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Dr. Zonfrelli's University for Unusual Youths 1585 words Flash: drugs Roy Dubinach had never considered himself anti-drug, in his younger years. Live and let live, that had always been his policy. As long as it doesn’t hurt anyone else, who cares what you put in your body? But today he resolved that if he found who was moving magic mushrooms through Dr. Zonfrelli’s University for Unusual Youngsters he was going to take their thumbs. He squared his shoulders and pushed through another blast of -Freezing time and dissolving perception the quad and the horizon become triangles and whorling nameless shapes as they rise into a cerulean infinity students speak in tongues I don’t understand do they know I think they know why are they looking at me why are they looking at me why are they looking at me- He fought off the nausea as he came back to himself. He couldn’t imagine what kind of campus dealer would give psychedelics to a kid who went by the alias Mind-warper, but whatever Darwin award they were in the running for would have to wait. Getting Spark hooked on Adderall had been pretty bad, but at least that could be solved by non-conductive material and patience, telepaths were an entirely different ball game. Everyone who worked on the staff at the University learned pretty quick that the old tinfoil hat thing was a myth. Sometimes there was nothing you could do but weather the slings and arrows of -I’m alone in my house I’m always alone in my house but this time there’s no one else there either Mom left after I told her what Dad really thought about her and none of my friends will return my calls after I started talking to them without words and I’m watching Fresh Prince of Bel-air and crying and crying and I have no idea how bad life is going to get- someone else’s memories and impulses. It’s such a raw experience, being subjected to another consciousness in the same way a flan might be subjected to a firehose. Roy rushed past the floral clock of the east wing, passing a young woman in the fetal position crying tears of blue fire. He pulled out his radio: “Brigid is in a bad way out east, put the fire suppression team on alert.” He kept running, not waiting for a reply. He wished he was lucky enough to be on fire suppression today. They got to laze around most of the time, occasionally put out a chemical fire in the science building or douse a pyrokine like Brigid in foam and go home to medals all ‘round. But he bore the terrible curse of competence and so had been promoted last semester to Assistant Director of Campus Safety. It was all on him today, but that’s why they paid him the big bucks. Well, not actually big bucks, come to think of it. As he rounded the corner, a stitch developing in his side, they seemed to get less big with every labored breath. He quickly looked around the quad: it was all looking normal, full of stone benches and a fountain so ugly it had won a major architectural award. He still didn’t see the kid but he could feel -The spring sun is warm and the bushes are growing and I can see the buds filling out and the branches lengthening as they reach toward the sky and I reach out and I reach out and I reach out and I don’t find it and the earth is thrumming under me and I try to hear it but all I can hear is everyone else and they’re mad at me and what did I do and what did I do and what did I do- the young man’s powerful mind reeling out of control, casting spikes of perception around at random. There were bushes in that last flash, and an open sky. There was only one place he could be. Roy turned left and was almost flattened by the barely visible blur of Jack Flash running at full tilt in the other direction, trying to use his speed to get away from the mental fog enveloping campus. Roy winced as the poor guy, tripping by proxy, veered off and hit a wall. He called in the medical team on his radio. A few more minutes of running brought Roy to the campus hedge maze, famously featured in all the school’s brochures. A network of tall, imposing plant life guided visitors through small gardens, sitting areas, more tasteful fountains, and picnic spots. He wandered in, hoping that he could find his way to Ming Wu by the trail of -Ants there are ants on the branches in front of me and they’re carrying little crumbs of someone else’s lunch back to their home I want to go home where is home do I have a home the little ants know the way to go their minds working furiously to follow a path set by pheromones and instinct their voices so small and all together a Lilliputian chorus how have I never noticed ants before- second-hand altered consciousness. He crept up the path to the main picnic area, a small open field covered by a large, sprawling apple tree. Sitting at its base, chin resting on his knees, is the slight form of Ming Wu, aka Mind-warper, perhaps the most powerful telepath to ever grace the halls of the University. Roy approached delicately, like the young man was a tiger he wanted to avoid spooking, which was fairly close to the truth. He had a responsibility to keep the campus and its residents safe, but sometimes with great responsibility comes very little power. He had no meta-human abilities, just a radio, his wits, and a few Xanax he’d grabbed on the way out of his office. He wasn’t sure what he could do against -Someone coming around the corner and they’re scared and that makes me scared why is everyone afraid of me I didn’t even do anything I just wanted to have fun with my friends why can’t I just have fun with my friends why does everything have to be so hard why can’t I just feel safe for once in my loving life what did I do to deserve this what did I do what did I do what did I do- a prime-grade psychic. He’d never really thought about it before. Super-geniuses and speedsters and strongmen, there were obvious solutions to those problems, but how do you deal with a person whose power is thought? And then it hit him. You fight thought with thought. He slowly walked over to Ming and sat down across from him. He let the late spring sun warm the back of his neck and felt the cool of the grass under his hands as he lowered himself down, ignoring the twinge in his back. “Hey Ming,” he said, “Seems like you’re having a rough day. You want to talk about it?” -No I don’t want to talk about it I don’t know if I can talk my tongue feels too big and I’m nauseous Mr. Dubinach I’m sorry I know I messed things up but Luke and Mike said it would be fine God I can’t do anything right I miss my- Roy reached out and took the telepath’s hand. He summoned up all his concentration and tried to push a slow, steady thought towards Ming. [I’m in the rear-facing back seat of my parents’ station wagon. We’re coming home from grandma’s house on the Cape. I sunburned my shoulders but it hasn’t started itching yet and the ache is still pleasant. There’s sand between my toes and under my fingernails. I’m drifting off to sleep; I know my dad will carry me to bed when we get home. It starts to rain, slow and heavy in the way that only late summer rains are. I know I’m as safe as I can ever be.] Ming flinched, -Mom and Dad are fighting again and it’s about me they always fight about me Dad won’t even look at me anymore how am I supposed to feel about- Roy shook his head, [A young man raises a medal over his head, first place in the intramural track and field competition (non-powered division). His face is beaming, he doesn’t need telepathy to communicate his pride in himself, or to feel it from his friends. I watch and smile as they lift his slight frame up on their shoulders. They don’t care about his powers or his traumas. They’re his friends and they’re happy for him and the victory he earned.] -A break up with Susie how do you keep a relationship going when- [Two friends sharing a quiet joke in the library] -Fear in waves from adults as they look at me- [Affection from teachers as you succeed] -Terror, uncertainty- [Safety, reassurance. You’re ok, kid. You’re gonna be ok.] Ming’s shoulders slumped and leaned back against the tree. Roy handed him a pair of blue, bar-shaped pills and a bottle of water. Ming knocked them back. A few minutes later the frantic pace of his mental broadcasts slowed. After a while Ming fell asleep, exhausted in mind and body. Roy lifted him up and carried him back to the dorms, then went to file the paperwork. Responsibility might not come with power, but Roy’d never felt like he needed it. That’s why they paid him the big bucks. Well, big enough.
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Apr 10, 2023 04:13
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Rather be Fhtagn’in 1600 words ‘I can’t believe we have to wear this poo poo,’ Hannah grumbled, fussing with the tentacles dangling from her jaw. ‘It’s so degrading.’ Julia’s eyes widened and she whirled to face Hannah, her voice an urgent hiss: ‘Don’t say that! Don’t even think it!’ ‘James told me you were paranoid,’ Hannah scoffed. ‘Relax. It’s not like he can fire me for thinking this is some seriously amateurish bullshit.’ Julia retreated from Hannah, as if insubordination had splash damage. It always took the new kids a shift or two to take it seriously. Until then, it was all one big joke: a cafe with some weird undersea aesthetic, chirpy comic-sans posters against littering in waterways, a uniform that included furry green tentacles worn like some aquatic moustache. In the frenzy of the upcoming Easter long weekend, the counter of Mr. C’s Briny Brews remained a pocket of tranquility where the high-school staff felt comfortable venting without customers overhearing, as the long weekend customers gave them a wide berth. But it wasn’t the customers Julia worried about. On cue, as she straightened the too-full displays of hot cross buns, Mr. C’s squelching approach sounded behind them and even Hannah stood a bit taller, turning with an obsequious smile on her face. Julia didn’t even risk rolling her eyes. ‘Buona pasqua, ladies!’ Mr. C extolled, slapping his hands together. Drops splattered onto the baskets of tarts on the counter, and Julia hastened to re-arrange them. ‘How goes the trade?’ Julia turned to face her boss. His skin glistened under the harsh overhead lights, its usual verdant vibrancy washed out to an almost inoffensive chartreuse. The tentacles writhing above his own lips were real, and as he stood watching them Julia found herself mesmerised by the pulsation of the gills on each cheek, unwilling to meet the tiny black beads of his roving eyes. The incongruency of his skewed jet-black hairpiece and ‘Kiss the Cthef’ apron did little to soften the effect. ‘Sold a dozen coffees this morning!’ Hannah chirped. ‘Thanks for the extra shift, sir!’ ‘Well done, well done,’ Mr. C chuckled, as Julia covered buns against another onslaught of spittle. ‘ Julia gritted her teeth, turning from Mr. C’s gaze as he swept back from Hannah to his junior manager, eyes impossibly narrowing. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Julia?’ he said. ‘I was so worried when James couldn’t come in, but so glad he found such a capable substitute.’ ‘Yes,’ Julia said, devoting herself to re-arranging an already thoroughly-arranged display of morning buns, thoughts only on how best to hide a sheen she did not want to think about. ‘We’re very lucky.’ ‘But James isn’t,’ Mr. C continued, to Julia’s back. ‘I can’t remember, though. Why couldn’t James come in today?’ He had a funeral, Julia thought, eyes narrowing in focus. His grandfa— no, uncle— one of his uncles— Uncle Ron. Uncle Ron died and he had to get to the funeral today. Funeral. Ron. Funeral. Ron. ‘Of course!’ Mr. C said, slapping a webbed hand against his forehead. ‘His uncle passed! How unfortunate. How terrible of me to forget. I must send a card. Or—actually—now that I think about it—’ Julia turned to see Mr. C’s gaze falling on Hannah, still standing at dutiful attention, fake smile wavering. Oh god, Hannah, don’t think about what’s really going on, don’t give him away, not now, we’re so close, don’t mention the fishing tri— oh poo poo— oh gently caress oh gently caress oh— ‘I could have sworn his uncle Ron passed last year,’ Mr. C continued, inexorably. ‘Hm! You remember, don’t you, Julia?’ She squeezed her eyes tight, emptied her mind, lingering only on the extra few dollars an hour he’d offered for the public holiday shift. Didn’t think about what her friends were probably picking up at the places that actually followed labour laws. Especially didn’t think about what Mr. C had surely done to skirt investigation so far. Those thoughts led nowhere good; led to nothing good. No, she thought, mind clear and still, as the mindfulness podcast reminded her: think only of the open ocean, of waves cresting and falling, the tranquility of coral swaying in— ‘I suppose,’ Mr. C continued, ‘it would be on his Facebook, wouldn’t it? He has a Facebook, doesn’t he? I suppose you all have Facebook, don’t you?’ ‘We left our phones at home,’ Julia said, carefully, eyes narrowing on Hannah. ‘We didn’t want them to be a distraction.’ ‘Oh, no problem, no problem at all! I have my own!’ He pulled a heavily cracked iPhone from behind his apron and tapped at the screen. ‘But, silly me, I seem to have forgotten my login information! Oh! Oh dear! Whatever could my username and password be?’ Julia’s eyes widened in alarm. There hadn’t been time for the full induction; they’d only covered hygiene and till balancing, hadn’t yet touched on the much more important ways to block suggestion. ‘That’s it!’ Mr. C cried, tapping away again. ‘Haytch dot O dot Sullivan at gee-emm-aye…’ Hannah’s grin faltered and her eyes strayed to Julia, who met them with a grimace. Just don’t think about your password, she willed the younger girl. Whatever you do, don’t— ‘Oh,’ Mr. C chuckled, tentacles burbling in mirth as he looked up from the phone. ‘I didn’t realise your birthday was next week, Hannah! We must have a cake.’ poo poo. Julia braced herself against the counter, knowing full well what Mr. C would find on James’ wall. # ‘Check it,’ James said, showing his phone to Dazza. ‘Jools liked my status.’ Dazza leaned forward and squinted at the screen, struggling to read it against the bobbing of their boat. ‘Doesn’t seem thrilled,’ he shrugged. ‘“you fuckin’ owe me one next time cockface rosters me on with a newbie”. Cockface? Is that what the C stands for?’ James rolled his eyes. ‘No, it’s because—’ he waved his fingers in front of his face. ‘Think his real name’s Greek or some poo poo.’ ‘That’s a bit racist,’ Dazza drawled, gunning the outboard. They’d been up since four, loading the boat with all the supplies for a day’s fishing on the lake—less bait and tackle, more boombox and rollies and slabs of Jim Beam mixers. Now, with the sun cresting the horizon, Dazza slipped sunnies on against the glare and guided them up toward their favourite spot. ‘You reckon it’s worth it?’ Dazza asked, cracking open a bottle. ‘Staying there just to get in her pants?’ James scoffed, turned to meet Dazza’s gaze behind the aviators. ‘Seriously? Julia? You’re making GBS threads me, right?’ Dazza shrugged, took a swig. ‘Don’t need to be a fuckin’ mindreader to see what’s going on, dude.’ ‘Yeah, nah,’ James said. ‘Maybe if she weren’t so—’ he trailed off. ‘Dude, not judging, you wanna stick your dick in crazy, she’s all yours.’ James stiffened, looked away. Dazza cut the motor, using the remaining inertia to steer them as close as they dared to the flags signifying the tidal island; a perfect spot to set a line and wait for schools traversing the boundaries. ‘She’s not crazy,’ James said, at length. ‘Right,’ Dazza said. ‘Sounds like she’s got you good. “Oh no, my boss is a monster, he’s going to eat us all”.’ James glared. ‘Dude, drop it. Mr. C is a monster.’ ‘So fuckin’ racist.’ Dazza set the lures and handed James his pole, swinging his own into the lake before locking it into position. James grunted and did the same, cracking open his own bottle. ‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘Enough about fuckin’ work. Didn’t chuck a sickie to keep Mr. C in my head.’ No, a voice reverberated inside his skull. Can’t get away that easily, ho ho! ‘The gently caress?’ James started. So sorry to hear about your loss, the voice continued. This is a day to spend with family, after all. ‘You alright?’ Dazza asked, taking aviators off to get a closer look at James, clutching his temples. ‘Oh dude, forgot to mention, the red tupperware’s the edibles—maybe save them for later, yeah?’ Even if it is my family. Even if you are planning to … catch and eat them. Here. Let me give you a hand. James’ lure caught, the line pulling taut with tension. ‘Oh, dude,’ Dazza breathed, rushing over to the pole, ‘you got something! You got—wow, this is really fuckin’ heavy, uh, might need your help here, dude—’ James watched through slitted eyes, his hands still pushing away the pressure of Mr. C’s presence, as Dazza leaned back into the boat, straining to pull up an enormous catch—watching as feet broke the surface, and then two skinny legs, and a body with apron stuck tight to pale green flesh, the paint leaving oily slicks on the surface. ‘Oh, Jesus,’ Dazza moaned, as they pulled the limp and wrinkled corpse of Laura aboard. ‘Oh, gently caress. Oh—’ And here, it continued, are my brethren. Dazza, still trying to shake Laura awake, swore as a trout leaped from the water and hit him across the face. James turned as another trout leaped into their boat, knocking the open bottles over. Three more followed, hitting the boys as they scrambled to the outboard motor. Before they could rip it into action, the waves crested impossibly around them and rocked their boat, imbalanced by the fish thrashing around their bottles, pulling the motor out of the water entirely as they tipped all the way over. Oh, the voice continued, you’re fired, by the way. The last thing James saw, before they all went under, was a shining black toupee bobbing past.
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Apr 10, 2023 05:09
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The Other Self 1,190 Words It started with a buzz. A low hum prickled the nape of Nick’s neck. It was easy enough to discount it as nothing more than the background vibrations of the bus. He wanted nothing more than to do just that. But the persistence of the buzz, and its growing loudness… He knew he was having another episode. He gritted his teeth as the noise in his head grew from a tinny static into a chattering chorus of unintelligible gibberish. With shut eyes and clenched teeth, he clapped his hands to his ears, as if the added pressure on his skull might stop what was happening to him. What continued to happen to him. It didn’t though, and the unfrayed strands of his wits that remained raced to the only thing they knew that could help. Pills. He hated the pills. The four to five hours of alleged normalcy they bought weren’t worth the accompanying torpor, but now, here on the bus headed away from home for the first time just to prove to his parents that he could, he needed them. He sank a trembling hand into his satchel and retrieved a pill case that was, of course, empty. He shuddered and frantically began searching the various pockets of the bag, scraping their interiors with probing fingers, but found nothing. “gently caress!” he shouted inadvertently. The few other passengers on the bus cast wary glances in his direction. He shrank in his seat trembling. When the gibberish, as if parsed through some unknown filter and decoded, began to make sense, his panic became complete. An older woman, in her mid-to-late sixties, came and sat beside Nick. Lost in his panic, he hadn’t noticed her approach. It was as if she just appeared. She looked up at him and smiled, taking his hand in hers, but remained silent. ‘You need to stay calm, Nick,’ a voice said. Nick looked down at the woman to see if it had come from her. ‘That is not a woman, Nick, and you need to do exactly as I tell you if you want to survive,’ the voice continued. “You-you said?” Nick stammered at the old woman trying to confirm any of what was transpiring. The woman just stared at him. Smiled at him with that same unflinching smile, and it was then while Nick was studying her face, that he realized that it was off. When his eyes studied any individual feature, it appeared normal, in place. However, when he tried to witness the assembled whole of her face, it became harder to reconcile. The eyes drifted across her face like ships in water. The smile grew wide and full. Her nostrils flared open to some deep inner valley. She was unnatural. Nick tried to move, but could not. ‘Nick, focus on me. Try to pinpoint my mind, and imagine yourself dying an excruciatingly, agonizing death. Vividly imagine the pain and the completeness of it. It’s the only way to drive off a soul leech.’ the voice continued to sound inside his head. Hardly able to keep his eyes open as a result of the old woman’s touch, he did his best to do as instructed. He had contemplated his own death a thousand times, but in the unreality of his present situation, he found himself struggling. ‘I can’t do it!’ Nick thought as he faded further away from himself with each passing second. ‘You can!’ the voice responded in his mind, ‘If not your own, think of someone else’s. It just needs to be impactful.’ Nick remembered when he was a child his uncle, a trucker, died in a pretty gruesome traffic accident. He remembered the closed casket funeral because there was nothing for it. His uncle had burned alive in the mangled wreckage of his semi-truck and the truth of that, when his mother felt comfortable enough to share it with him, had haunted for years afterward. He’d often dream of his dead uncle, pressed like so much playdough through the folds of the bent and broken frame of his truck, gaping silently like a dying fish. As he got older, age lent itself to more deep imaginings of his uncle’s destruction. The cubic bits of glass embedded in the soft tissue of his melting face. The charred meat of his corpse fusing with various textiles of the seat. The process of turning into some unidentifiable, intermingled pile of ash and debris. The woman, the thing, recoiled from him as its true hideous shape was exposed from the psychic onslaught wrought upon it by Nick’s childhood terror. The creature was a clumsy facsimile of a person. Awkwardly and with an uneven, impossible gait, it staggered away from Nick uncertainly. Then, the specter, having gained some awareness of the situation, leveled a final smile in Nick’s direction before fading into nothing. ‘You did good kid,’ the voice sounded in his mind. A man from the rear of the bus approached. He seemed to be maybe a few years older than Nick, but his sunken-in eyes conveyed a deep weariness. The man sat beside Nick.’I’ve been watching you for a while,’ the man spoke directly into Nick’s mind. “H-how are you—” “Shh.” the man said, tapping his temple. Nick tried to think the message. He realized he had done so effortlessly earlier, maybe he could do it again. ‘Who are you?’ Nick thought. ‘A friend, one of a select few who can actually help you navigate what you’re going through.’ ‘Oh? And what am I going through?’ Nick thought incredulously. ‘For starters, we’re having a conversation inside your head. Two, you literally tapped into a deeply-seated trauma to drive off a supernatural creature just moments ago. I’d say you’re going through a lot.’ “How do you know all of this?” Nick blurted out. The man rolled his eyes. ‘Listen, our link is cutting out. You’re getting beyond the reach of my projection zone so I’m just going to lay it all out there.’ ‘On one path, you go about your life. Swallowing down beta blockers, antidepressants and antipsychotics. Each pill doing its best to hammer who you actually are into a semblance of what society expects you to be. But you’re not sick, Nick. You never were. The world is going to do its best to devour you, and if you carry on this path, eventually, despite all your progress and each new medication, it will.’ ‘On the other path, you begin training your other self, your true self, for the war to come. The division between their realm, and ours is eroding. Soon, all the dead and their ilk, the otherworldly and long forgotten, the old ones hidden away in dark, distant stars… they’ll return to this place and it will be up to people like us to save a world that doesn’t deserve it.’ Nick was flabbergasted. ‘I don’t—none of this—’ ‘You don’t have to choose now, but time is not on our side. Choose soon.’ The man evaporated from the seat in a mist. A fading projection only there for him to see. Trembling, horrified, Nick searched his bag for another pill.
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Apr 10, 2023 05:18
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Frame of Reference 1097 words I'm three hundred sixty-three years old and on days like this I feel every day, hour, minute of coldsleep in my bones. I don't look a day over forty, except for the shock-white hair I woke up with on Lysander. But something knows, in my bones. Especially on days my time matches up with Beth. Beth used to be my favorite. The only sister of seven brothers. We lived as a family, together, on Earth, for the first twelve years of our life, in each other's heads any time we were in the same building. I wasn't the lastborn but I was still the runt among us, a little bit smaller and weaker, and she was kind, even more than Al. Al liked us all, but for him that was all tied up with wanting us to be better. Firstborns, right? They put a lot of credit in those thirteen to ninety-two minutes. I miss hamburgers. No cows on Lysander, and the fake beef fell out of fashion decades before I arrived. It was Al on shift when I came in to work. They handed me my script, then opened up the Faraday cage for me and I stepped inside, and felt his mind again, twenty-eight light years away. =Quentin, my man,= he sent. =How's it been? You still with Lydia these days?= I'm not, haven't been for months. He pretends to forget, probably will until we get back together, which isn't happening, or I start dating someone else, which might. They don't give us much time for small talk. I'm in for four hours today, probably. Two hours worth of outgoing traffic at least, then however much Earth wants to send today. After a few minutes I got down to business. I read the paper in front of me, sending the words. Then Al sends words back to me and I type them out as they go. We're pretty fast. We've been doing this a long time. About half of any given day is just normal news, words we both understand. The rest is coded, nonsense strings of words or letters. Secret communication between Earth and the colonies. People say part of it is a hostage code, a changing key that needs to be entered into the Lysander networks every...what, week? Month, maybe. Can't be shorter, I've gone most of a week without going in, when I've been down with a flu. And if Lysander breaks the compact Earth won't send it and the colony will be back to the stone age. Well, early industrial age. And when I die, at least if it comes as a surprise, at least twenty-nine years of dark ages while a laser message goes back and forth. I don't know if that's right, but I do have bodyguards. Al's shift ends halfway through mine. The elder three are up all day, put together. They have to do eight hour shifts but they get to live on Earth. Sometimes I think they get the better deal. I mean, sure, pioneer spirit and all, we all wanted to be to ones who got to go to another planet, but it's mostly like living in a backwater town but you can't take a road trip to the city. Nobody knows how telepathy works. In fact, we still don't have a physics where it makes any sense to say that me, on Lysander, and Al, on Earth, are in our boxes at the same time. It should come out different depending on whose frame of reference you pick. But it works. Turns out, there's a privileged frame of reference out there, and it's really weird and doesn't seem to match any place we can observe in the universe. But I'm meandering. Avoiding what comes next. It's a few minutes break and Beth is in the chamber, in my mind. She goes right into the code from Earth, and I type along. =Strange David Myrrh Pony Decadent Glove.= I hear her voice, but that's mostly, well, in my head. Two years ago, Beth had a major stroke. In the cage, on her shift. Otto and Sexton were both on shift, with the traffic from Romeo and Caliban. I got the news second hand from Trip a day later. These days they don't let us triple up; if a third one of us shows up they're immediately sent away. Like I said, nobody knows how telepathy worms, but someone suggested that might have something to do with it and the bosses figured they'd rather be safe than sorry. Didn't hurt that they already didn't want the colonies talking without going through Earth. They put something in Beth. Something mechanical, something hooking her language centers straight to a computer. She sends the words, receives them, reads them and types them. But there's nothing there. Sometimes I have nightmares. That that's the endgame now, for all of us. That they won't let us die, that they'll keep just enough of our brains alive forever. There hasn't been another telepathic tuplet born since us. Nobody knows how telepathy works but it looks like we get one set at a time. When we go the colonies will be out of quick contact for another two hundred years or more. I soldiered through the rest of my shift. There's a brief contact from Sexton before they pull him out, a quick image of how his oldest is growing up. I almost smile. We have a secret, the eight of us. A zeroed out magnetic field inside a Faraday cage isn't the only way to contact each other over infinite distance. We can also do it in the hazy few moments just before falling asleep. It doesn't happen every night. It doesn't even happen often. Only when two or more of us are sleeping at the exact same moment according to that mysterious privileged frame of reference. We don't usually think in words, then. Images, memories. A twenty light year hug. That kind of thing. That night I touched Beth, for the first time since, well. The first time since. I thought it was a dream, or the beginning of a nightmare, but it was real, was her. She was distant, quiet, everything coming in like echoes from a deep cavern. I reached out, grabbed her hand, mentally speaking. She clasped it tightly. And then came the image, the memory, of that night, the nurse massaging her cheek to help her move her jaw and chew, and I could taste that hospital-cafeteria-grade hamburger and cried ugly happy tears until sleep came.
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Apr 10, 2023 08:35
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Albatrossy_Rodent posted:Sleep Fite Brawl Sebmojo vs. Yoruichi Entries for this brawl are going to be 24 hours late
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Apr 10, 2023 10:03
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Entries are closed!
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Apr 10, 2023 15:25
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Yoruichi posted:Entries for this brawl are going to be 24 hours late That's fine I'm judging the week proper anyways, gives me a little more time.
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Apr 10, 2023 21:17
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Week 557 Judgment We had a lot of failures this week, and all shame will be heaped on them. There is no loser this week, except the losers who failed to submit a story. There's also no DMs, because no story drew enough ire from both judges to clear that bar. The honorable mention goes to Thranguy for a story that was enjoyable despite a completely passive protagonist. The win goes to Slightly Lions for that rarest of feats: writing a story about teenaged X-Men that I didn't hate! Slightly Lions, I'm sending you telepathic instructions to ascend the blood throne!
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Apr 10, 2023 22:18
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Week 557 Crits Remember folks, don't respond to crits in-thread! You can come complain at me in the Discord instead. Thranguy - Frame of Reference Excellent use of the flash. This isn't really a story with a plot, it's just a lot of world- and character-building until we get the final moment – but not in a bad way, I like it a lot! I appreciate your setting up the hamburger thing, weird as that is to type. I do think that you write kinda like me, with lots of commas and asides, and sometimes that gets in the way a little. High. rohan - Rather be Fhtagn’in Based solely on the title, before reading the story at all, I'm expecting a fun Lovecraft farce, and that's right up my alley, so let's go! Ok, having read the story, first off: who the gently caress is Laura? Anyway, the weirdest thing about this one is how we start off with a story which could take place almost anywhere and then halfway through we shift scenes and I'm THROWIN A PRAWN ON THE BARBIE, HOLD ME CIGS I'M GONNA CHUNDAH. Anyway it's not terrible, but going from generic American girls working at the Krusty Krab to mega-bogans on a boat kinda gave me whiplash, and I still don't know who Laura is. Mid, mid-low Slightly Lions - Dr. Zonfrelli's University for Unusual Youths Nice use of the prompt, I love the idea of a telepath out of his mind on psychedelics and just blasting everybody around him. Personally I hate X-Men/mutants stories, but the setting makes sense for this kind of story (more sense than if it was a whole school of telepaths, for instance). I like your main character and I'm really really glad that the only mutant power that actually played into the story was Mind-Warper's. Mid-high. crimea - Plague on the Horizon The first paragraph of this story primed me against it, because it felt like another TD attempt to write Big Serious Fiction using Big Serious Words by somebody who didn't actually know what all those words meant (it's "climes", by the way). You were gunning for the British Offisuh voice very hard early on, but as the story went on it developed into a less cliched and more distinct voice for the narrator. The last scene turned me from "gonna hate this" to "yeah it's pretty good". Note: I don't see any flash rule in the archive, and you're at 1298 words, so this might be a DQ? Mid, mid-high if not a DQ. Admiralty Flag - Like an Open Book This one didn't really land for me, in part because it's so thoroughly channeling Hannibal Lecter that I kept getting distracted trying to decide if I should imagine Anthony Hopkins or Brian Cox. It's competent enough, but it doesn't say a lot, and the conclusion didn't satisfy me. Mid. Copernic - Twenty-Eight Maybe my brain is just mush after reading too many stories this morning, but I didn't really get what you meant by the ending dialog. In general I think this story needed another pass or two of editing, because as it stands it's kind of confusing. I know you're trying to weave the worldbuilding in with the events of the story, and it's a good tactic, but it just feels a little rough here. Also, in one place you wrote "joking in poor English about how big and fat Dad’s body was" but Dad is the fitness nut, what's going on there? Maybe the other judge will point out how very wrong I am about the story. Mid-low. Idle Amalgam - The Other Self This reminded me of nothing so much as the little teasers they put at the start of books for 12 year olds that are meant to entice the kid to buy Book 1 of 27 from the Scholastic Book Fair. My co-judge reads this as an insightful portrayal of schizophrenia, but I'm not completely sold, because I haven't been able to pick out any telltales that it's actually all in his head. Yes, in the real world, the kid is obviously having delusions, but this is a flash fiction story in a week about telepaths which has also featured Cthulhu as the owner of a coffee shop. I had this one penciled in for the loss until Rodent convinced me I might just be dumb. I still say that if your insightful story about mental illness comes out looking like the intro to an Animorphs book, you should consider some tweaks -- it's just all so earnest. Mid if Albatrossy_Rodent's reading is right, DM or loss-level low if my initial reading was right.
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Apr 10, 2023 22:47
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Although I'm glad I didnt lose or DM, Pham, even though I know I'm not a stellar writer, I have to disagree with your criticisms and say that yes, you must be dumb. I challenge you to a brawl. The first time your harshness was set upon my bad-wrong words I wrote it off as my words just being bad and wrong, but the cartoonish degree of your critique will not stand. Acknowledge my request or forever be known as a coward. If it really is just 12 year old animorphs fiction you have nothing to lose, right?
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Apr 10, 2023 23:11
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Idle Amalgam posted:Although I'm glad I didnt lose or DM, Pham, even though I know I'm not a stellar writer, I have to disagree with your criticisms and say that yes, you must be dumb. i'm looking for words to make me write good. you think i'm not smart, but i am smart.  Anyway I accept the brawl but I'm gonna ask the judge for a relatively generous deadline, because my child could be born at literally any time and I'll truly be in Pakled mode when that happens.
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Apr 10, 2023 23:20
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Earnest Brawl Idle Amalgam Vs Pham Nuwen A story from the POV of someone without a shred of guile or irony in their soul. 1600 words Due 5/1
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Apr 10, 2023 23:24
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Week 558 Lights, Camera... Action Sequences! You know what I've been thinking? This is the Thunderdome but drat if we haven't seen much blood recently. Let's rectify that. This week I want to see some action. I don't care what form it takes, but it should thrill and/or chill. Foot races and car chases, shootouts at high noon, brawls or battles or duels, none will be turned away. I want to see bold characters and strong stakes and watch them collide and preferably explode. You have 2000 words to work with, but if you choose a flash rule you can get another 400 for an even 2400. If you choose to flash I'll give you a particular genre or type of action to work into the story. Word Count: 2000, 2400 with a flash Sign ups close: 11:59pm Friday, April 14th EST Submissions close: 11:59pm Sunday, April 16th EST Judges: Slightly Lions Yoruichi You?? Entrants rohan (flash: Admiralty Flag Thranguy (flash: wuxia) Albatrossy_Rodent Idle Amalgam (flash: samurai duel) WindwardAway (flash: bar brawl) BabyRyoga (flash: wizard duel) Dicere BeefSupreme Sebmojo (flash: car chase/race) You?? Slightly Lions fucked around with this message at 02:21 on Apr 17, 2023 |
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Apr 11, 2023 00:09
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in, flash please
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Apr 11, 2023 00:11
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In
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Apr 11, 2023 00:14
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In, flash
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Apr 11, 2023 00:18
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In
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Apr 11, 2023 00:21
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rohan posted:in, flash please I'm on that Ben-Hur poo poo, show me a chariot race Thranguy posted:In, flash Everyone should be kung-fu fighting in your wuxia story
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Apr 11, 2023 00:32
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In and flash
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Apr 11, 2023 00:33
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Idle Amalgam posted:In and flash Do your best Kurosawa impression and show me a samurai duel
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Apr 11, 2023 00:35
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I'm travelling this week and probably shouldn't commit time to this, but what better use of time on a flight than to write a story? 🙃 /in and flash, and  because I failed to submit last week like the silly goose I am.
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Apr 11, 2023 00:57
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WindwardAway posted:I'm travelling this week and probably shouldn't commit time to this, but what better use of time on a flight than to write a story? 🙃 Crack open some boys with a cold one and give me your best bar/tavern brawl
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Apr 11, 2023 01:34
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As an addendum, as I know it's a pretty hit-or-miss prompt, if you take a flash and don't feel you can do anything with it you may reroll the flash exactly once by sacrificing the extra word count and also a measure of my respect. Second flash will stand.
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Apr 11, 2023 02:29
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Slightly Lions posted:As an addendum, as I know it's a pretty hit-or-miss prompt, if you take a flash and don't feel you can do anything with it you may reroll the flash exactly once by sacrificing the extra word count and also a measure of my respect. Second flash will stand.
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Apr 11, 2023 02:45
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rohan posted:requesting a re-roll please I'm calling you out, kid. It's gonna be a showdown at high noon
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Apr 11, 2023 03:22
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I return to write words In with a flash
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Apr 11, 2023 03:54
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BabyRyoga posted:I return to write words Summon up all your arcane prowess because you're writing about a wizard duel
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Apr 11, 2023 04:27
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I'm in.
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Apr 11, 2023 07:17
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Yoruichibrawl Maxine of the Camellias 1300 words The fake dream air was sharp in my nose – don’t breathe in through your mouth, the guy had said as he was putting me down, slapping the gooey electrodes on to my forehead. It’s really important. He’d said why but I couldn’t remember that bit, just his febrile eyes as he said it, his faint odour of bubblegum vape. I took another sniff, wondering whether I could still smell the sickly scent or whether it was just a memory. Around me, chaos stretched to the horizon. Her brain really was a mess. I don’t mean psychologically, she was always fairly put together in that sense, at least until recently. I mean it was a pigsty. I couldn’t even see my feet, they were covered in half-read books, weird multi-coloured undergarments with too many legs, potplants. So many potplants. I lifted up one foot, tipping over a succulent and spilling dust-dry soil into the bric-a-brac, then put it down again and crouched to inspect the plant, its smooth pale-green involutions. That’s when the seagull hit me. They’re not scary birds most of the time, but as its blood red razor beak jabbed for my eyes and I sprawled backwards, flailing both hands out to break my fall, I understood that animals only choose to live around us, and that consent could be revoked at any time. It was screaming, claws raking at my face, beak wide. I hurled myself on my side in a frenzy, groping for anything to protect myself. The succulent pot was in my hand, then it was breaking on the dirty white feathers of my assailant, smash cut to a tea room. Polite chitchat. Maxine was sitting across from me, reading a magazine. Around us were dozens, hundreds of little pots, with flowers. There was a faint odour of poo poo in the air. “They’ve worked out how to fix lies,” said Maxine. She turned a page, eyes top left. “Oh, it’s a stem cell thing.” “I thought you couldn’t read in a dream,” I said, and took a sip of my tea. It didn’t taste of anything. “I thought I told you to be quiet?” She said it calmly but with an icy edge. “Max, you need to wake up. Please. It’s been months. Please.” “I have three things to say to you, Samantha.” She put down her magazine, which was now smouldering in an autumnal burnt leaves way. I waited for her to continue, then realised the tea room was in an arena, a stadium. Around us banked rows of bleachers rose up to the bright horizon. She was growing too, her neat jacket expanding around her as she swelled up, towering above me. In her hand was a spoon. Its edge gleamed razorlike in a tight spotlight from above. “I don’t want to fight,” I said. “I don’t want to fight.” “I dOn’T waNt to FiGhT” she said back, making her voice absurd in mimicry, then threw her huge spoon right at me. It hit me in the face, sent me sprawling and spinning through the black and white lino squares on the floor, which had inexplicably shattered into hundreds of independently rotating diamonds that whirled around me. One of them clipped my top lip and drew blood, drat thing was razor sharp. I clamped my mouth shut against the trickle and lunged for Maxine, who was rotating in her own cloud of black and white diamonds, a few meters away. She gasped and flailed at me with the magazine, slapping at my face, but I had her arms and I pulled her close in. Her dream body was taut and hot against mine. I kissed her, smearing blood across her thin lips. “You need to wake up. They’ve got you hooked up to tubes and everything but it’s failing, please. Please Max.” Her eyes were so much darker than usual. Her face was a cool Noh mask, the smear of blood like a flower that had grown there. Planted by me. Slowly she lifted the magazine, now a set of perfect glossy naked 8”x10” photographs of me, and, what was her name. I didn’t think it was a good idea to remember that right now. I lifted my hand to push it aside, but she lifted her own hand at the same way, a mirror image. Our palms were pressed flat together, a little sweaty. I was looking into her eyes, looking at the dot of light that was at the centre of each pupil. The dots were growing. I looked at her face, her dream face. It didn’t look like her, but I knew it was really. It reminded me of someone. Who was it? Just then her sweaty, slippery, slimy palm slipped down my hand and onto my wrist, took a grip, and flipped me round and down onto a hot hard surface with shattering force. She was on top of me, pummeling my face with a sharp-knuckled fist. “Filthy, lying, loving, loving, loving,” she said, calmly, as she hit me. I took it as my due. The wood under me was rocking back and forth with each impact and it took me a little longer than four blows to realise it was a boat, I was on a boat, we were on a boat. There were seagulls high above, circling. Oh no. I wriggled out from under her and saw a smooth brown figure, lying naked in the sun, lounging, lolling. I couldn’t look at her. I didn’t look at her, I didn’t even know who she was. Instead I took three steps, grabbed Maxine, Max of the Camellias, my love, my angry bride, and yeeted us both off the side and into the fathomless deep. The water was cold and blue and everywhere, up my nostrils, in my clothes, under my skin. Max was struggling in my arms as we sunk but I held tight. I couldn’t breathe because my mouth was closed so I opened it to explain that I loved her and I’d made a terrible mistake, and that if only she would wake up and be angry at me properly it would be so good and we could look at each other and I could explain, and I felt her thrashing limbs grow ever more uncontrolled as the water sank into each one of my cells and made them heavy with moisture and sleep, and, then, I woke up. There was a beeping and monitors were doing things and outside I could hear footsteps. The ceiling was a flat white and I looked at it wondering what it represented for a moment before I remembered I was awake. I turned my head to the left, on my sweaty pillow, and saw Max there on the hospital bed next to me, camellias in the vase beside her. She was all wired up and a tube ran up her nose, and her eyes were surrounded by hollow sockets of shadowed skin, but as I watched I saw her eyelids twitch, and open, just a fraction.
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Apr 11, 2023 09:33
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Sleep Fite Brawl entry Hid and Sought 1350 words Luce took a deep breath and dived. Her hands swept the tiled bottom. Lungs burning, she finally felt metal under her fingers. She grabbed the key and shot up to the surface. Her eyes were blurry from the chlorine, making rainbows of the light reflecting off sequined dresses all around the edge of the swimming pool. She blinked, and realised they were wading towards her. Fist clenched around the key Luce waded towards the edge. A woman with iridescent black eyes shoved a drink into her chest. Luce dived. She grabbed at knees like sapling trunks and eeled her way through the forest of legs. With one palm and one clenched fist on the tiled rim she hauled herself from the water. Her sodden jeans muddled her steps as she struggled across the patio. The door was blocked by two women reclining on a mouldering couch. They had kicked off their stilettos and their long toenails clicked against the tiles. They beckoned at Luce-- Now! she told herself. She gripped the key. Now, now, NOW-- Luce leapt onto the couch. The women shrieked. Luce dodged a grasping hand with her left leg and pushed off the couch back with her right. She dived, landed in a forward roll and then was up and running into the darkened hallway and Silence. Luce let out her breath in a long sigh. Water drops from the bottom of her jeans plinked against the wooden floor. She turned through an open doorway and found herself in front of a large, glass-fronted bookcase. Luce could see her reflection in the glass. Her own pitch black eyes stared back at her. Luce felt her lips tighten in a snarl. She closed her eyes, opened them, and forced her focal point beyond the glass. She tilted her head and slid her eyes up and down the titles on the spines. Her eyes widened as she recognised the books. Her books. The spines were creased and the corners bent just so. Tears pricked Luce’s eyes. She shook her head, angry with herself. The room was lit only by the fading daylight beyond the closed curtains. Luce jumped as a red light blinked on at the end of the room. Her heart hammered and it took her a moment to identify the growing hiss as the sound of an electric kettle. It was sitting on a cracked formica bench. Next to it the jar of teabags from Luce’s old flat.The stainless steel sink was full of used wine glasses. The kettle boiled. Luce waited for the cathartic click of its auto shut off. The room began to fill with steam. The sound of boiling water filled Luce’s ears. She was sweating. The room felt like a sauna. Luce reached out. Her hand was halfway to the kettle’s switch when the kitchen door slammed open. Light and sound from the party outside flooded in and clouds of steam billowed out. Luce saw black eyes go wide. Her heart skipped a beat, then began to hammer against her ribs. The woman shrieked. Luce turned and ran. Something cold splashed on her neck and she ducked, avoiding the cocktail glass that hurtled past her head and smashed against the bookcase. Luce jumped awkwardly over a dining table, slid on her arse across its polished surface and landed in a crouch on the floor beyond. A piano clanged as the woman landed on all fours on top of it. Her long sequinned dress made a hissing sound as it slid across the wood, revealing overlong legs, muscles bunched. The woman pounced. Luce dive rolled, came up on her feet in the doorway, and sprinted down the hall. She skidded to a stop in front of a locked door. Luce’s chest contracted painfully as she noticed the dark patch on the faded wood, left behind by something that had been forcibly removed, screws torn from the wood. It was shaped exactly like the name plate that had adorned her bedroom at home. Luce’s hand shook as she tried the key. It went in. Nails clicked on the hallway floorboards. The key wouldn’t turn. Luce jiggled it, tried to force it left, then right. No dice. The woman was stalking towards her, her dress hissing with each step. She held a glass in each hand, and as she walked she left a spreading stain of spilt liquid behind her. A sob escaped Luce’s fear-dry mouth. Shaking, she pulled the key from the lock, and clenched it back inside her fist. Her lips trembled and she pressed them together, angry. She felt tricked. It wasn’t fair. Anger unfroze Luce’s limbs and she kicked the door. It gave a hollow thud and dust showered down from the frame. Luce heard the woman draw in a sharp breath at the sound, saw her pause her in predator’s approach. Now! thought Luce. She pushed her back against the wall like a wrestler leaning on the ropes. The wall bowed, its paper stretched. Luce willed it not to tear. She felt the fibres expand like elastic. She sank into the wall, stretched it to the point of breaking-- Luce lifted her feet, and fired herself at the door like a stone from a slingshot. She hit the door feet first and it smashed open. Luce slammed it behind her, and heaved a heavy chest of drawers across it. She was in a room full of plants. Luce struggled for breath in the fetid air. Thick roots protruded from cracked pots and burrowed into rotten floorboards. Vines ran up the walls and hung from the ceiling. Something brushed the back of her neck and Luce lashed out with one arm. Her hand sliced through the leaf of a large broad-leafed palm. She looked in horror at her overlong fingernails. No matter how often she cut them… Luce heard a thump against the door and she jumped. She shoved her way past branches and stepped around broken terracotta. The house creaked and groaned. At the end of the room under a casement window was a single bed. The curtains flapped and Luce felt cold night air against her cheek. The window was closed, and it took Luce a moment to realise the air was coming through a hole in the floor. The boards under the bed had rotten away, leaving the bed resting precariously on two remaining beams. She heard a susurrus behind her. Sequins dragging on wood. Fingernails at the door. A heavy thump. Luce sank to her knees. Cold air from the ruined floor rose up to meet her, and she shivered. She had lost. She pressed her lips together but couldn’t stop her chin trembling. She tipped her head back, trying to stop the tears from falling for just a moment longer. There was another thump against the door and this time the chest of drawers tipped and crashed to the floor. Without looking back, Luce leapt onto the bed, braced her legs on the bed, and heaved the sash open. The floor gave. Luce screamed as she found herself suddenly weightless, then falling. Rotten, borer-riddled chunks of timber fell around her as the bed slid off the tilting floor and tipped Luce into the night. She twisted in the air, got one hand on a downpipe. Her toenails raked against the peeling weatherboards and she thought she was safe, then the screws holding the downpipe to the wall ripped from the wood and she fell, landed and rolled on long, wet grass. Broken pieces of wood and glass showered down around her. Luce retreated through the garden. She climbed over a low fence and found herself back out on the road. She stood just outside the circle of light from a single street lamp and listened to her slowing breath. The house hunkered in the dark, silent and empty. Luce gripped the key inside her palm. Slowly, bare feet silent on the cold concrete path, she approached the front door. She slid the key into the lock.
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Apr 11, 2023 09:34
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oh drat action week hell yeah you absolutely know i'm in
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Apr 13, 2023 03:11
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In, flash
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Apr 13, 2023 04:46
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sebmojo posted:In, flash Start your engines and hit me with a car chase/race.
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Apr 13, 2023 19:14
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There are 12 hours left to sign up. I also need at least one more judge willing to grapple with grappling.
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Apr 14, 2023 17:15
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T-t-triplepost! Sign ups are closed! Still looking for judges for this gore-soaked convocation of carnage. 
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Apr 15, 2023 05:00
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Crits to come for Sleep Fite Brawl (and telepathy week), but Brawl Judgement Now This was tough. One story had the clearly better action and surrealism. In the other, I could actually tell who the gently caress the characters were and why they were doing what they were doing. But I'm gonna pick style over substance here. Yoruichi wins.
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Apr 16, 2023 00:55
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New Arrival 1,996 words A low desk sits upstage, just left of center, facing downstage. Downstage of the desk are two empty folding chairs. At stage right, set downstage so as to appear recessed is a SUNROOM. In the SUNROOM by the window is a dining table and chairs. Upstage of this arrangement is a SIDEWALK with a strip of turf closest to the edge of the stage. The stage will be loosely bisected between the OFFICE and TOM’S MEMORY. SETTING: Loving Transitions Senior Facility, Abiliene, Texas. Day. TOM arrives STAGE LEFT, and offers a slight, nervous smile before sitting at the desk. TOM: OK. I think I’m ready to apply, but I wanted to talk with you a bit - boy it smells clean in here – I wanted to talk with you a bit about myself and what I’m looking for before I say yes. (not allowing for interruption) I’m pretty used to living on my own, so this is going to be a little different for me, but that’s OK. I’m gonna need you folks, I know that. But I hope I can give back. I’m still pretty handy, I’m still a good organizer. I’m a leader. Again, change of pace. OK. (sensing he won’t be interrupted, TOM relaxes a bit) For a very long time, I lived in this lovely place in Amarillo. My wife, Georgie, and I lived in this little one bed, one bath. It was run Estacado Company – you know them – but it was ours - Georgie and me, that is. But the seniors had the whole block to themselves, right next to the big apartments and inpatient facility at the end of the block. And our garden was so lovely. What they say about that place is true. And for a long time, it was quiet. The residents would walk their dogs and sometimes we might see a jogger. Of course, there were a lot of estate sales and those were a menace, but generally it was fine. I mean, what can you do … when that happens, anyway? Now you probably heard about me already, so I want to clear something up right now and tell my side of it. OK? So I had a neighbor. I had a lot of neighbors, of course, but this guy … he was so sensitive and pushy that it – let’s just be honest – it was hard to live around him. And he just thought he was so forward thinking and so smart. But for a long, long time, I never said anything. We’d see him at church and I’d say hi, good morning. I was never rude. People might think I was, but I wasn’t. But he did these little things. So these houses had little whaddayacallem … grommets! They had these sconces …? They had a place by your door to put a flag. The rules say you’re allowed a US Flag or a Texas Flag. That’s it. Well, on games days, he’d fly his Sooners flag. He was real into being an Okie for some reason, which is fine, but … there a rules. For everybody. I never flew my Longhorns flag, because of respect, you see. And he didn’t even care about the games anyhow. He hardly watched! I mean, I found out he was a kindergarten teacher! I mean, you know … come on. I mentioned it to him once when I saw him at the grocery store and he laughed about it. Asked why I cared! Look, I was in the Navy, OK. That’s why I want to live here. I can see tight corners on the beds. I can smell the cleaner in -- From STAGE LEFT, a woman is moaning. TOM turns, looking concerned and holds for a beat while the moaning subsides. I mean … Moaning finally stops. So, sure you guys have a tough job and it’ll be tough for me to live around it, but I won’t – oh, right – (remembering his story) I just know things have to be a certain way for everyone’s good. Our church would only allow certain events in the Fellowship Hall. Weddings, wakes, baptisms. That’s what our bylaws said. But you’d think I was some kind of monster when I dare say that doesn’t include birthday parties. Excuse me. (TOM holds up the palm of his hand.) The Lord’s house isn’t a Chuck E’ Cheese, OK? The Community Agreement says each resident at Estacado gets a garage in the back for personal vehicles and street parking for guests in the front. THAT’S why those damned – pardon my language – those damned estate sales were so upsetting. If my son was going to come by, he’d have to park all the way down the street. Somebody dies and everyone wants to shop. It’s just - look, I know – but it just sickens me and that’s my opinion. So this guy, his name was Randy – this guy would sometimes have a bunch of people over. And for a while their cars would go around the back or park in front of his place. Well, after a while people started parking in front of my house. And there’s no reason for that. I know anyone can park there, but what if my son was visiting me that day? Is it really so hard to park – well, one day, a woman about my age pulls up in this big Cadillac whaddhayacallit – Escapade? Yeah, and it’s just huge and takes up the spot right in front of my house, even though there was a spot in front of his. Like she didn’t want to turn around or something. What if my son was coming in that day? And I’ve got this big black thing in front of my house. It nearly blocked the view of the neighborhood. It did! From backstage, crossing in front of the SUNROOM set, TOM’S DOUBLE emerges and meets a WOMAN on the SIDEWALK. The two pantomime an increasingly heated conversation and TOM continues speaking in the office. Well one day I said something. I asked – just asked – if she could park somewhere else. I explained to her how the community worked and would if it be, ya know, OK if she moved her car. Well, she started giving me some attitude about it and then RANDY - RANDY emerges from STAGE RIGHT and pantomimes trying to calm things down, but becomes visibly more agitated as the mimed conversation continues. Randy comes out and starts telling me everything he dislikes about me. He calls me grouchy and nosy, and says I’m stalking him How can I stalk him!? GEORGIE crosses the SUNROOM from back STAGE RIGHT to and tries to pull TOM’S DOUBLE back. So I hit him. That’s my generation, OK? He started getting into the profanity and I couldn’t help myself. As TOM delivers this line, TOM’S DOUBLE punches RANDY, knocking RANDY off his feet. He caught his ear on the sprinkler system. I didn’t do that! Blood start pouring from the side of RANDY’s head. Well he starts bleeding like a stuck pig, because that’s what happens when you cut your ear. Ears really bleed. He looked at lot worse than he really was, but he must have been smarting. And I thought the fight was over right there, but he comes up on me and gets lucky. RANDY quickly lunges for TOM’S DOUBLE’S leg, grabbing TOM’S DOUBLE’s belt in the process. So he comes at my leg trying to do some kind of a kung fu throw and he grabs my belt. I’m sorry. That’s weird! Right? You get back up. I’ll give you a standing 8 count if you want to keep fighting, but just … RANDY successfully brings TOM’S DOUBLE’s off his feet, but removes his pants in the process. TOM wears tight, white briefs. He pulled my pants off. I wear them loose because of my stomach. I don’t know why he thought it, but he pulled my pants off and now we’re in this embarrassing, bloody mess on the front sidewalk. Somebody – and if I ever find out who- somebody has a camcorder or something and videos the whole thing from where the argument first began. Georgie is screaming at me. The women are trying to pull us apart. There’s blood on him. There’s blood on me. I’m trying to kick out of my pants to get my legs free. He tried to choke me! The scene plays out STAGE RIGHT as TOM describes it. Now, now that’s attempted murder! RANDY is quick to get to his feet and leaves the scene STAGE RIGHT. TOM’S DOUBLE lays in the grass, face down as the lights fall STAGE RIGHT. Lights brighten on TOM in the OFFICE. Of course, in hindsight, I shouldn’t have done it . But if you were there, you could’ve seen how I was provoked. I just want my son to have a place to park! He would come in from San Antonio. He’s the one that showed me the video. This Internet … I just don’t get how people think this OK. The police came by the next day. This is the part you probably know – I got misdemeanor assault and battery. Estacado sent me a letter saying violence was strictly forbidden and they could evict me. They DIDN’T, of course! My money was still welcome! I was going to go over and apologize – thought about it – but here comes this restraining order. (Tom mocks the term.) So I can’t be anywhere HE is, but he lives RIGHT THERE. (TOM becomes sullen) Georgie kept going to church. Nothing would ever keep her from her God. I stayed. I couldn’t handle any of it. We still got visitors from time to time, but they were to see Georgie. Maybe discuss this or that at the church or their bunco club. People didn’t really want to talk to me after that, but they were friendly enough. (TOM loses expression, still in shock) Georgie got sick toward the end. Everyone sent cards. Randy and his wife, didn’t of course. Man they really filled up our home … Lights rise on the SUNROOM. As TOM continues talking, a stream of figures walk by and place gifts, flowers, and sympathy cards on the table. Someone was at our house every day. She was adored by so many. People had to let her know how loved she was, how special she was. And she was – (choking back sobs) – she was special. She was so, so special to me. She was the best part of me. The best and sweetest voice in my life. 47 years - TOM raises his hand and points to his wedding band. 47 years. Better or worse. Sickness … and health. So if one of you gets sick … (crying) you have to see it. You can’t run. Lights lower on STAGE RIGHT as TOM sobs. When he regains his composure, the lights raise again and the table is empty again. After Georgie died, I didn’t hear from anybody anymore. I stayed at home. My son got worried about me, but I was fine. I thought I was fine. I don’t know what I had done when he found me last week. I guess something is wrong with me. I can’t remember. Anyhow. We have it all out now and I can tell you understand. I’m so grateful for that. I’ll be a help around here, not a hindrance. I promise. So let me get that application and I’ll move in - MATTHEW enters stage left. MATTHEW: Dad. There you are. OK, I’ve got everything squared away so we’ll come back next week. Are you still wanting to eat at Cavender’s? TOM: Oh, but I thought I was … (he gestures to the space behind the desk, but then realizes). Oh … (to the attendant behind the desk) … thank you. It was good to meet you. My name’s Tom. END OF SCENE
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Apr 17, 2023 01:44
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I will judge.
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Apr 17, 2023 02:03
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Half-Cocked 1930 words gently caress the army went through my head as the explosion tossed me like a rag doll through the second-story window. My hands held tight to Evangeline. Hopefully, she’d been within the shield’s shell, or she'd be done dancing. I tucked into a ball and rolled as the ground rose up to meet me. One, two bounces, and I was on my feet. My refractor shield had taken the worst of it, saved my rear end once again, but its shell was glowing red-hot as it crash-dumped excess energy, a beacon advertising a target to any and all Squibs in the area. I spared a glance – Evangeline’s go-light was green, she was ready to rock and roll. I hustled to the back of the building to look for an alley to hide in, let my shield shed some juice. It couldn’t have absorbed a flicked cigarette right then. I turned the corner and stumbled into two Squibs. Thank God they were even laxer than I was. Evangeline’s buttstock gave the first one a perfect smooch right on the jaw, or whatever you want to call its lower face, and stunned it. The other levelled its rifle. I rushed into its space, brushing past its weapon, and drew my knife. They wore kinetoweave, much like ours, but nothing short of reinforced alloy would’ve stopped my monoblade. I stabbed it in the shoulder before Evangeline even drew her lanyard taut, then was wrist-blocked by a forearm chop. That Squib had a move or two, but not enough. I feinted, then got it in the throat, nice big slash. Its buddy had gotten its bearings together and its pistol drawn by then, but I was a wild man and leapt on it, stabbing and hacking. I barely registered the bark of its weapon or the flash in my gut. It went down as fast as the first. I knew the gunshot would draw attention, so I moved into the alleyway. I made it maybe thirty feet before my legs gave out and I slumped into a doorway. Looked down – blood, and it wasn’t purple. Body armor didn’t take all the blast. I reached into a thigh pocket, pulled out a smart bandage, and slid it under my tunic. There was a sharp bite of cold as it adhered to my gut and sprayed the area with stims, coagulant, and painkillers. Three deep breaths, then time to go. I took a backward glance before leaving the alcove I had lurched into, then checked again; this second look saved my life. Just before I moved, there was a shriek, a sizzling, and I saw it: a chunk of sand and dirt in front of me was glassed – X-ray laser blast. Someone was shooting, and I didn’t like my odds. A rail-assisted carbine was no anti-sniper weapon; much as I depended on Evangeline, I wasn’t going to get close enough to spray my attacker with microflechettes. Another deep breath. I could’ve taken a peek and gotten the range, then hopped on the net and requested some smartshell-deployed antipersonnel bomblets. Christ only knew how much collateral damage that’d do. Not every Squib had taken up arms against us, though it sure as hell felt like it sometimes. At least my shield had cooled to indigo now. I wasn’t a clear target anymore. I had a plan. I snatched a prismatic smoke grenade off my bandolier and rolled it into the alleyway. The reflective particles would do nothing against an x-ray laser, but they’d confound its optics. I started thinking: Five seconds to deploy a full buffer of smoke, then dash across the alleyway and hop the fence. Lose the sniper’s tracking running through backyards, maybe get an eye on its nest and mark it for the others. Jesus. How the gently caress did I end up in the army? No time, gotta go, stay low…huf huf huf! Now, up and over! Didn’t hear a shriek that time. Low on charge, or didn’t see me? No matter. Hopefully, I’ll make it through the maze of houses and yards without running into any more unfriendly Squibs – or even civilian Squibs, or their feed animals, or whatever they keep for guard dogs. My comm interrupted me. “Second squad, fire team B: withdraw to rally point in good order. Provide security for fire team A’s wounded. Third squad: prepare to withdraw from sector 47-Tango.” I pulled up the map on my lens’ reticle. Sure enough, I was deep into 47-Tango. There was enough background interference I couldn’t get reads on the rest of my squad’s location, but I needed to neutralize that sniper, or it’d get free shots at the rest of us. I replied, “3B4 to L-T, pinned by sniper, cannot get directionals for arty support. Gonna need a few extra minutes.” “Hurry your rear end. You better not hold up the next phase.” There was a pause. “Need some covering fire?” “Thanks, L-T, but I just have to creep around this block, and then I think I’ll have it in my sights.” “Keep an open channel. I’m watching your vitals.” “Wilco.” I went on mute. Open channel my rear end. ### You’re probably wondering why I’m calling Squibs “it.” I’m not trying to dehumanize them – well, demonize them. They go through lifecycle changes. That’s supposedly the pronoun they prefer for us to use to refer to their neuter stage of maturity. And intel says only neuters bear arms, whether aboveboard or guerilla. They’re also technically Epsilon Eridanians, but I don’t have time to say that under fire. “Squibs” is at least impersonal. I’ve heard my comrades call them words I’d only read about in historical literature, which is doubly ridiculous, considering they’ve got a different array of skin pigmentation than baseline humans. ### I waited for my refractor shield to go completely dark, I mean ultraviolet dark, before I slinked around the house and pulled the scope from my breast pocket. I scanned the buildings along the alley. Three stories…some sort of school or a temple? Open windows on the top floor. Couldn’t see anything through them from that angle, but no one would’ve left them ajar in that weather. I could’ve moved under them and thrown a minigrenade or two, but I couldn’t be sure that would neutralize the sniper. Had to do it the hard way. I started making my way through the backyards in the dark, my low-light lenses making it bright as day. I reached the side door of the building in under five minutes. It was locked, but I was able to pry the bolt with my knife. It was an old, mechanical cylinder lock, not a modern maglock. Jesus, this whole part of town was Squib Poverty, Exhibit A. I set Evangeline to subsonic muzzle velocity in case there were multiple groups inside and entered. I glided through the hallways on whisper-soft boots, making less noise than the gusts of wind that occasionally whistled through the streets outside. No signs of recent use, whatever its purpose (I still couldn’t tell which of the two the building was), and no signs of anyone. None, that was, until I reached the staircase. My polarized lenses picked up the flicker of an IR laser slashing down across the steps in front of the first landing. I crawled through the opening left by the angled beam. As I looked up the next flight, I saw the projector, as well as the payload of explosives and shrapnel that would have been sent my way had I broken the circuit. This was the place. I moved on. Two more booby traps circumvented, each crude but cunning, and I was approaching the area with the open window. I could no longer hear the wind; only my pulse pounding in my ears reached me. The hallway…long and dark, open door at the end. It took me forever to edge my way down it, though it must have been less than a minute. I peeked in – someone was kneeling at the window. I took a minigrenade, pushed the button, and threw it into the room as I ducked behind the wall. The explosion slammed the door all the way open. I pivoted into the doorway, Evangeline at the ready. There was a Squib there, too young to be neuter. He turned to look, his body shattered by the explosion. He tried to speak. I didn’t know if he managed to say anything; I couldn’t comprehend their language. He started to crawl toward the x-ray laser rifle now resting on the floor by the window. I raised my carbine, finger on the trigger. His face was hosed up from the wounds, and Squibs’ facial structures were radically different from humans in the first place, but I didn’t need an interpreter to understand his expression. His glare and his slurping, gravelly speech carried the message loud and clear. Before he had gotten halfway to the weapon, I lowered Evangeline and put her on safe. I took the sniper rifle, tore out the battery, and smashed the scope against the wall a few times until it was useless. He kept trying to speak. I looked at him again, then turned to leave. I stopped by the door, pulled the last smart bandage out of my pant pocket, and threw it at him. I didn’t even know if it would work on his physiology. I was out of the sector ten minutes later, having rendezvoused with the rest of my squad at the rally point. We hopped a ride and quickly arrived at the outpost. The rest went their own ways to drink or bathe or puke or whore, but I owed the lieutenant a visit. He was new and expressed concern, so the least I could do was say thanks. As I walked toward Officer’s Country, the artillery began a prolonged fire mission. Looks like someone was in trouble tonight. I walked into his tent. “Got a minute, L-T?” He glanced up from his desk. “You finally made it back. We had to push back the next phase a little while, waiting for you to link up with the rest of the squad, but everything’s OK now.” He looked as though seeing me for the first time. “Get to a corpsman for that wound, for Chrissake.” “I will, but it’ll keep a few minutes. Mostly superficial. Squib didn’t get a straight shot.” I took a breath. “How much longer until you need boots on the ground for the next phase? We able to get a night’s sleep or is it rearm-refit-redo?” He laughed. “No, you don’t need to do anything in the next phase. It’s all taken care of.” He paused. “You’ll be happy. It means you won’t get gutshot again going back into 47-Tango. No one’s going back in.” “Redeploying?” “We are. Selected sectors of the city, including 47-Tango, have been deemed to be too hot and hostile. Word came down from HQ: losses are too heavy, we’re within the rules of engagement for escalation, so we’re blanketing them with button bomblets. It’s a show of force to scare those bastards and the symps supporting them.” My jaw dropped. My field of vision turned as red as it had been when my refractor field was shedding the first ergs from the explosion, while blood roared in my ears for the second time in an hour. I tried to speak but words wouldn’t come. “What’s up?” he asked. I was wrong before. That buttstroke Evangeline gave the Squib? It wasn’t perfect. But the one the lieutenant got sure was.
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Apr 17, 2023 02:44
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| # ? May 6, 2024 18:59 |
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Just Like Old Times 999 words As the tinny bell sounded joylessly above the tavern door to announce Xavier's arrival, he drew back the hood from his face, sloshing some pooling rainwater in the process. Stamping his boots briskly at the entryway to keep them from leaving puddles in his wake, he squelched over to a vacant barstool and seated himself, motioning wordlessly for the bartender to serve him a shot of hard liquor. "loving summer rain," muttered the irate young man, partly to the bartender but mostly to himself. He ran his jacket sleeve over his forehead to dry off the water, but it only spread the dampness further. "Season's almost over," remarked the bartender as he finished polishing a glass before letting the tap beer flow into it. "Soon the snow will come, and then it's loving winter." The customer sitting closest to Xavier sniggered. "Ah yes, the loving weather. You can never win against it!" This elicited a dry chuckle out of Xavier as he slid his drink closer. He smirked and raised his shotglass to the other. "Cheers," he said, meeting his neighbour's eyes. "To our loving weather." He downed the pungent black liquid in a flash and clinked the empty glass on the counter as he exchanged it for a beer. ~ By eleven o'clock in the evening, the tavern was teeming with customers. Some stood at the card tables with a drawn, wistful look in their eyes. Others chatted away at their seats with their cronies. There were no free spots at the bar counter anymore, and a throng of thirsty civilians clamoured between the barstools for another round. But the town drunkard ignored the crowd as he entered and shoved his way shamelessly to the front. By now, Xavier was well into enjoying his evening, and he'd most definitely had a drink too many. His gaze was fixated on the label on his beer glass, as if trying to determine what it read. And so, when the big, burly, beer-bellied Bobby elbowed Xavier in his quest toward the bar, the latter shot him a death glare. "Watch it," growled Xavier, narrowing his eyes at the disturbance. "The queue's over there." He gestured in a largely vague direction, his finger drifting in a questionable squiggle as he struggled to point through the mass of people. Bobby leered at the source of the voice, close enough that his wretched stench crept into Xavier's nostrils; the air reeked of spilt beer and sour milk. "Bobby does as Bobby pleases," snarled the larger man, "an' Bobby pleases to have himself a drink now." In a power move, Bobby snatched Xavier's glass and chugged the remaining amber liquid with a spitefully satisfied look on his face. "Oh, gently caress you," Xavier spat impulsively, swiping the empty beer glass out of the other's hand. "Eat poo poo, rear end in a top hat." He regretted his words almost instantly. Leaving no time for a reaction, Bobby cuffed Xavier soundly on the ear, causing him to topple off his seat and grasp at the bar counter to keep his balance. "What was that?" seethed the towering drunk, and Xavier could faintly sense a shift in atmosphere. His ear was ringing and blocking out any sound from that side, and he couldn't focus his vision enough to see that Bobby was chambering for another hefty punch. The younger man steadied himself against the counter and clenched a fist in retaliation, but his oppressor was faster and knocked him to the ground before he could even see it coming. "poo poo," Xavier spat. He could dimly taste blood in his mouth, his head was spinning and reality was whirling drunkenly around him, he felt the cold floor at his fingertips and everything was reeling out of control. Instinctively, he scrambled to get up but something heavy forced him back down, and he swept his foot across until he caught someone's leg and knocked it out from under them with a thud. There was profuse cursing and a sudden tight grip on Xavier's neck, as if he were being suffocated. Blindly, he threw a rain of punches at the blur in front of him, feeling his knuckles occasionally make successful contact with flesh. The grasp on his neck loosened enough for Xavier to break free and slide out of the way, but he felt someone grab him from behind. Thrashing about in an attempt to escape, Xavier let profanities spill liberally from his tongue, not realising that some of the others had stepped in to break up the brawl before security would be called in. But in a blaze of brute force, Bobby propelled himself away from the restraining efforts and slammed into Xavier, tackling a handful of nearby people to the ground in the process. Before Xavier could catch his breath, he was winded again by a swift knee to the chest. And as he felt someone else grab a hold of him, he lunged out once more to kick Bobby squarely in the gut. An explosion of swearwords filled the bar like a swarm of angry wasps, and just as Xavier heard the voice of a security guard, something scuffled about, then he felt an unexpected pressure pinning him down. Xavier could hear insults presumably directed at him, followed by barking orders, and as soon as the pressure was removed, he pushed himself upright to see Bobby dragged out by two police officers. Slumping woozily against the wall, Xavier coughed until he'd regained his breath. It wasn't more than a couple minutes before the police returned for him. "Stirring up trouble again, aren't you," he heard one of them remark, but he kept silent and only grimaced when they pulled him to his feet. "Looks like you'll be staying the night with me. Just like old times, eh?" "Shut up, Dad," Xavier slurred in annoyance, and the officer laughed. "Oh, you'll be thanking me later," the policeman drawled as he led his son out of the tavern and into the rainstorm. "The alternative would've been much, much worse."
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Apr 17, 2023 03:24
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