use. There are no loops short enough to use that way, to accumulate time differences from normal galactic motion, and moving gates, accelerating them to near light speed means moving planets, maybe moving stars. Far beyond anyone's power. But for the Builders... It was the big brains in the think tank on Earth that figured it out. This gate switched from era to era, letting the Builders experiment across cosmic time in that system. We hoped that when it rolled around to blue again that it would be again connected to the time the Ganymede was in, that they would return. But stars burn blue for a very, very long time. We're not meant to be alone. Humans. And the low bandwidth messages from home aren't enough contact for us. Maybe for months. Not years. Not the decades it will take for the Archaeology team to arrive. The shuttle docked to the station can keep me alive indefinitely. Air, water, and food are no problem. Entertainment, even. The autodoc can do preventative care, and fix most medical problems. A heart attack or stroke when I'm not in the same room would get me, but nothing less than that. There's a psych system, part of the autodoc. It's not very good. It tries to engage me in conversation, not much more convincing than a bit from the dawn of computing. "You keep covering the scars," it said. "What does that mean?" I asked. "That you're ashamed." "Of what?" "What do you think?" See, a meaningless stock response. "That I tried to kill myself," I said. "Come on, we both know that I'm mad." "Is that really how you feel?" We put meaning in meaninglessness. It's what you do, when you're mad. Or human. "Not that I tried. That I couldn't, in the end. That I'm too mad to give up hope, that I cling to misery." *** Another five years gone since I last felt moved to journal, but now there is something to record. The fourth time around, when the gate went blue, there was a signal. Not the Ganymede, but a relay, waiting patiently for millennia, at the end of it's mechanical lifetime, transmitting Captain Shardess's final logs, a lifetime of exploration in that system. She never went further. The builders had put guardians at each gate, allowing only signals to pass, not trusting any of their successors with time travel. Even if the timelines lined up perfectly, the Ganymede would never have returned. This system, she named it Aeden since another scout had claimed Eden in the first run of exploration, was where the builders developed the bio-seeds that proliferated every world with life. Each planet an evolutionary experiment. She documented some of the monstrous failures along the line, sent pictures of the beautiful but sterile end-states of failed biochemistries. I laughed like a monkey, like a wild animal when the message alert first came. A minute into listening to the logs I found I could not abide the computer voice saying her words, then realized I had very nearly forgotten how to read. I howled in frustration. But it came back to me. Then I read. Then I mourned for those who I had known, who died nearly a billion years ago. The archaeology team is five years out, now. I think I can make it that long.
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Aug 16, 2021 07:24
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Ok let's close that off, if you get something in soon ill probs be lenient
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Aug 16, 2021 09:09
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