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Antivehicular posted:In, and flash please 
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Dec 17, 2022 03:13
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thunderdome winner
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Dec 17, 2022 03:57
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Dec 18, 2022 15:06
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Black Sheep 1,497 Words The lid of Hughes’ stasis pod disengaged and its life support system began the process of awakening muscles that hadn’t been used properly in months, if not years. He looked around the stasis chamber and saw that the rest of the travel crew remained inanimate, suspended in short-term hypersleep. Right away he found this odd. Each rotation involved at the minimum a pair of technicians. The work was assigned based on the needs of the ship as deemed by the AI that piloted the CTS Pilgrimage. The travel crew replaced parts and analyzed what the ship categorized as ‘abstractions’. In rare cases, the ship might have sustained damage that required most, if not all of the technicians to be active, but never was a technician alone. “Ship, who is assigned to this maintenance rotation?” Hughes asked. “Only you,” the ship replied. “That doesn’t make any sense,“ Hughes responded. “Commander Avery approved a request to have Technician Patterson’s rotation rescheduled,” the ship explained. Hughes realized immediately that this was likely the result of their last scheduled rotation. Hughes had never dated, and hardly associated with the opposite sex. The act of courtship was something that he had all at once desired and feared. Instead, he devoted that unspent energy to his work. That all changed when he met Cassandra Patterson. Hughes sighed as he looked at Cassandra inside her stasis pod. On their last rotation, he and Cassandra had already been up for about two weeks when Hughes, after days of awkward conversation, worked up the nerve to confess his love to her. In hindsight, he realized his approach was too forward, too stilted, but that brief epiphany would fail to take root, as he continued to make advances for the rest of the month they were scheduled to work together. She was thoroughly put off by him by the time their rotation had come to an end. Hughes, having thought it over, decided this was the cause of his isolation. Shame washed over him as he contemplated his inability to make things right. Whatever Cassandra had told the commander was as good as permanent. The ship could play back every hour of every day of every crack and corner on the vessel, but Hughes knew it wouldn’t matter. His insistence that they review the feeds might even make things worse. Finally, he figured it would blow over if he gave it enough time. They’d been traveling for nearly 56 earth years towards an Imperial colony that was still a lifetime away. This too would pass. * * * Only it didn’t. Hughes woke up for what was now the fourth rotation completely alone. He checked to see how much time had passed since his last rotation and saw that nearly ten years had gone by. He could no longer deny that he was being intentionally excluded. “Ship, detail my scheduling overrides.” “Of course.” The ship detailed 23 different instances where his crewmates had submitted requests to either be reassigned, skipped, or have Hughes himself skipped from rotation duties. Notes attached to the requests indicated that Hughes had become “predatory” and had been known to be “hostile”. All of this was untrue, but each request had been approved by the commander without a second thought. Hughes was astonished. He knew that maybe he had been a bit aggressive with his attempts at courting Cassandra. That maybe he should have handled that situation more gracefully, but even then he wasn’t the sexual predator that these requests were making him out to be, and hostile? Hughes knew that to be an outright lie. He had never once even raised his voice on the ship. Prior to confessing his love to Cassandra, he had been rather reserved. The confidence necessary to even approach her developed over years. He admitted that maybe he was a bit standoffish but hostile? Predatory? Hughes stalked over to the commander's stasis pod and began keying in the sequence to override hypersleep. Hughes was set on getting to the bottom of this. He would make sure his side of the story was known. This was just a misunderstanding after all. His finger hovered over the release button and he paused, the ascribed behaviors echoed in his mind. He cursed under his breath and closed the lighting panel before skulking back to the operations lounge. Then he noticed something. One of the abstractions that had been cleared by a prior technician persisted. “Ship, render quadrant related to abstraction 32b.” The ship immersed the room in a detailed projection of the space that surrounded their ship. Hughes studied the abstraction and realized that light seemed to bend and warp around the object. “Ship, isolate abstraction and compare with 32c.” The projection was updated, and the same shape seemed to be very near their own ship now. Hughes realized then that they were being pursued. He started towards the stasis chamber to wake the crew when the ship sounded, “vessel requesting— docking procedures approved, engagi—” Hughes ran to the operations terminal and saw that several of the ship's subroutines had been re-routed. He did what he could, but he hadn’t been trained for this. He managed to secure the airlocks but knew it would only be a matter of time before the assailants managed to break in. He pulled up a feed to the outside of the ship and saw a half-derelict corsair maybe 100km away from them. A clearly stolen Imperial boarding shuttle was affixed to the airlock. Hughes ran back to the stasis room and tried waking the crew, but the pirates had overridden his manual access. He thought about forcing the crew out of the pods but quickly realized that the resultant shock would be more a detriment than a boon. He retrieved a laser welder from the supply closet and hid instead. * * * The airlock slid open and the sounds of boots clicking against the deck filled the ship. A pair of pirates stepped into the stasis room leading an enslaved technician by a chain. It didn’t take him long to realize that the tech was being forced to inactivate the life support systems of each pod. Hughes panicked and found that the need for self-preservation won over the desire to keep his crewmates alive. He sat silently behind the vent’s grate as the tech inactivated their support systems only stopping when one of the pirates would cry out, “not that one.” When the pirate controlling the enslaved technician left the room, Hughes formulated the plan in his mind. He would lure the remaining pirate over to the vent, then when they peered inside he’d use the welding laser to kill them. He had never been violent and thinking about soldering the pirate’s helmet to his face, cauterizing the soft meats beneath his skull, made Hughes' skin crawl, but it was him or them. He used the welder to knock against the air vent just enough to get the pirate’s attention. When the pirate foolishly craned his head down to peer into the vent he was greeted with a red-hot pulse of energy that cut through his helmet and liquefied the contents of his skull. Hughes wretched. He spared a look at the stasis pods, most of which contained the now suffocated remnants of his crewmates. Those unfortunate enough to be kept alive were probably going to wish they had been killed. Among that number was Patterson. Hughes paused at her tank as his mind raced. When the pirate whose face had become a smoldering crater had their radio sound asking for them to check in, Hughes realized that any hope he had of rescuing Patterson was unlikely. He slid out of the stasis room and crept through the corridors of the ship toward the escape pods. He turned the corner and ran straight into a pirate, and fell crashing onto the floor. “What have we here?” The pirate said menacingly, but no sooner than the last syllable escaped their mouth did Hughes wedge the welder into their groin and begin the traumatizing process of sawing through the pirate. Covered in bits of burned flesh and blood, Hughes shook with disbelief. The invading pirates were no doubt fully aware of his presence. He swapped out the welder for the pirate’s rifle and continued to the escape pods. Fortunately for him, there were no other interruptions. No one else to stop him. He realized then, that maybe he could save the remaining crew members. He had, easier than he had expected, dispatched two space pirates, actual slavers, and had cut them down with a reserve of will that had previously been untapped. However, he was outnumbered, outgunned, and under-trained. He spared one last glance at the ship, then crawled into the escape pod. The pod jettisoned itself into the void of space with a pre-programmed destination as Hughes hooked himself to the stasis unit inside the pod. He drifted off into a deep dreamless sleep.
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Dec 19, 2022 05:49
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 Lich Grandma 1250 words Tina really wanted to eat the bus driver. He was a zombie, and the smell of rotten meat was driving Tina nuts. A seven foot tall lich with a skeletal visage, Tina was squeezed into the second row of the crowded bus on her way to her first day of her new job as a legal secretary. Tina knew that if she gave in and bit a chunk out of the driver not only would she lose a job that had taken months of interviews to get, but her daughter Angelica - barely on speaking terms with Tina as it was - would never let Tina see her grandson, Miles, again. The driver was talking to himself. Tina watched his desiccated jaw muscles work as he swore at a Toyota Prius that had just pulled out in front of the bus. He was piloting the bus with a seriousness that even Tina, who had dedicated her life to achieving lich-hood with an unhealthy focus, had to admire. Steering one-handed the driver hit the indicator lever, grabbed his bottle of powerade and put it to his lips in one smooth motion, eyes darting between the road and the bus’s mirrors as he slid out into the traffic. I bet he wasn’t this diligent when he was alive, Tina thought. I bet he was an inattentive slob who would absolutely have hit that Prius just now. Worthless, like so many humans. Turning him into an undead servant would have been doing the world a favour-- That is an unproductive line of thinking, Tina, said Tina’s internal monologue, in her therapist’s voice. Tina sighed. “Let’s focus on something more positive, shall we,” she said, out loud. The ork standing in the aisle next to Tina’s seat glanced down, then looked politely away. Tina would have blushed if her circulatory system still had blood in it. The ork had a decorative battle axe slung on her back over a soft knit top and fashionable loose trousers. Tina felt tense and uncomfortable inside her new suit. She wished she had her robe on. “gently caress! It’s orange, you loving can’t drive! Idiot!” moaned the bus driver, as the Prius sped through the orange light ahead of them just as the lights turned red. He swiped another mouthful of powerade and drummed his fingers on the wheel. His fingers were perfect. The skin had dried out, nice and chewy, but underneath they were still plump with flesh. Tina’s insatiable hunger for zombie flesh had taken her by surprise after she’d become a lich, but she’d found there was no better way to maximise her necromantic powers than to consume animated death. It was the zombie eating that had been the ultimate undoing of her fraught relationship with Angelica. Tina’s daughter had done her fair share of dabbling in the necromantic arts, but she’d always drawn the line at consuming flesh - particularly if one had created the zombies in the first place. They’re like your children, Anglica had tearfully insisted that awful day when she’d caught her mother at her supper. Only monsters eat their children. And now Angelica had Miles. Tina had hoped this would make her understand that the bond between parent and child was incomparable to the instrumental connection between a lich and its undead meat puppets. But instead motherhood had made Angelica double down, and it had taken everything Tina had - giving up her icy mountain top lair, going through paralegal training, goddamned therapy - to convince Angelica to let Tina have any contact with Miles at all. A boy needs his grandmother, Tina had tried to insist, though the truth was it was the other way around. Tina was captivated by Miles in a way that she never had been by her own child. When Angelica was Miles’ age all Tina had wanted to think about was how to become a lich. Tina had been sure that once she obtained ultimate power her daughter would understand. Wrong. And now there was Miles, and Tina wanted, what, she wasn’t sure. Only that not seeing him grow up was unacceptable. “Morons!” The bus driver hit the brakes and the ork had to grab Tina’s seat back to keep her balance. Tina craned her neck to see what the driver was now gesticulating at through the windscreen. Ahead of them, the Prius had nose-to-tailed another car, and the two drivers were standing beside their dented vehicles yelling at each other. The drivers’ eyes darted between the road and the mirrors, the stationary bus now holding up traffic behind them. Tina ground her teeth. It was hot in the bus. It had been years since she’d been physically able to sweat but an uncomfortable itchiness was building beneath her suit. An itchiness that made her fingers twitch. The edges of her vision started to blur and she knew her eye sockets must be glowing. Goddamned zombies and their incapacity for decision-making, thought Tina. Their mindless order-adherence was only useful when you were the one giving the orders. Which she should be. Tina should be the one in charge. She was the most powerful being on this thrice-cursed bus. Flames danced her in eye sockets. Tina was the MASTER OF DEATH, FIRST AMONGST NECROMANCERS, ADVENTURERS’ BANE-- Tina’s phone rang. Tina grimaced and reached into her pocket. “Hello?” “Miles wants to tell you about school,” came Angelica’s voice. “It’s sports day.” Tina heard Miles yelling in the background, and then Angelica’s sigh. “He’s very excited.” Tina’s itchiness suddenly went away. She leant forward a little and cupped the phone to her face. “Tell him Nanna says to crush his opponents and dance on their bones!” “Mum!” Tina could almost hear Angelica shaking her head. The idling bus rumbled beneath Tina’s feet. She looked at the bus driver, who was still paralysed with indecision. [i]No more necromancy. She’d made that solemn promise to her daughter the first day she had held her infant grandson in her sinewy forearms. Tina let the flames in her eyes go out. She pulled the light back into herself, pictured it turning into a ink-black spear in her mind, and fired it straight at the driver. The zombie’s milky eyes went wide as the words JUST GO AROUND exploded in his mind. The passengers let out a collectively held breath as the bus began to rumble forward. “Tell Miles I said that he should just do his best and that I love him.” Tina hesitated. She ground her teeth. “And, you.” “What?” said Angelica. “I--” The bus-stopping chime sounded. Tina glanced out the window and realised it was her stop. “--have to go to work.” Tina tucked her phone back into her pocket and smoothed her suit, wishing again that she was wearing robes. The ork got off too. Tina let out a cloud of sulphuric breath as she watched the other woman stride confidently towards the glass fronted high rises. They had nothing on her hall of frozen stone. But that was all gone now. [i]It will all be worth it, Tina’s therapist liked to say, at which Tina would scoff, recalcitrant. As she walked to the first day of her new job Tina’s mind ran through ideas of what she could get Miles as a present for what she was confident would be a superlative performance at the school sports tourney. She smiled, showing yellow teeth to the early morning sun. It was already worth it.
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Dec 19, 2022 07:23
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The Dream of the Mailed Hand 1150 words Flash: In Ragna's dreams, there's always a city always burning. It's never the same city twice, and never the cities of her homeland -- always it is some foreign architecture, boxy wooden garrets or spiraling metal towers -- but she knows, with the dread certainty of dreams, that every one is real. Ragna is someone else in these dreams, someone who stalks through the chaos with strength and intent, a spear in hand. In every dream, there is some great feat: rubble thrown clear, a ravager slain, children saved from the flames. The body she inhabits wears the mail and gauntlets of the Royal Guard. There is only one Royal Guardsman left in Ragna's family, and the day after she dreams of great glass towers crashing to earth, she sets out to beg him once again to accept the duty that prophecy dictates. She finds Erlendur standing guard over the feasting hall, watching the revelry with a gentle smile, and she knows he plans on joining it soon enough. In the Green Kingdom, the shifts of Royal Guardsmen are never too long, letting one shed one's mail and take up the horn in the same night. "Erlendur," she intones, and remembers how cronish her voice has grown in recent years. "My boy. You must listen to me." "Grandmother?" Erlendur barely turns to face her, his smile strained. "Surely this is not the time for all this? It is a pleasant day. Eat and drink with us." "The dreams call you again. I fear they cannot wait much longer. I fear for the world beyond our shores." "And what do we owe to them?" Erlendur looks about to lecture her, and Ragna raises her hand to stop him. She knows the history as well as he does, and the bargain struck for the Green Kingdom's peace: to stand apart from the world, its troubles and its glories both. "Grandmother, you cannot be ruled by these 'prophetic' dreams. I know you still grieve for Grandfather, but you must live in the waking world." It is a wound, if one inflicted gently. The dreams have gotten worse since Hrafn passed; his presence next to her in bed, the warmth of his body and steady rhythm of his breathing, had always kept her sleeping mind quiet. Of course she still grieves him! Is it the fashion of these young people to forget a lifetime of love so quickly? "It is not your grandfather's passing," she hisses. "It is a burden I have always borne, but never has it been so strong as now. I know it is a heavy weight to lay on your shoulders, and if there were any others left who could take it, I would not beg you so." Erlendur steps closer to her, the familiar face of irritation slipping into something more like fear, and his voice is low and raspy. "I wish I could help, Grandmother. I do. But I cannot help, and I cannot explain. I believe... I believe that I am not the one the dreams intend. When you have your next one, will you look more closely at the hero within it?" Ragna offers a shallow nod. It is a rare mood from Erlendur, this worry, but not unknown; he is the most cheerful of her grandchildren, but she suspects it is a carefully cultivated happiness. "For you," she says, "I will try. We will speak on it then." "We surely will. Now, Grandmother, will you not feast with us?" Ragna has no appetite for meat and mead, these days, but for the sake of peace, she takes a place at the table. In the Green Kingdom, may its bounty never cease, none look askance at an old woman with unbound hair and widow's robes eating at a table with the lovely youths of the court, and the flavor of the roast beef and boiled potatoes makes her think of when she had stood in Erlendur's place, a Guardsman and reveler. It ought to taste like ashes. Instead, it tastes of beef and honey, and that is a revelation. That night, Ragna dreams again, this time of boxy warrens of grey stone. Her body moves through them with practiced grace, clearing doorways and ushering panicked locals outside, where they scatter in the streets; she looks closely at the hands, and she notices for the first time that they are not the hands of Erlendur, nor the hands of any man. She recognizes every scuff in the mailed gauntlets, all earned honestly -- had she not been mad for sparring and jousts, in her youth? Had she not been as agile with a spear as any of her kin? Something shifts in her mind within the dream, as if she is finally settled behind this body's eyes. In the morning, Ragna begins to pack. *** On the morning of her departure, as Ragna awaits one of the few ships that will carry her away from the Kingdom, Erlendur meets her on the pier. He's dressed in his Guardsman's mail, and Ragna cannot help but wonder how she looks next to him in her own freshly-polished suit: like an old crone playing at costumes, or like a fellow soldier? "Grandmother," says Erlendur. "You look well. Mother is terrified, you know. I told her I'd speak to you, but I don't know that she'll be happy with either of us when I come home." "Then let her be. She'll understand, or she won't. I've said what I had to say. All I wonder now is how you knew." Erlendur grimaces. "Of course you'd ask. Grandmother..." His voice is as soft as the breeze, as low and grim as the tomb. "I dream sometimes, too. I've seen the cities rebuilt. There will be statues of you everywhere. There will be songs." Ragna should have known, really. Had she not once felt just the same? Had she, in her youth, not carefully hidden her own dreams, that she should avoid frightening friends and lovers away? She'd never confessed to a prophecy-dream until she'd been married ten years to Hrafn, with two little ones, and even then she'd feared being cast out into the street. At Erlender's age, as a bright-hearted maiden playing at war, she'd barely admitted it even to herself. She clasps her grandson on the shoulder and leans in closely, like a co-conspirator. "Live well, my boy. Find someone you can confide in; it is the only way to live. When I come home, I expect we'll both have stories to share." "I will, Grandmother. Always. I'll save every story for you." He casts his eyes towards the sea. The ship is in sight. Ragna steps away, towards the edge of the pier, and grips the well-worn haft of her spear tightly. She may not come home, she knows. But the world needs her, and she will give it whatever strength she has left.
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Dec 19, 2022 08:32
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three signs by which you shall know him 1200 words It is said by some that the future history of Ralph Plotchkey was written upon his body like words in a book, legible for all to see. Others claim that, when he was born, the sun itself fell into darkness, dogs howled as one across the land, tremors shook the earth. It is even said that the doctor who delivered him gasped, and was struck dumb at the sight of the blessed baby’s face, his glistening meconium, the shroud of glory all about him. None of these are true, of course. Ralph was a child much like any other and the signs of his subsequent apotheosis visible only in hindsight. But there were three events that, together, can be taken to mark out the trajectory of his ascent. One fresh April morning a long time ago, Ralph tossed aside his duvet, and stretched his long legs in delicious langour. Beside him Melanie, his girlfriend, grumbled something and he patted the covers back around her, muttering ‘sorry’. It was a cool day outside, wisps of whipped cream cloud in the eggshell sky, and he sipped his coffee as he regarded it. Today, he thought, he would do something. He would make a difference. The world was a mess, and it was up to him to fix it because if not him, then who? With a clean, taut sense of purpose he went inside to have a shower and get started on changing everything. By the time he’d finished washing his hair he’d completely forgotten his resolution. Fifteen years later Ralph was stuck in traffic along the motorway just outside of town on that long stretch where the two roads join and people simply can’t remember how the give way rules work. He was tapping his fingers on the leather-covered steering wheel, when it struck him. He needed to be in charge. That was the problem with everything right now, everyone was stupid but him. The realisation was primal, physical, and shattering and it consumed him entirely until the honking of the car behind him pulled him up out of his communion with the demanding weltgeist. Shuddering with the aftershock, he tapped the accelerator and moved forward another five metres, then tried to grasp what it was that he should do. He knew that he had the answers and that if he just marshalled, his, if he could just … do the right thing at the right time he could … Ralph shook his head in frustration. It was gone. He remembered a sudden glimpse of a spiralling labyrinth of infinite complexity, actions taken and avoided, words spoken, decisions made, leading with inevitable grace to a future where he was in charge and everything was, was good. The car behind him honked, and Ralph considered the road they were on. It could be widened, he thought. The junction could be replaced with a roundabout, smoothing and slowing traffic but also resolving hydraulic blockages. Yes. He smiled, a long toothy grin like a sated wolf. In fact Ralph did not make any changes to the municipal roading network, then or until long in the future, but his awareness of the network of everything persisted. He noticed a new awareness, an additional sense of how and why and what and where that layered itself over the mundane reality in which he and his wife and their children moved, a set of chances and inevitabilities that conditioned and regulated everything they did. He’d find himself being able to predict what any given person, co-worker, relative, stranger in a shop was going to say, being able to influence it by the subtlest movements of his body and face. None of this had any immediate impact on his life, but over time he was noticing that people would listen to him more. When he indicated, through a focusing of his attention, that he might be likely to speak in the near future there was a thickening of atmosphere as conversational participants leaned into their anticipation of his future utterances. The third and final of the incidents that led to the happy situation in which we now find ourselves, was a number of years after that fortuituous traffic jam. Ralph was in New York, visiting some people he’d met online. They loved him, as did everyone he met, though not in a cloying or difficult way. It was simply easiest for everyone to enjoy and appreciate his company and to do what he thought right. At Ralph’s suggestion they were visiting the United Nations, doing one of the tours. The guide, who was Swedish, was delighted to show them round - indeed, most visitors were not favoured with the particular zest she was bestowing on their party. "This," she said was a profound air of existential satisfaction, "is the Council Chamber. Here the governments of the world come together to build a happy and harmonious future!" "What is that door over there?" asked Ralph, gesturing across the room at the armed guards on each side of closed double doors. Over the doors was a glowing red light. "The Security Council," said their guide. "There are troubles, and, well. They are talking, and by such means seeking to resolve them." She frowned for the first time since they'd joined the tour. Ralph looked up at the high ceiling, festooned with thousands of tiny twinkling lights like stars, and his mouth dropped a fraction. In an instant he was filled with the decades-long sum of the equation that he had been solving in his head. "I will just be a moment," he said, not loud, and touched the guide on her shoulder and whispered a few words into her ear, words that made her eyes suddenly fill with tears. Security camera footage later reviewed showed him walking at no great pace across the great Council Chamber to the smaller doors that lead to the Security Council rooms. The guards turned towards him, seeming for a moment to be about to raise their weapons then nodding and lowering them as he spoke. They opened the doors with a flourish and he passed through. Those are the three moments that led to our current, glorious, autocracy of Ralph the First, Ralph the Only. The words he spoke in that council chamber are secret, and may always be so, but they were charmed as anything else he ever spoke. The process of moving all national governments into his care was complex, and yet, of course, inevitable. All moved as it must because that was the way Ralph had seen it. There are those that foresee or discuss or predict a time when Ralph is no longer the self-ruler, the one who understands everything and everyone, but those voices are only ever quiet and they never speak for long or where sensible people choose to hear them. It is an amusing mental exercise to speculate on what might have been if Ralph had not chosen to rule us all, doubtless nothing very good, but sometimes it is still possible to wake and throw aside the covers and wonder about a future that is not fixed and certain and inevitable. Possible, but not, of course, very wise.
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Dec 19, 2022 11:57
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Archived.
Uranium Phoenix fucked around with this message at 02:06 on Jan 4, 2023 |
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Dec 19, 2022 13:03
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Gloria Tuesday and the Soul of the Devil 718 words Gloria Tuesday didn't quite know how she expected to feel at this moment. She had won three gold medals, in fencing, equestrian show jumping, and the modern pentathlon. The one bright spot for America's otherwise dismal performance in the 1928 Havana games. She had her pick of quite fit lovers in the Olympic village, along with a flock of more suitable suitors when she retreated to the Ambassador hotel and its casino. She didn't know how she would feel, but she certainly never expected to be bored. She applied a light coat of lipstick and snapped her compact mirror shut. Nothing else for it, she thought. Time to steal something. Something priceless. Nine hours later, she found herself suspended like a spider with steel cabling for webs, inches above the glass case containing the world's largest known black diamond. Her glass cutter was in her hands. She traced a circle in the tip of the glass as the lone guard in the room itself watched the door. Quiet enough, but the next step had to be noisy. A quick punch, and the disk of glass broke off with a loud snap, fell onto the velvet display, then slid down off it to the hard flood, shattering. Her left hand darted into the hole and grabbed the stone. The guard turned around, weapon drawn. She pulled up her head to grin at him under her feathered mask, and her right hand pulled at the control wire. The cable above her retracted, lifting her upward, into the vaulted ceiling. Shouts in Spanish, in the thick local accent. She learned the language in Barcelona. She could get the meaning well enough even without the pistol, drawn, raised, and fired. As she had hoped, they underestimated how fast the winch would lift her, but not by much. She saw, and felt the hot breeze as a bullet flew just under her face. That was the moment, the high better than any drug. People in the employ of one of the world's many monsters trying to kill her, and failing. A perfect moment. Right until the winch made a scraping sound and her ascent stopped. She felt another near-miss bullet almost graze her. She scrambled, twisting around to grab and climb the cable by hand. It was hot to the touch even through soft leather gloves. They'd scorch, be ruined. No matter. What mattered was those last few feet, getting through the large hole in the ceiling. She rolled away, pulling the cable release. More bullets pierced the glass of the ceiling around her. She ran, feeling cracks spread beneath her, toward the edge. Toward the glider. No time to properly strap in, she thrust her arms into the two wings and launched off the rooftop. The diamond was small, small enough to hide in a dozen places on her body. She didn't think the kind of search that would find them was likely, but she took no chances, put it inside a small sturdy capsule to swallow whole, to pass when she was back home. Customs, then, just off the steamliner, in the port of Miami. She didn't expect trouble, but she got it. Pulled from the line, with a crowd of photographers to witness and document it, and into a dark room. She could feel someone waiting there. "You have become quite the troublemaker." The voice was a woman's, and familiar. "A useful kind of trouble, at least." Another speaker, male, a stranger. "That diamond, La Alma Diable, belonged to Francisco Vega." One of the criminals who run Cuba in everything but name. One of the world's monsters. "And Vega belongs to the Steel Kaiser." "An enemy of your and my country," said the first voice. "America is neutral. Famously so," said Gloria. "But she has enemies nonetheless," said the man. "We at the Gold Office fight them, not with guns and land dreadnought and airfortresses, but with more subtle tools. Agents of influence. Inventors." "And perhaps a master thief." Gloria finally placed the voice. "Mother?" she said. "You're a spy?" Gloria had never suspected Gabriella Tuesday of being anything more or other than rich. "A spy master," she corrected. "So? Are you ready to stop being a disappointment and start doing some real work for once?"
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Dec 19, 2022 13:21
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Tiptoe 888 words It was never supposed to come to this, thought Tiptoe as he weighed his options. Papa should have come home, Mama was supposed to tuck in the children with a bedtime story, and baby Pip might have slept soundly. The world had been a huge, intimidating unknown, but his home had been a happy place. There had been an abundance of everything they’d ever wanted, and Tiptoe had felt safe and comfortable. But things were different now. Papa hadn't returned from his foray into the house, and Mama had taken ill. Pip was crying all the time, the others were starving, and now it was up to Tiptoe to find enough food for the family. For a teenage mouse, it was a lot of responsibility. Tiptoe had always been small for his age, but his slight physique afforded him extra agility. He slipped through the crevice at the base of the garden shed to venture outside, weaving expertly through the tall grasses en route to the house. He knew there would be food there, and he knew there were risks, but his family would starve if they didn't find a solution soon. The garage door was open, a yawning cavern of intimidating machines. Looming wooden shelves stocked with toolboxes lined the walls, a titan of a vehicle was parked in the center, and two bicycles and that monstrosity of a lawn mower stood dormant off to the side — such equipment was perilous for a mouse who strayed too close. Tiptoe shuddered at the sight of it, and scampered quickly underneath the car, resurfacing near a pile of cleaning supplies. Sensing a pulse of heavy footsteps through the ground, Tiptoe hid behind a shelf just as the door to the house opened. He watched quietly as a human with tousled hair and sleepy eyes emerged, and he waited until he was certain the coast was clear. Then, he darted into the house. Inside, the temperature was cool. Tiptoe could feel the air current through his whiskers as he snuck along the wall. His nose twitched as he sniffed for food — even a morsel, a tidbit, would help their situation. The hallway was long and barren, but it soon led into an immaculately clean kitchen, with shining stainless-steel appliances and a stovetop devoid of any traces of food. A whiff of his surroundings, and Tiptoe frowned; it smelled of cleaning products. But his eyes caught sight of a promising stash — a wondrous, abundant pantry with every snack he could imagine! A roaring sound jarred Tiptoe out of his reverie, and his body went stiff with fear. Around the corner came an abomination, a huffing, raucous vacuum creature with a toothless mouth and a voracious appetite. Its master followed behind, a distracted expression on her face and headphones over her ears. Terrified, the mouse dove beneath the oven and scarcely dared to look. He trembled as the vacuum neared, siphoning out the dust from under his paws, and the suction loosened his foothold as he scrambled to avoid it. But despite his best efforts, he slid toward the vacuum, and watched in trepidation as his life flashed before his eyes. Tiptoe wasn’t brave, and he wasn’t strong. He had always been the smallest of his litter, the runt who got pushed around, who had to struggle to survive, and yet he had never considered himself tough. He had remained with his family, even when his littermates left, because he had no desire to strike out on his own quite yet. He simply didn’t feel ready for it. But now, he had been faced with a big decision, to take a risk for his family. And Tiptoe wasn’t heroic, but he was caring. Memories of the warm, cozy nest in the shed and his sheltered life with his parents flooded his vision as his claws scrabbled against the tiled floor. He could almost hear the excited squeaks of his younger siblings over the drone of the vacuum creature, imagining how overjoyed his mother would be when he returned home with tales of food aplenty, enough to last for days. The flurry of dust bunnies whizzing by snapped Tiptoe back to his senses, and he was fueled with a renewed will to survive, if anything, because his family needed him. He took a deep breath, steeling himself against the pull of the vacuum, and scooted out from beneath the oven, skittering across the vast expanse of the kitchen floor as fast as his little legs could carry him. He heard the vacuum master shriek, and he knew he had been spotted. But he wouldn’t stop running, and he wouldn’t look back. All that mattered to him now was getting home safely. Just as Tiptoe launched himself through the doorway, the drowsy human turned around and began to shout, grabbing a broom to swat at the rodent. Still envisioning his goal, the mouse dodged the sweep and darted straight out of the garage and into the foliage where he couldn’t be seen. The vacuum creature grew silent, and he heard voices as the humans began to talk. Scuttling back to the shed, he recounted his harrowing tale of danger and exploration to his mother and siblings. Pip squealed with delight, and their mother nuzzled Tiptoe with satisfaction. One day, he would be a hero.
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Dec 19, 2022 14:07
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SUBMISSIONS CLOSED. JUDGEMENT BEGINS.
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Dec 19, 2022 14:25
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A Thief's Beginning 687 Words In a bar somewhere, the bartender gives a shady looking fellow a drink. Curious, he asked, “So, what’s your story?” Me and my mates were never really rich, and it was impossible for poor saps like us to get honest work, so we went into the thieving business. At first we got into small stuff, but eventually we got really good at said small stuff. Sure, it wasn’t honest work, but it kept us alive, literally and figuratively. There was one particular moment that, I didn’t know at the time, would change my life forever. One night, I was just a few miles away from Azoria, doing some highway robbery on any carriages along the way. One particular carriage looked rather fancy, so I quickly sneaked over to it, while it was moving. I honestly thought it would be an easy job, kill everyone there, take their belongings, and Bob's your uncle. I didn’t realize at the time that there was a reason why the carriage was so fancy. After all, why would the bloody crown prince have a crap looking carriage? Sure, I was skilled enough to get past the guards that were clearly seen, but I didn’t know that he had ones that couldn’t be seen. A rookie mistake. I was pressed down on the ground by a rugged looking man, who I obviously didn’t see coming. He grabbed my arm, and after a little while, I saw him motion to his sire. “He’s just a kid!” Sure, I was young. But I was at least old enough to be insulted by being called, ‘a kid’. I remember the prince coming up, though I didn’t know he was the prince at the time. I was surprised that he looked about as old as me. He calmly walked to me and asked me, “Who might you be?” “Sean…Dalton!” I said, feeling the pain that his bodyguard was putting me through. I remembered his smile, and how he gave me five gold coins. Sure, for a rich fella like him, it was mere pocket change, but for me, it was a small fortune. “I don’t know if you truly intend to kill me, but if our meeting was merely coincidental, perhaps you could use this to become an honest man.” After he gave me the coins, he told his man, “Jake, release him!” “But sire!” The man called Jake said. “As you have plainly told me, he is just, ‘a kid’. I don’t want to spill any unnecessary blood.” Soon after, Jake released me, and they went on their way. I was sore while walking back to my mates, wondering just what happened. I knew full well that a guy like me could never become an honest man. But for some reason, I wanted to see the prince again. Perhaps I was impressed he had the gall to talk plainly to a fella like me. The next day, and the following few days, I would try to sneak into Azoria castle, wanting to see the prince again. The first few times I was stopped by Jake, but eventually I was able to see him. I got to hand it to Jake, him chasing me helped hone my reflexes. When I eventually got to meet with the prince again, I would tell him about the “poor person’s life”. He would pay me for my services. When I asked why, he simply told me that he wanted to know about all of Azoria, and not just what the people around him wanted me to know. Eventually, I would use my experiences to help my mates to become better thieves, and we eventually formed the first ever thieves guild in Azoria. We would go and take jobs that, while not for honest men, were absolutely necessary, such as thievery and even murder. I remember telling about it to the prince (now king) just recently, and even told him that I, or another one of my guys, might one day take a job to kill him. He simply laughed, and said, “Then may there be a good reason to kill me!”
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Dec 19, 2022 14:25
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Week 541 Judgement This was a muddled middling week. On the plus side, nothing stood out as particularly bad. On the other hand, it definitely felt like folks were saving up their energy for the holidays. So with that, an apology to Antivehicular. I feel like I've made you the winner several times, you must just know what I like. That's unfortunate for you because now you have to Judge over Christmas. I am very sorry. An HM goes to Sebmojo for doing something a little different. a DM goes to Idle Amalgam for writing a story that, while absolutely acceptable on the prose level, left the head judge with a bad taste in her mouth. And for the Loss, Thranguy. Neither judge felt compelled by the action sequence and I, at least, was a little baffled by the alt-history vibe. M was DQ'ed and will get a crit when I post them. Take it away AntiV. Pormpt.
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Dec 19, 2022 23:27
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crits Idle Amalgam im not sure about this one. the adjacently unreliable narrator part of this kind of gives creepy vibes that im not 100% sure if im supposed to say, yeah hughes is a nice guy leave him alone or okay yeah hughes is creepy and these people should not work with him. his leaving some of his coworkers to die is kind of hosed up and he does the dumb video game thing of knocking on a wall to bring a guard over so he can kill him is also, well, dumb. but overall this is just kind of vaguely unpleasant without really anything going for its unpleasantness. im not sure why we need hughes to be creepy, or the crewmates to all be left behind, or for the somewhat graphic murders. they dont really add up to anything, so its just kind of an icky story that doesnt really make me care for hughes much. Yoruichi this has a good voice and tone but it just feels really one-note. oh its a lich on a bus and she’s annoyed. i kind of wish there was a more centralized conceit here since you have zombies and liches but also orks but then its a regular bus with a prius. i think its supposed to be kind of wacky and silly with that but i wonder if you went more necromancy-themed with like zombie cars or something that it would make the world feel a bit more complete rather than “liches and zombies in the real world.” overall, the story is okay but i think its a bit plodding and want it to pick up the pace at parts. it just feels overly long and the conceit is a little too threadbare where we start to see the seems. i wish there was a bit more creativity here because rn its just “modern world but with some fantasy stuff” but there isnt like any unique intersections between anything. the lich is a paralegal because paralegals are in real life but liches arent wow so wacky! idk i just think this needs to engage with ideas more than just omg what if a lich……. rode public transportation!!!!!!! AntiV i like badass grandma going aight its time for me to go and follow the prophecy. it makes sense that ragna goes okay yeah this isnt for me, its probably my young grandson not some old lady when she gets the prophecy and its a nice thing to have an older lady be the hero of prophecy instead of the young ones. i think there’s a few logistical problems that need a lil bit of solving, like why after how many dreams and years she’s never happened to glance at her hands? also the kid seems to know that the dreams are pointing to her, but this has been happening for a while, so why now? i think maybe a bit more of an inciting incident, a particularly striking dream or something, might be a stronger call to action since battle grandma just kinda decides to go. rn the story is a bit too blaise and the decision to go out on the quest feels perfunctory. i wish there was something more that compels the protagonist onwards, some kind of powerful vision or outside force that makes the call to action a lot more compelling. sebmojo this is cute and i liked the vibe of someone being “oh yeah, i def know everything and if i was in charge i would just make all the right decisions and be smart and everyone would love me and listen to me” because im sure we’ve all felt that way at some point. but im not sure if the story is supposed to be mocking that idea or going, yeah, this guy in specific is actually that kind of guy. the beginning i was laughing because, oh man, yeah i think the same thing but i know that wouldnt be how things actually work even if i thought they would. but then the guy is just kind of that guy and sweet talks through the security council of the UN and apparently rules over everyone? idk im not 100% sure with this, it plays itself a little bit too straight and i cant tell what im supposed to take away from this. however, this is the most interesting stories of the bunch because it does some different stuff in how it portrays its characters and goes in some unexpected directions, which is a welcome change and makes this stand out, even more than antiV’s. UP there’s something interesting here in that you set up your character as being a tyrant slayer and then we get the backstory and were like okay, yep, were gonna figure out why he hates big government, but instead, we get a fairly decent love story with a breakup. i dont think the bridge here works, though, between the character falling in and out of love and the future of this character. i mean, obv we dont feel the future, but its kind of like we dont really know why this love story would exactly lead into the tyrant slayer hero. for the bulk of the story, i think its just a bit too threadbare. i dont really feel the love here and the relationship, although i think you get the protag’s loneliness and awkwardness off well in the beginning. its just the relationship gets a little too vague and summarized too much where i dont quite get to feel the niceness of the relationship so its ending doesnt impact me as much. i do like how the first date was sort of awkward and how it didnt try to be storybook perfect love (altho some of the description might have been a bit overwrought but i dont think thats a large deal). it just didnt quite all come together in this piece. Thranguy bleh. at least it was short. this is just a short action scene and then… some other poo poo about characters ive never met or care about. the intro is actually pretty strong, with an olympian being bored and doing a heist instead but then it just gets bogged down into action and tries to set up things that i dont have a reason to care about. WindwardAway cute but hits the notes we expect. honestly, thats about all i can say about the story. its a cute little mouse doing cute little mouse things and we go oh that was cute. i sort of wished this went into the cute little mouse getting a human friend but that might just be internal bias. there’s not much to say here, the prose is fine, you set up character decently, but its never going to be much more than what it is. theres no surprises and its a nice little cute mouse story, which is probably what you wanted, but it cant be more than that. M man this isnt bad! there’s a lot of mechanical issues still and some very odd decisions (why have a framing device that never comes back? why add so much conjecture before your story, havent we told you to stop doing that?) but the broad strokes here are nice. you have a protagonist with a decent voice. altho i think the murdering angle is a bit too much, i think keeping your tone lighter for this story would be better. make it a thieves guild not a thieves and murdering guild, if you will. we’ve had talks about your edginess before and i think this is where it gets highlighted as an issue. you have fun characters with some quippy lines, but then he goes, “im going to murder these innocent people,” we go oh, this isnt fun anymore. a thief that steals but doesnt kill is a fun character that we see a lot and is good for a lighthearted, fun story, which i think this is ultimately trying to be. anyways, the prince is an interesting character and the two have an interesting dynamic. if anything, i actually wanted MORE out of this story, which is a genuinely good thing. i wanted more interactions and hijinks and moments between the protag and the prince since they seemed like they would have some fun back and forths and id def read more between these two. banger of a last line though.
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Dec 19, 2022 23:43
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Ah, dang. Preemptive in.
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Dec 20, 2022 01:08
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THUNDERDOME DXLII: The Festive Panopticon and Gift Pile It's the season of giving, God help us all! In the spirit of things, you have two options for the prompt this week: Prompt #1 (The Festive Panopticon): write a story about a world where a benevolent presence watches over everything. "Benevolent" does not necessarily mean "intervenes directly to help the protagonist" or even "on the same side as the protagonist," but it must be authentically good -- no secret dystopias or Murder Jesuses or whatever. It probably should not actually be Santa Claus, unless you've got a really killer idea. Prompt #2: (The Big Gift Pile): Anyone who wants to can and should post a gift to this thread, in the form of a prompt. This can be anything -- a song lyric, video, cat picture, actual story prompt, whatevs -- as long as it hasn't been used in TD before. You do not have to sign up to post a prompt! Just dump 'em in here. Anyone who cares to can take a gift from the pile, and that's their prompt for the week. Alternately, they can take two gifts -- greedy! -- with a toxx. Clarification of the prompt rules: All you have to do to sign up is declare intention. You don't need to choose a prompt immediately! Just make sure you have your prompt before you actually write your story, and post it with your story, obvs. It's fine to hold off and see what hits the gift pile later in the week. To start, I will seed the Gift Pile with the Christmas carol line that has been in my head for weeks: glorious now, behold Him arise / King and God and Sacrifice No erotica, fanfiction, Google Docs, screeds, dick pics, etc. Have fun! Give gifts! Receive gifts! Try to post entries!! Word Count: 1500 Signups Closed: 11:59 PM Eastern, Friday, December 23rd Submissions Closed: 11:59 PM Eastern, Sunday, December 25th (this will probably be lax, but don't go crazy) Your Christmas Party Hosts: Antivehicular ? ?? People Showing Up To The White Elephant Exchange With An Elaborately-Wrapped Pair of Tube Socks: Idle Amalgam Antivehicular fucked around with this message at 07:51 on Dec 20, 2022 |
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Dec 20, 2022 03:11
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here's a gift for the big gift pile:"J.A. Baker, The Peregrine" posted:Blood-red! What a useless adjective that is. Nothing is as beautifully, richly red as flowing blood on snow. It is strange that the eye can love what mind and body hate.
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Dec 20, 2022 03:28
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You want a gift? How about some Hard Times? https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9py4aMK3aIU EDIT: How about some math, as well? https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=msDuNZyYAIQ In case it isn't obvious, both videos are 1 gift each. The man called M fucked around with this message at 04:18 on Dec 20, 2022 |
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Dec 20, 2022 04:13
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gift pile:Wham! posted:A face on a lover with a fire in his heart
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Dec 20, 2022 04:17
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Themes and character archetypes, selected from the drop-down menus of Smart Bitches, Trashy Books' Book Finder:quote:Older couple, Criminal/Mafia quote:Small town, Single parent quote:Fish out of Water, Motorcycle club quote:Bodyguard, Alien These themes and archetypes come from a romance blog search engine, but you don't have to write romance with them. The themes and archetypes also don't have to be the focus of your story, but both must feature somehow.
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Dec 20, 2022 05:31
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Clarification of the prompt rules: All you have to do to sign up is declare intention. You don't need to choose a prompt immediately! Just make sure you have your prompt before you actually write your story, and post it with your story, obvs. It's fine to hold off and see what hits the gift pile later in the week.
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Dec 20, 2022 07:51
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In
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Dec 20, 2022 09:37
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as is traditional, we will turn off such kayfabe as remains for the rest of the year - this is the opportunity to chitchat and carepost and just like talk regular. numbers have been getting skimpy lately, thoughts on how to deal with that would be great! perhaps one day someone will write the last thunderdome story but i don't think any of us want that to be soon.
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Dec 20, 2022 11:51
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in with a 
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Dec 20, 2022 12:22
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More gifts. Songs that remind me of winter(or at least the winter of my youth): Mew - Snow Brigade Mogwai - Danphe and the Brain Jesu - Christmas Toro Y Moi - Blessa Washed Out - Paracosm MF DOOM - Valerian Root
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Dec 20, 2022 15:55
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some more gifts: quote:santa but instead of reindeer he has cats quote:there's an extra gift on christmas morning and no one knows who it is from quote:"kids we're getting a REAL tree this year" + a beehive that no one noticed
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Dec 20, 2022 20:08
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Thunderdome virgin in
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Dec 21, 2022 05:55
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Wintry musical gifts for the prompt pile! Tchaikovsky - Coffee (Arabian Dance) Tchaikovsky - Waltz of the Flowers Sharon Lyons - Don Oíche Úd I mBeithil Loreena McKennitt - Snow Adolf Fredriks Musikklasser - Himlen hänger stjärnsvart Esbjörn Hazelius - Vittskövlevisan
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Dec 21, 2022 17:56
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Admiralty Flag posted:Thunderdome virgin in Sorry if these are dumb-rear end questions but, well, see quoted material above:
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Dec 22, 2022 17:56
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Admiralty Flag posted:Sorry if these are dumb-rear end questions but, well, see quoted material above: I'm probably not the best person to answer these, but I like to preview my formatted story on here then copy and paste at wordcounter.net
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Dec 22, 2022 18:10
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Some fanciful holiday notions   
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Dec 22, 2022 18:53
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Admiralty Flag posted:Sorry if these are dumb-rear end questions but, well, see quoted material above: any word counter program is fine, nobody is going to dq you if youre like 10 words over the limit
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Dec 22, 2022 18:54
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i'm in with this one
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Dec 22, 2022 19:47
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In with:quote:there's an extra gift on christmas morning and no one knows who it is from
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Dec 23, 2022 02:04
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sebmojo posted:as is traditional, we will turn off such kayfabe as remains for the rest of the year - this is the opportunity to chitchat and carepost and just like talk regular. One of the reasons I sometimes don't bother to enter, even if I like a prompt, is that I figure there's a pretty good chance I only get a single crit. Maybe. And sometimes its weeks after I enter that I finally get one, or get a second one. A major attractor to me with Thunderdome was timely, honest crits, and several of them to cross-reference. I've always made sure to put the effort in when I'm judge to give good crits, and it's deeply frustrating to me when people sign up to judge and don't bother. Perhaps my perception of this overweighs how often it happens. Nevertheless, "do I get my crits" doesn't feel like it should be a roll of the dice, and that is what it feels like. I understand life gets in the way (that's the other reason I often don't enter, and I know that's often why crits are late or don't materialize or a week might be especially sparse), but as with any community, TD is going to take effort to maintain. And more than just a few core people putting in effort. Ultimately, that means people stepping up if they want TD to continue to exist.
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Dec 23, 2022 22:26
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In to judge (and crit) this week. to have crits posted by January 1st.
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Dec 23, 2022 23:42
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Uranium Phoenix posted:One of the reasons I sometimes don't bother to enter, even if I like a prompt, is that I figure there's a pretty good chance I only get a single crit. Maybe. And sometimes its weeks after I enter that I finally get one, or get a second one. A major attractor to me with Thunderdome was timely, honest crits, and several of them to cross-reference. I've always made sure to put the effort in when I'm judge to give good crits, and it's deeply frustrating to me when people sign up to judge and don't bother. Perhaps my perception of this overweighs how often it happens. Nevertheless, "do I get my crits" doesn't feel like it should be a roll of the dice, and that is what it feels like. Yeah, I remember that bothered me when I first joined. There was a long streak of several years after that which was a lot better in that regard, though.
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Dec 24, 2022 00:20
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Thunderdome gave me outstanding critiques, but they were podcast episodes. I get more out of an audio format than written format. Main factor though is I've been busy! Most of the time, the story I can pump out in a week isn’t for this audience. I remember my unsubtle pride-week story seemed to make the judges uncomfortable, but not in a bad way. Can we critique if we don’t judge or participate?
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Dec 24, 2022 00:38
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Sure, I don't see why not? More crits are always good. Someone might want to brawl you, but that's more a feature than a bug.
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Dec 24, 2022 00:44
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i dont enter so often mainly because i don't feel like writing a short story all the time. and when I do feel like it and I pop in and the prompt wants me to write something i don't feel like writing, then I'll skip too. I am a slave to 'inspiration' what can I say. I think most people don't write every week, though, which means we need NEW BLOOD. Have there ever been events or special weeks designed to draw in new writers?
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Dec 24, 2022 01:20
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