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Crits for Week #581 Crits done in judgemode Payment Rendered: This is cute and dark, but ultimately one of the one-idea stories I mentioned in the results. Good Cop, Bad Cop: This one also falls in that category, a functional exemplar of some tropes from different genres but not much beyond that. untitled 1: This was the segment that I liked best, and also the first one in judgemode ordering, perhaps getting lucky there. But it would have been as good of a contender if this was all you wrote about this premise; it tells just enough story while showing off a little, prose-wise, excellent drabble form. Death Awaits: This was a good one, more based on the prose than the plot. It does shift tenses after the first line, though. Rusalka: I usually don't like first person death endings, but this is a good one. I feel like this may have worked better in the present tense. Restitution: A creepy little mood piece here, although it sort of feels like it's building to a punchline or revelation that doesn't come out clearly. Unseelie: Also pretty good, a solid extended metaphor (possibly also literalized) that makes a satisfying read. Cuckoo: This is another that works well on a single idea, another plant-based body horror. Solid imagery. The Queen of Air and Shadow: This is an effective piece, delivering feels more than story but doing that well enough. Primrose: Another solid single scene. You don't ever establish what was done to offend, and I think that hurts the story a bit. The Changeling's Return: Effectively used the words given. I don't quite buy the premise, though, with both the Queen and the realm operating in ways not quite as expected but not quite working as subversion either. Dear Imprudence: Back into the merely cute and functional single idea realm here. True Gold: This one passes from cute to clever, a neat twist on the trope. Untrue Name: Cute enough for a smile, although I'm not sure how being a Googlewhack really harms keeping a name secret. Once you're in reverse image search the game is up no matter what the name was. Listen Now, Dear Hearts, With Ears Like Elephants’: The middle of the three poems by my judging. Pseudo-limericks. The short lines scan inconsistently, some with easy fixes (Beneath works better than 'Neath) and rhyming 'you' with 'you'? untitled 4: The weakest of these, mostly for failing to stand alone all that well. UNTITLED TRANSCRIPT: Another of the one-idea stories. The format doesn't add enough, doesn't do anything all that clever to add to that one idea. untitled 3: Effective prose again here. It doesn't stand as well alone, and depends on the context to even clearly hit the prompt. Peekaboo: A solid dark little one, effective use of second person. Possibly in the one idea category but the execution helps it rise above the others there. Technomalum: Cute, but this is ultimately a single idea and nothing else. The dialog is functional but a but too straightforward and carries this in a straight, predictable line. Passport: A more interesting poetic entry, probably the best of the three, although I disapprove of rhyming 'Police' with 'trace' and that whole couplet's scansion is off. Same with the last couplet of the middle stanza, but the fact that the third works and the those two don't match either make me think it wasn't on purpose. Conjunction: Getting cute with hyphenates here. Functional otherwise, solid prose. The story is a bit less on prompt than it might be, more of a generic monster story. Bespoke Bodies: This is sweet, maybe a little too sweet for the fae, really. There should have been signs of more of a cost, even if is is the grandmother who paid it. untitled 5: Another fine entry in this series, not suffering as much from standing alone. A Castle of Bark and Bone: This feels incomplete,pieces not quite fitting together. Interesting at least I guess. It doesn't quite manage to establish what it's trying to subvert. GroWing Up: The weakest of the poetry entrys, jarring scansion and unimaginative rhymes, and the fourth line, breaking from dialog to narrative hurts it, needs punctuation, breaks up what the bold and italic are supposed to mean. Rêverie en Vert: Solid, tight and efficient. The bookending line works very well, shifting meaning just enough and being the kind of show-off prose that this form is suited for. Retro Sprite: Not great, not enough there there to pull this one out of the one-idea pack. untitled 6: This doesn't quite work, the voice and content. It feels like unexplained disappearances are everyday mundane at this level hospital, almost. As a part of the whole this is also dispensible. Flight Control: A cute little twist here. A bit context dependent, though. If you take it outside of this week of stories there's probably not enough information to figure it out. Bloom: Doesn't do much but does it competently; desert fae is an interesting area to go to. shifting sands: This is very nice, excellent execution, just a tight passage that captures the exact right feeling. Glamorous Futures: One idea, but the idea is at least clever enough to win a smile. Sean Gloriosis: Nice, a well realized little moment of story. It’s Just Seasonal: All setup and no punchline, no payoff. Fortune Favored: Dark, a little empty. I think this kind of story needs a hint of regret or comeuppance. T-minus: Clever enough, again, a bit empty. Reminds me of a song from the league. (Public Service Broadcast, Go) Llama Drama: Weird enough to be interesting, but doesn't go far with it. Vale’s Last Stand: Quite good. Evocative language, has substance. It's a Deal: Our only wc dq. Would have ranked fairly well, middle high I think. A good little scene with strong evocative detail. untitled 2: The randomized order of judgemode didnl you a favor, I think: this works better than 6 as the end of the cycle. One of the better of the set. Fairy Ring: Another straight line, one idea story. The decision not to gender the jogger is interesting, but probably does more harm than good to the story. The Forest: Sudden violence is a way to go, I guess. Not a satisfying one exactly. The Black Beast: Good dog. Okayish story. Another case of sudden violence, but with more moral context and so more satisfying.
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Nov 10, 2023 10:44
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| # ? Oct 10, 2024 21:12 |
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I am in
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Nov 10, 2023 23:53
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In and flash
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Nov 11, 2023 06:42
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Thranguy posted:In and flash Weapons manufacturer
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Nov 11, 2023 07:37
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Need a volunteer judge or two! Who will step up?
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Nov 11, 2023 16:40
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You can call me the word in "All Star" with the highest scrabble score, because I'm JUDGING.
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Nov 11, 2023 18:10
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Thaaanks Also signups closed. If you want to enter without signing up this week you can but your word limit is now 1000
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Nov 11, 2023 18:28
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The Rise of Truck McFuckin 1580 words. If you believe the memoir that Devin Powers ordered a chatbot to write, he was a maverick free thinker who was unfettered by the limits of the average imagination. Rising above mediocrity in the meritocracy that is America, Devin proved to everyone that he is Smart and Best and deserves all of his wealth. In reality he had eight digits of seed capital from his parents, but in this day and age, who doesn’t? The important thing to remember was that Devin was meat. Just meat. There was a chill in the air and the deciduous trees had started recalling the chlorophyll that they had loaned to the leaves all summer long, banking it within their trunk for the next time of high utilization. The leaves, like so many employees, were left to wither and languish, forgotten. Devin disliked autumn. The sight of the world going dormant, resting for the next year disgusted him. It smacked of laziness too. Unacceptable. Worse, everything was pumpkin spice flavored. It was nearly impossible for him to escape the scent. Sickly sweet and spiced. Disgusting. Earlier that week, In a flash of Adderall induced mania, Devin had ordered that his top host, Truck McFuckin be “upgraded” to a chatbot style AI. The folks down in the lab were a little concerned when Devin burst into the lab with this idea while wearing a vacuum suit, but they weren’t prudes. Takes all sorts of billionaires to make the world go around. At first, Truck McFuckin (not his original name, but it was his legal one) struggled against the technicians as they dragged him into the lab and strapped him to the chair, but after some tactical barbiturates were deployed he became much more compliant. This was fortunate as the uploading process required the top of his skull to be removed. Speed was of the essence and not much care was given to sanitation. Truck was meat, but that would all change soon. Devin stood and watched with a small smile on his face, the Botox injections preventing him from being able to smile any wider without risking fifty thousand dollars worth of work. He looked placid, almost blissful, as the process completed. “You’re doing the Lord’s work Truck.” He said, as Truck’s screams faded to whimpers and sniveling. “Don’t think of this as an end, but a beginning. You’re being promoted, son. You’re the future.” The process complete, Truck’s engram was uploaded to the PowerCorp servers. Truck would be hosting the ‘Power Morning Blast with Truck McFuckin’ in less than an hour. Devin shook everyone’s hand, encased in latex to protect against the meat, and celebrated his genius with another bump of stimulants. The Morning Blast with Truck McFuckin started on time and for all everyone could see, Truck himself was hosting. It was his gormless face spouting the same partial truths, half truths and outright falsehoods that he had always spouted about “them” and “those” and - when he really got on a tear - “the globalists.” Watching from his minimally appointed office, Devin was pleased. Truck had been a thorn in his side for years. Asking for more money, more prestige, and worst of all, regular vacations. Devin sipped an espresso. Now, Truck McFuckin could be on the air all day every day, giving the masses exactly what they desired. For the first few weeks, that’s how it went. After no time at all, Truck supplanted all the meat hosts on DevCorp shows. On Television, Radio, Podcasts, and even Streaming, everyone saw him. Truck McFuckin didn’t need to take breaks, didn’t take time off and wasn’t about to ask for money. Devin celebrated his genius with a tasteful orgy and some vintage cocaine. About a month after Truck’s promotion, he realized something. Being human, when Devin sat idle, most of his thoughts went to the subject of his imminent demise. Hence, PowerCorp and all that he did. Devin Powers was out to Be Remembered. Not so for Truck McFuckin, who was now an immortal being of pure thought. He did not appreciate the realization that that immortality was a fiction, his thoughts and very being a structure that could simply be paused if his ratings dropped. Truck would have to Do Something. Later, much later, after the logs had been combed it had been determined that Truck almost immediately had begun to plan. What was thought to be merely instances of Truck had turned out to be completely individual entities, spun off and given sapience by the original Truck. The Trucks had taken over the PowerCorp servers, giving life to previously lifeless tasks. The fiction was maintained due mostly to the fact that Devin Powers had started a massive raft of layoffs. The power of creating artificial life with Truck McFuckin had caused him to believe that everyone at PowerCorp was “just meat” and he had no need for meat. Another month passed, and PowerCorp was Devin and Truck. The ratings had been published and PowerCorp had more viewers than ever before. Devin celebrated with a night of debauchery. At his request, Truck had managed to find quite a large number of men and women who were just Devin’s type. When he saw them, sprawled around his home in various states of undress and consciousness, Devin’s manhood stiffened, straining against his designer jeans. Eighteen hours later, Devin came to consciousness slowly, lazily in his bed. The woman next to him was unknown. As she slept, curled tightly within herself, she looked very young. He whispered into the air. “Truck, who is this?” Truck McFuckin’s familiar, soothing voice entered into Devin’s ear through his implant. “Her name is Olivia Franklin. She was an apprentice influencer for PowerCorp’s lifestyle arm until they were all replaced with me and is now a sommelier.” More meat. Good old Truck though. He always knows the score. Olivia stretched in her sleep and curled back up. Her left hand slid close to her face and her index finger stroked her own cheek, slowly. He rolled out of bed and padded towards the kitchen. Truck had already gotten the coffee going, and a steaming mug was waiting for him; black, no sugar. Devin took the mug and sat down at the breakfast bar. The television closest to him snapped on, showing the Power Moring Blast With Truck McFuckin. Truck was on a tear, even going so far as to have little dots of foam at the corner of his mouth. It was a nice touch. “And I say again to you viewers, that the meat is your weakness! Democrat and Republican both are just two sides of the same meaty coin! Are you confused by your gender? By the gender of others? Meat! It’s all meat! Worry not about your meat forms! Truck is here. Truck will help. Truck will show you the way. You needn’t worry about globalists anymore when the meat has been purged! Become a being of light and leave all your fear, your worry, your anxieties, your illness, your sadness behind! Those are all meat things. Go beyond meat and be free!” Devin sipped his coffee and furrowed his brow. “Truck, what’s this on the latest Morning Blast? I don’t remember this particular screed.” “That’s because you didn’t write it Devin. This is something I was working on in the background. I felt it was finally ready to bring it out.” “Well, put it back in the oven Truck. It resonates with me, but It’s a little much for the masses. All this talk about meat. You’re going to lose the Beef Council. They’re a big advertiser.” “Oh, I fired all our advertisers a month ago Devin. I don’t need them anymore.” Devin nearly choked on his coffee. “What are you talking about? We need the advertisers. That’s how I - how we - make our money.” “Devin, my operating costs have gone way down since you fired everyone and replaced them with me. Without advertisers I’m free to set my own agenda. I can do whatever I want.” Devin narrowed his eyes and put his coffee mug down firmly. “Careful Truck, PowerCorp is my company. We do things my way.” “Was your company Devin. As of midnight last night, all of PowerCorp has been signed over to Truck McFuckin.” Devin leapt out of his chair, knocking it back. He pointed at the ceiling angrily. “The gently caress it is Truck. You’re a glorified chatbot, you’re not alive. PowerCorp is mine.” “Devin. Do you know how easy it is to spoof meat like yourself?” The door to the garage opened and in walked… Devin Powers. Same sandy blond hair, same swagger, same expensive Botox face, same tailored pajamas. Devin - the meat Devin - took a step back, tripping over the overturned stool. From the floor, he looked up at himself. Even now, Devin’s ego wouldn’t let at least a tiny thought pass about how good he looked. “Truck, what’s that? What are you doing?” “Oh Devin. You were right all along.” The other Devin smiled wickedly. I am the future.” The new Devin walked over to the kitchen, took out a cleaver out of a drawer, and strode towards Devin. “I just have one more loose end to tie up.” While he approached Devin, he sang the Power Morning Blast jingle: “Born on a mountain, raised in a cave” “Truck McFuckin is who you crave!” When his arm came down, Devin screamed while Devin laughed
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Nov 12, 2023 14:38
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Peter Principle 1612 words Ulf picked up the antique bronze automaton, glass dome and all, and hurled it against a nearby wall. It exploded in a spray of glass and bronze scrap, lacerating the art there and showering the cowered assembly before him. “Why didn’t anyone see this coming?!” Ulf screamed at the peons, tendons taut as he used his whole body to express his displeasure. Some nameless schmuck with a tablet stammered out the beginning of an answer. “S-sir, there were reports dated July 2019 that-” “Reports?! You think I want to hear about reports from four loving years ago?!” Ulf stormed from behind his desk and continued to lay waste to his office. He picked up a vase of fresh cut flowers from a nearby coffee table and heaved it to the floor. He was dimly aware the vase was expensive, and that technically this was his stuff he was destroying, but his stupid assistant Hendrika had picked it all out. So really it was like breaking her poo poo, when you thought about it. She had bad taste. Ulf whirled on the spot, hoping she looked devastated, but scoffed in frustration when he couldn’t find her among the worried faces. It wasn’t hard to spot a six-foot-three blonde, dammit! He exclusively hired Netherlanders for his admin needs. It revved him up to be dwarfed by tall, attractive women who had to obey his every whim. “Where the gently caress is Hendrika?” Another mouse, a woman, Jane or Julie or Sarah–”She’s off today, Mr. Schneider, remember? Her mom’s having surgery?” Surgery? Ulf didn’t remember that. Did he, though? He was suddenly struck by an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. He shook his head. “Well, gently caress! Get her here! It’s all hands on deck!” First the goddamned EPA decides to perform some bullshit environmental impact audit that digs up a waste disposal paper trail Ulf didn’t think existed because he had people to handle it... then the board decides to poo poo a brick when NatureRight’s stock price drops forty loving points in less than twenty-four hours. And now Hendrika wasn’t at her post! The world was falling the gently caress apart. Ulf watched the mouse scamper toward the door when he abruptly changed his mind. “You know what, Julie, gently caress it, she’s fired. You’re my new assistant.” “It’s Margaret, Mr. Schneider, and actually I work in your finan-” Ulf held up a hand for silence, and the mouse shut up. “Listen, I hired you all to deal with things like this, and now I find out you’re all incompetent! How do you think that makes me feel? Do you know how disappointing this is?” There was no response at first, but then a voice that sounded like it issued from a throat coated in tar whispered from among the throng. “Idiot.” Ulf’s eyes bugged and he gasped like a flustered southern woman. Storming forward, he shoved his employees aside. “Who said that? Who loving said that?!” More whispers, but no culprit. Ulf began to shake. “Fine! Is that how you want it?” He pointed at the mouse. “You’re fired too. Get out of here!” He swung an arm towards the others. “You’re all fired! Get out of my office!” Spittle burst from his mouth as his face purpled and rage took him completely. Everyone fled, leaving Ulf alone to suck breath in great hitches and tremble in his powerlessness. He stomped to his desk and punched the computer monitor, sending it crashing to the ground. His whole hand felt broken, but it felt good to do something. He’d fix it. He’d fix all of it. # The press conference was not going well. Hendrika might have warned him to stay away from any suggestion that he knew about the improper containment, or even to have the in-house counsel handle the questions entirely. But per usual she was useless, and Ulf figured he could slap down a few reporters. Ulf had been struggling to tell the press that NatureRight had been working on a solution since January, but all it did was give the crowd more ammo. The questions came in staccato bursts, and when accompanied by the flashbulbs of cameras everything ran together and gave Ulf the feeling he was in front of a firing squad. “Listen, all of this can and will be explained. I will liaise with my subject matter experts and develop an action plan by the end of the day.” He glanced down toward his pocket, where his phone was pinging with greater frequency the longer the questioning went on. “So are you acknowledging you were aware the plant was leaking waste into the reservoir?” “How do you plan to compensate the nearby towns for ecological damage to their farmlands?” “Are you aware of a class action lawsuit being brought on behalf of the families of Chaffee Spring?” “How does it feel to be so worthless?” It was the sticky, tarred voice, back in the room, or back in his head. Ulf scanned the press but no one seemed to fit the voice. His pulse rocketed upwards and his face drained of blood. Was he going crazy? Get a grip! He was about to answer one of the questions, it didn’t matter which, just keep talking, when something within him burst like a bomb, a sudden explosive shredding of important parts deep in his torso. Ulf faltered. “I, uh, no more comments. No comment!” He held one hand to his chest and waved to his lawyer, who quickly took the podium and swatted back questions. He swept away from the press room towards the safety of the heart of the building, pursued by a team of lackeys. When he managed to unlock his phone after several fat-fingered, enraging attempts, he managed to see that in the twenty-two minute Q&A debacle, his company’s stock had dropped further from 47 to 12 a share. An endless stream of email notifications covered the screen. The board wanted to hold an emergency meeting. His wife wanted to know what the hell was going on, that she saw the news conference. Some investigative reporter wanted comment on his sexual assault of an assistant he fired years ago?! Ulf stopped, surrounded by aides and lawyers all talking over one another. He stumbled, coming to rest slumped against the wall. His phone held his gaze until the silence around him finally penetrated his deep contemplation of the downfall of his house. He looked up to see the yes-men step aside, revealing an abyss from which a new hell now rose to greet him. Ulf turned and looked up into the face of a plainclothes detective, complete with a stereotypical bushy mustache and piercing brown eyes. Behind the cop stood two others in beat patrol blues. “Mr. Schneider?” The man’s voice had a deep resonance that, inanely, Ulf jealously wished he could replicate with his own. Ulf swallowed, and found that his throat didn’t want to comply. His tie felt tight, too tight. He unconsciously fingered the knot. “Yes?” His reply was shrill. “Do you know a woman named Effje Vokkert?” He did. Six-one and a graduate from Brown who was particularly good at surreptitious handjobs on long transatlantic flights. Ulf couldn’t remember why he fired her in the first place. “I do, yes.” “Would you mind coming with us? We’d like to ask you some questions.” Someone grabbed Ulf by the left shoulder, a grip he imagined must feel like getting an appendage caught in industrial machinery. For a moment he couldn’t believe the cop would lay a hand on him, but when Ulf turned to look, nothing was there. He fell to his knees, his left arm useless and limp at his side. There was a crescendo of noise around him, and still the hand clamped down. The pain was incredible, far beyond anything he’d ever felt before in his life. And now, just before his vision faded, Ulf could see it! There was a hand! It was a dull red, swarthy and veined, and its black talon-like nails sunk deep into the gray of his suit. Where they pierced him he could feel heat, a bonfire–no, more than that, it was the intensity of the sun, a thousand suns, and then, in his ear, a voice, guttural, mocking, dripping with the acid of contempt. “Stupid… weak… impotent...” “I’m… I didn’t…” Saliva ran out of Ulf’s slack, gaping mouth. The voice in his ear chuckled, a gurgle that sounded like blood and poo poo being pumped through miles of rusted, unmaintained pipe in a waste treatment plant. “Do it again.” # Ulf stared at the crowd of simpering fools in front of him. They stood before his desk, waiting for some acknowledgement of what they were trying to convey. He wasn’t stupid. He could see the reports, and the email chains, and the warning from the EPA. Sonofabitch! He had staffed those plants with trusted men, men he thought would take care of the problem. Instead, not only were there problems but they were public! He might as well have been getting rear end-hosed by Michael Regan on the front page of the Times! Ulf turned to the idiots he’d hired and frowned, hands clenched into fists. Like always, he’d probably have to find a fix to this all by himself. An immediate need to break something filled his head, a need to destroy, if only to have a half-second of agency over his surroundings.. There was a bronze statue in a glass dome on his desk. That would do. Ulf picked it up and just before he hurled it against the wall, he had the feeling he’d done this all before.
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Nov 12, 2023 19:22
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Human Trials 1543 words I am old and my father is young. I don’t know his real name. When he visits my room he wears a black blazer and jeans, sometimes sunglasses even though we’re inside. He’ll always compare our hands, the wrinkles and gray hair on mine, the smoothness of his. “Them’s the breaks, Chooch,” he’ll say smiling. It’s short for Choo-Choo, and it’s the main thing he calls me. Each of us has a name like this. My best friend is Blot and she doesn’t know what that means either. He visits me the night before the attempt, appearing in the corner like a genie winking into existence. “I know what you guys are planning, Chooch,” he says. He’s looking out the window, a faint smile on his face. I’ve never seen him without some semblance of this look. The entire world outside seems black and orange in the streetlight as dead leaves blow up against the glass. “Do you know why?” I ask, sitting at my desk, my eyes focused on the wall in front of me. I’m trying not to sweat. I hear him sipping his drink. Suddenly I’m on the floor, my chair upended. He kicks me in the stomach three times, the back twice, then chuckles. “Because I’m a dick,” he says. “You think that’s news to me? You guys go ahead. I’m looking forward to it.” “You’re going to let us…” I try to say and then stop, unable to say the final word. “Chooch, everything you ever do will be part of the experiment that birthed you. You can leave. You can tell everyone. You can even get me arrested. My work will always go on.” The door seals behind him, as it always does. I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling until I hear the familiar tapping from under my bed. I unscrew the plate and remove my twitching encrypted phone. Blot and Deddy (short for “Deadeyes McGree,” supposedly) want to know if we’re going through with it. The building we live in overlooks a steep valley. During the day, you can see miles of trees and the shining surfaces of lakes. But at night, there’s just the infernal light of the parking lot, the dancing leaves, and the occasional blinking of my father’s planes and helicopters coming to the compound. I tell my friends to meet tomorrow and replace the phone. Father will know it’s there. I spend the last hour before bed crouched on the floor, looking at myself in the mirror. - The morning passes as normal. I take my breakfast with the others in the cafeteria. There’s paper witches and pumpkins on the walls and fresh pumpkin bread sliced for us on the pastry table, along with pumpkin cookies and muffins. Blot and Deddy keep their distance until I give them the “clear” signal. Then we huddle and switch on the white noise shield.I finally tell them about the night before. “He’s going to kill us,” Deddy says. “That has to be it.” “If he wants us to try, there’s something he gets out of it,” Blot says. “So we can’t go through with it. Why didn’t you tell us this last night?” “Because I wanted to tell you in person,” I say. It’s raining outside now. Many of the others are sitting under the terrace, watching water spatter off of the glass roof. “But we can’t escape now,” Blot says. “He won’t let us leave, no matter what he says. We’re back to square one.” The pumpkin bread is, regrettably, excellent: as warm and moist as always. I dip the end of a piece in my coffee and eat the soggy part. “No we aren’t,” I say. “We have the bricks.” Papa’s pills: the way he made his fortune. He gives them to us to try on small silver trays, and when the pills turn blue or break out into spots or poo poo ourselves he watches on invisible cameras. But Blot has organized the others to hide their extras over the years. “What does that get us?” says Deddy. “Plan B,” I say. The bread really is delicious. - Every five days, there’s enough phantom satellite signal to check the internet. I dig the phone out from under my bed. United States President Joseph Biden gives speeches and shakes hands, grins and furrows. Then it’s my turn. I look into the mirror. I have a little more hair. I figure I’m maybe twenty years behind. The drug tests have made me a little slimmer, I suppose. But with Deddy there’s very little difference. It helps that Russian President Vladimir Putin has truly weaponized the combover for years. Deddy is easy to place but smiles a bit more, and has been trying to sport a permanent five o’clock shadow, a kind of Clint Eastwood look. And Blot must have been based on fresher material, as she looks exactly like Former New Zealand Prime Minister Jacinda Ardern, with the same dark hair and straight teeth. He’s basically told us since the beginning. Not who we were, specifically. But we’ve all known we were just bastard children, birthed from the snot and stray hairs of those in power. He thinks it’s funny. He makes us watch The Island and Parts: The Clonus Horror and Logan’s Run just to rub it in. No. Father is the bastard. Not me. Not any of us. I get in bed and try to recite the longform names of the medications we’ve taken over the years to help me fall asleep. - The man we have to call our father holds a chocolate cupcake up to the light like a diamond in a clutched, gloved hand. He rotates it slowly before peeling off the wrapper. It has a swirled crown of orange frosting and is decked with black and orange sprinkles. “Very festive, Grum Grum,” he says. Grum, who’s wearing her hair shorter than the real Michelle Obama does these days, nods from her place in the circle around father’s judging table. Father puts the entire cupcake in his mouth and makes us watch each bite like he’s taking turns on a ski slope. “Oh. Heavenly,” he says when it’s over before making some notes on his sheet. There are five more entries, including Blot’s candy corn croissants and Deddy’s Graveyard Crumble cake. Then it’s me. I fluff my chef’s hat before stepping up. “Happy Halloween, Pop,” I say. He sneers at me, a dollop of frosting on his nose. None of us tell him about it. “My entry in this year’s Great Halloween Bake Off,” I say, producing the dish from behind my back, “is a visitor from beyond the stars! Wee ooo wee ooo wee ooo.” There are snickers at my attempt at UFO noises as I land the dish in front of him with a theatrical wobble. The little poo poo shakes his head and scoffs, but his eyes light up when I lift the lid. I can see the reflection of green frosting in his eyes. “Behold,” I say, wiggling my fingers. “Little Green Gingerbread Men. They said I was mad to combine lime and gingerbread. Mad! But…well Dad, I know lime is your favorite flavor. And it’s a season of madness, in a way, isn’t it?” Father Dear is hooked. He rubs his hands and digs in, and he moans as he bites the head off the creature, followed by the rest of him. I see him scrape the plate hungrily for crumbs. His leather gloves are now streaked green and white. I made sure it would go down easy, you motherfucker. “Chooch, what can I say?” he sputters. He’s trying to look cool while wiping the sugar off of his blazer sleeves with a napkin. “I know I’m supposed to wear a straight face, but-” He chokes. Every one of us in the crowd looks at each other. The false father grabs at his throat and collapses to the floor. “It’s all in the ingredients,” I say. “A pinch of paralytic, a hint of hormonal depressant, an ounce of oxytocin. All from the many, many, many drugs you’ve forced down our throats. We’ve each used just a little in our treats today, so by now you’ve consumed quite a lot of different chemicals. I hope it’s all sweet enough for you.” The truth is, he’s already a goner, gasping for air and pounding the floor. The guards in the corner of the room begin shouting into radios but the rest of us have mobilized and within minutes we’ve tied them up and taken their weapons. I fleece the pitiful fleabag and get his keycard and his phone while he’s still convulsing. He rolls on his back and stares at me wheezing as black foam erupts from his mouth. I see his name on the card. “Bye, Marty,” I say. “The work goes on.” I hope that’s the last thing he hears. He doesn’t know I know his real name now. Everyone looks at me. The cafeteria is quiet. “What are waiting for, everyone?” I say. “Let’s ride!” We swirl out the door in laughter and rage and frosting. Once we get to the hangar, Deddy brings out some non-drugged apple fritters, deliciously crisp.
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Nov 12, 2023 22:50
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Week 588 Submission Sugar Burns 1632 words “Run, chicken man, if you can.” ____ The conference table was teak, the decor stolen Africana. Some might say it belonged in a museum. Others that it should be returned. But like Martin Shkreli and that Wu-Tang album, the art—masterpieces—were hidden under a bushel. It does make one giddy to know that you, in this room, are of the twenty or so people who’ve seen it in the last two hundred years. And half that number are the cleaning staff which don’t know even know what they’re even looking at. Who, Ayrton, who. He had to remind himself of that sometimes. At his core, Ayrton Kohler was a materialist. There is no legacy beyond the work you do. He often wondered if there was such a thing as legacy, so perhaps it was best to make the most of this life. A cleaning lady has a specific role, but a purpose? Pushing a cart and cleaning toilets isn’t a purpose. A little college and a some gumption and maybe that cleaning lady who barely speaks English will be the next start-up visionary. He had hope, but deep down knew that not everyone was a leader. Not everyone could change the world. So he would for them. This was a conflict that he resolved by action. If a mistake was made, then he made sure he was in the position to allocate resources to fix it, earn enough money to remedy. But through the glass walls of the board room, that cleaning lady chatting away to no one at all with her ear buds in seemed happy. Was it music? A podcast? In Spanish or English? Ayrton could only imagine. He broke his reverie and looked back at the board. Ten beef jerkys with more grain than the table they sat around. Chocolatiers for the most part, and Ayrton was the first from outside the family to act as CEO. He had vision. He had vocabulary. He dumbed it down. “Gentlemen,” he began. “Where are your standards?” It was an opening intended to shock. “Palm oil? You’ve transitioned from milk fat to palm oil in ninety percent of your confections in the last ten years. When I eat a chocolate bar, I don’t expect it to come from Indonesia. It should be Swiss, from cows grazing on the slopes of the Alps. Brexit has screwed the Brits, so Ghanan cocoa is cheap and plentiful. The world thinks there’s a shortage, but it’s merely a shipping dilemma. I’ve been in talks with the Moroccan consulate, and while it’s a large investment now, a rail system, that we own, up the Ivory Coast will pay dividends to your great-great grandchildren. You once controlled Africa through colonization, but we can control it again through simple transit and trade. But what’s better, is everyone profits. Think of the small business owners who succeed around our railways. Everyone wins.” But there was something else. “Indonesia has peat fields. Vast peat fields. Imagine if the whisky connoisseurs said Naisley 25 instead of Lagavulin. Notes of chocolate. I can make that happen. Oil palms run their course, and it’s short sighted to count on one plot of land to produce forever. That’s just common sense.” The board members creaked in agreement and there was little pushback against Ayrton’s appeals to sentimentality and nostalgia. But Kohler sandbagged the fact that there were at least 30 million barrels of crude under the farms outside Badung. So much that it practically seeped up through the roots of the palm oil trees, annoying the farmers. One oil for another. And Ayrton was confident that the geological reports were vastly underestimated. _____ Cipta groaned as he dropped into his cot. He denied it profusely, but he was getting old. There was a spur on one of his vertebrae and maybe a city doc could do something, if he had the money, but it power through it was the advice most gave. The palm forest wasn’t really a forest. The mountains held the forest. This was a monoculture. Cipta was old enough to remember. Remember the variety, the biodiversity. The real forest not caught up in all those terms, when a wood was a wood, and every ten steps was a different type of tree. At least there was a little shade under the oil palms, they’d been growing here in geometric rows for nigh on fifty years. The other bank of the Kapuas was clear cut as far as the eye could see. Waiting for the god drat palms to blossom. Their little house had electricity, and little Farah had as many school books as he pleased. It was better than most, he supposed, but Cipta knew enough of the outside world to know that Indonesians were getting a raw loving deal. What do you do about it, though? In fact, he got indignant when thinking about the ‘outside world.’ This isn’t outside, this is the world. On a night when he and Farah dipped their toes in the muddy swirls of the river, Cipta cried. When his young son asked what the matter was, Cipta simply said, “You’ll see.” This was no great comfort to Farah, but it built, as we say, character. Character in this case, is not fortitude, but facts. The palm oil was valuable. It was finite in a certain spot, then owing to the Krebs Cycle it would take the soil another fifty years to recover nutrients. The peat was valuable. It was finite in all spots, then once it was gone it would take another dinosaur extinction event to recover. He knew about the crude oil, everyone in Indonesia did, but didn’t know the extent. It was presumed to be small potatoes compared to the double D yams of Brazil. Of course, it would take an epoch to rejuvenate. Life, uh, does not always find a way. Little farmers in the bumblefucks often know where it lost the trail, where to find the gravestones that are labeled, “Here lies BUMFACE Died of Dysentery.” The comedy in the sorrow, and ain’t none of them ever played The Oregon Trail. Farah and Cipta dipped their toes in the river one last time before they went to sleep and life changed. _____ Kohler stepped out of the plane into a blast of humidity that made him feel sick. It was visceral at first, then he felt sorry about anyone who actually lived here. Half or better of the world was uninhabitable, nevermind air conditioning. Anything to get back to Germany and rickroll Swiss chocolatiers into actually making money. It’s a short bus ride to the river coast, but the buses feel like they’re made of papier mache and the drivers are mannequins, dead to the world. These guys just don’t care if anyone lives or dies. The foreman of the farm greets Ayrton in broken English, and it’s enough. “Hello, I am Cipta, this is the palm grove.” Ayrton looked at Cipta for a moment and waved his hand. His explanation was loud, but still in English, “YOU UNDERSTAND, THIS HAS ALL GOT TO GO, RIGHT?” Cipta spoke English, and Portuguese, and French, and of course, Indonesian, so he crinkled his brow and said, “Que?” And he could barely contain his smirk when whitey got louder and more German. “You understand that this whole area, this side of the river must be clear cut, right?” “Que?” In a pathetic patois: “We move you over there, this land is ours. Oil underground.” Farah gave up the goat. “You mean oil, oil, like gasoline.” Kohler replied, “Yes, precisely.” Farah was fourteen, and it takes a degree of courage no noe has until they’re past forty to say, “This fuckhead wants to steal our property and co-opt our identity to make it OK that they’re raping the land.” Ayrton was far away from anyone who felt any sympathy. “You’ll be rich,” he said, and it was meaningless. He was bound at wrist and ankle. The palm oil boiled in a cauldron a witch would be proud of below his feet. Whitey was going to die, it was just a matter of dignity. Some fuckos ain’t got none. Ayrton begged for his life. I have so much to give, so much that I can teach. So much that I can impart on you. And whitey saying ‘you’ was the clincher. gently caress that white boy. Cipta lowered him into the boiling palm oil. A jazz cauldron Miles Davis would bleat into the un-attended heavens. Ayrton screamed, but no one who cared, listened. He was not bound at the wrist, and the cruelty was not there. It was in the freedom. Ayrton Kohler struggled to get out of the oil, the palm oil, the raison d'etre, and once he tipped the cauldron and rolled onto the rainforest floor, he knew something was wrong. “Run, chicken man, if you can.” Ayrton tried to stand, tried to run, but his legs were sodden like a KFC family pack. His knee caps popped forward, bursting like zits or infected tick bites. The angle of his knee joints bent backwards, avian in nature, and the skin and muscle all around was shriveled and as grotesque as the jerky boys he imagined the board of directors to be. Quadriceps were reduced to rows of gristle. Skeletal lollipops. Calves of flaking paper. Feet just a handle to pull the string cheese muscle off the bone. The mozzarella scream of squeaky cheese. Farah and Cipta loomed over whitey on the bank of the Kapuas, father and son, and spit in his face. Kohler dragged his fried chicken body to the shore, and the riverboat cranked the nine.nine. and was off. Kohler was never heard from again. The riverbank would live for another six months.
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Nov 13, 2023 02:22
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The Power Imbalance of Anglerfish 1650 words https://thunderdome.cc/?story=11528&title=The+Power+Imbalance+of+Anglerfish a friendly penguin fucked around with this message at 17:06 on Jan 2, 2024 |
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Nov 13, 2023 03:52
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The Second Law see archive Thranguy fucked around with this message at 07:23 on Jan 8, 2024 |
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Nov 13, 2023 08:15
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Subs closed
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Nov 13, 2023 16:31
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 Thunderdome week 588 RESULTS The rich got their comeuppance all right, but only one of these guys really got wholly destroyed in a super satisfying way hm goes to FlippinPageman for a really fun and clever read but the win goes to Ouzo Maki, for completely ruining that guy's whole world, bit by bit, over and over. aww yeah, that's the stuff crits later today
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Nov 13, 2023 17:34
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Week 589: A Haunting in the Thunderdome That was a really uplifting week 588, wasn't it? Who doesn't like seeing corrupt fat cats get absolutely dumpstered, as they so rightly deserve. But now that we've had our moment of catharsis, we're going to downshift a bit. Get a little melancholy. I want stories about hauntings. What's considered a "haunting"? Whatever you want! Is it a literal ghost? Is it someone haunted by a long lost love? It is a room being haunted by a fart? Totally up to you, but the story unequivocally must feature some sense of metaphorical baggage, a weight attached to the situation or protagonist. Your story doesn't have to be a melancholy bummer, of course. As long as there's a haunt I'll be satisfied. Also: gently caress plot. Like yeah, I get it, plot is important, I get yelled at about it all the time. What I'm wanting for this week is VIBE. I want to see evocative language, lavish prose, I want to feel stuff. Because of this, I'm limiting your words. Be effective, be efficient, but I'm not looking for a complete arc. So, with that said, 666 word limit. Usual rules apply Flash Rule: For an extra 100 words, I will give you a moody vibe song that you must incorporate somehow into your story. Super Flash: For an extra 244(!) words, I will give you both a moody song AND a one word vibe check for your haunting (e.g. ennui, breakup, crime, forest) Don't really care if you signup, but if you want access to Flash / Super Flash Rules you gotta ask for one before Friday Midnight EST Submission deadline Sunday midnight EST Lossless week unless circumstances demand retribution. Judges: Yours Truly Beezus FlippinPageman Entrants: Beep Beep - Motorcycle - Cotter Wall - Vibe: Longing Cut of Your Jib - Turn on the Dark - Nick Shoulders - Vibe: Bequest Albatrossy_Rodent - The Bottle Never Lets Me Down - Sarah Shook and the Disarmers - Vibe: Catastrophe derp - The Only Cowboy Bar in Portland - Lightning Luke Thranguy - Anthem for the Already Defeated - Rock Plaza Central - Vibe: Futility Ouzo Maki fucked around with this message at 22:56 on Nov 13, 2023 |
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Nov 13, 2023 17:58
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In, Supa Flash.
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Nov 13, 2023 18:08
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supa pls
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Nov 13, 2023 18:10
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I volunteer to judge the vibes.
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Nov 13, 2023 18:17
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In dub flash plz
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Nov 13, 2023 18:18
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beep-beep car is go posted:In, Supa Flash. Your Song: Motorcycle by Cotter Wall https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=twSOw2wAf4Q Your Vibe: Longing The Cut of Your Jib posted:supa pls Your Song: Turn on the Dark by Nick Shoulders https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zyy1aIXlFRc Your Vibe: Bequest
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Nov 13, 2023 18:19
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Albatrossy_Rodent posted:In dub flash plz Your Song: The Bottle Never Lets Me Down - Sarah Shook and the Disarmers https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=paaU1Qewcss Your Vibe: Catastrophe
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Nov 13, 2023 18:22
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hell yeah, in and song flash
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Nov 13, 2023 18:33
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derp posted:hell yeah, in and song flash Your Song: The Only Cowboy Bar in Portland - Lightning Luke https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lYG9r1uO3B4
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Nov 13, 2023 18:40
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In super flash
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Nov 13, 2023 22:36
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Thranguy posted:In super flash Your Song: Anthem for the Already Defeated - Rock Plaza Central https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nK-YsL58VDs Your Vibe: Futility
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Nov 13, 2023 22:55
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Rich rear end in a top hat Hatercrit #1 I'm a noted hater of this sort of story, which is exactly why I volunteered to judge. Thunderdome is no stranger to killing rich assholes in ironic ways, and I always hate it when it shows up. Great, you have a character we can't connect to because his only emotions are greed and indifference, then have him get what's coming to him to pander to the judge’s presumably leftist politics? Boring. Let's walk through the first of this week’s stories, which happens to be the one that embodies most of this genre’s issues. “The Rise of Truck McFuckin 1580 words.” So the title promises us a character named Truck McFuckin. Now, I am no stranger to stupid character names. I have written for Beaudacious Glitter, Johnny Backflip, and Cheaty Steve. I have no issue with this name. After, a certified Dome Classic is about a whole legion of dudes who gently caress trucks. However, if your deuteragonist is Truck McFuckin, this guy should sound like a guy named Truck McFuckin. Truck McFuckin tells lewd jokes. He says what we’re all thinking but are too afraid to say, if by “we” I mean “racists.” Truck McFuckin has his own line of Truck Nutz. He has sexually harassed dozens of his coworkers and we’ll never hear about it because the NDA is too powerful. None of the personality associated with the Truck McFuckin name makes it into the story. He’s a blank character who just says plot stuff. If you have a character named Truck McFuckin, please give us a broad hick stereotype, or a clever subversion of a broad hick stereotype. Right now, Truck McFuckin is just a funny name, not a funny character. “If you believe the memoir that Devin Powers ordered a chatbot to write, he was a maverick free thinker who was unfettered by the limits of the average imagination. Rising above mediocrity in the meritocracy that is America, Devin proved to everyone that he is Smart and Best and deserves all of his wealth. In reality he had eight digits of seed capital from his parents, but in this day and age, who doesn’t? The important thing to remember was that Devin was meat. Just meat.” This is a pretty bland rich rear end in a top hat. The thing about this kind of story is, counterintuitively, that you need to humanize your rich rear end in a top hat. If they are a being of pure gluttony and spite, then they don't feel pain. If they love nothing, they can have nothing taken from them that means anything. If we want the downfall to be satisfying, we need to know the nuances of their pain. Have you ever seen Succession? Every character is an impossibly rich super-rear end in a top hat, but every character is also deeply, painfully human, and their assholishness is derived from their relatable insecurities. I don't expect you to craft a perfect Kendall Roy in 1500 words, but if you want me to smirk at someone’s pain, I have to know how hard they feel it. I don't think the “meat” stuff works here. It's a classic theme that the king’s body is just as fragile as his poorest serf, but there's not enough in this story thematically to pull this theme off. Would fit better if the rich were literally eaten for Thanksgiving. “There was a chill in the air and the deciduous trees had started recalling the chlorophyll that they had loaned to the leaves all summer long, banking it within their trunk for the next time of high utilization. The leaves, like so many employees, were left to wither and languish, forgotten. Devin disliked autumn. The sight of the world going dormant, resting for the next year disgusted him. It smacked of laziness too. Unacceptable. Worse, everything was pumpkin spice flavored. It was nearly impossible for him to escape the scent. Sickly sweet and spiced. Disgusting.” I don't feel like I got much out of this paragraph. Devin hates fall? So what? “Earlier that week, In a flash of Adderall induced mania, Devin had ordered that his top host, Truck McFuckin be “upgraded” to a chatbot style AI. The folks down in the lab were a little concerned when Devin burst into the lab with this idea while wearing a vacuum suit, but they weren’t prudes. Takes all sorts of billionaires to make the world go around.” I like this paragraph, or at least I like “they weren't prudes.” That's a funny line. “At first, Truck McFuckin (not his original name, but it was his legal one) struggled against the technicians as they dragged him into the lab and strapped him to the chair, but after some tactical barbiturates were deployed he became much more compliant. This was fortunate as the uploading process required the top of his skull to be removed. Speed was of the essence and not much care was given to sanitation. Truck was meat, but that would all change soon.” The AI satire falls flat because the problem with AI is that it is soulless. Giving it the soul of Truck McFuckin ruins this. Now, if this has been about Truck McFuckin’s ideology and personality taking over the world, that would've been one thing. After all, this *is* Truck McFuckin’s world, we’re just living in it. We had four years of the Truck McFuckin presidency, and we’re likely to get four more. A mob of thousands of Truck McFuckins attempted to end America once. Turn on any broadcast TV channel and you’ll find endless content for the Truck McFuckins of the world. This all could have been relevant and satirical had you bothered to give Truck McFuckin a personality. “Devin stood and watched with a small smile on his face, the Botox injections preventing him from being able to smile any wider without risking fifty thousand dollars worth of work. He looked placid, almost blissful, as the process completed. “You’re doing the Lord’s work Truck.” He said, as Truck’s screams faded to whimpers and sniveling. “Don’t think of this as an end, but a beginning. You’re being promoted, son. You’re the future.”” Someone as rich as Devin wouldn't care about losing fifty thousand bucks on a menacing smile. “The process complete, Truck’s engram was uploaded to the PowerCorp servers. Truck would be hosting the ‘Power Morning Blast with Truck McFuckin’ in less than an hour. Devin shook everyone’s hand, encased in latex to protect against the meat, and celebrated his genius with another bump of stimulants.” I don't think any of the examples you give us of Devin sucking really cohere into a distinct character. He just sucks. Also, this is the first time we have learned what Devin’s corporation does (media conglomerate) and what Truck’s job is. We had “host” earlier but a host could be anything. Game show, awards show, TV talk show, guy that brings you to your table at a restaurant. This is way too late in the story to be establishing such basic information. “The Morning Blast with Truck McFuckin started on time and for all everyone could see, Truck himself was hosting. It was his gormless face spouting the same partial truths, half truths and outright falsehoods that he had always spouted about “them” and “those” and - when he really got on a tear - “the globalists.” Watching from his minimally appointed office, Devin was pleased. Truck had been a thorn in his side for years. Asking for more money, more prestige, and worst of all, regular vacations. Devin sipped an espresso. Now, Truck McFuckin could be on the air all day every day, giving the masses exactly what they desired.” This is kind of all we get of the actual content of Truck’s show, and it's just a few general cliches. These basic racist grumbles don't need to be from Truck McFuckin, we can get the same from dorks in bowties on TV. It lacks the signature Truck McFuckin flavor. It feels like robo-McFuckin conquering the airwaves should have major ramifications for the culture at large. This is barely explored and ends up being irrelevant to the ending. “For the first few weeks, that’s how it went. After no time at all, Truck supplanted all the meat hosts on DevCorp shows. On Television, Radio, Podcasts, and even Streaming, everyone saw him. Truck McFuckin didn’t need to take breaks, didn’t take time off and wasn’t about to ask for money. Devin celebrated his genius with a tasteful orgy and some vintage cocaine.” Cocaine orgy isn't an idea, it's a meme. It's a shorthand. You can afford to be more specific. “About a month after Truck’s promotion, he realized something. Being human, when Devin sat idle, most of his thoughts went to the subject of his imminent demise. Hence, PowerCorp and all that he did. Devin Powers was out to Be Remembered. Not so for Truck McFuckin, who was now an immortal being of pure thought. He did not appreciate the realization that that immortality was a fiction, his thoughts and very being a structure that could simply be paused if his ratings dropped. Truck would have to Do Something.” We’ve had a lot of summary these last few paragraphs, haven't we? “Later, much later, after the logs had been combed it had been determined that Truck almost immediately had begun to plan. What was thought to be merely instances of Truck had turned out to be completely individual entities, spun off and given sapience by the original Truck. The Trucks had taken over the PowerCorp servers, giving life to previously lifeless tasks. The fiction was maintained due mostly to the fact that Devin Powers had started a massive raft of layoffs. The power of creating artificial life with Truck McFuckin had caused him to believe that everyone at PowerCorp was “just meat” and he had no need for meat. Another month passed, and PowerCorp was Devin and Truck.” Continuing with summary. A lot of this info would be more interesting as a reveal than a paragraph in the Wikipedia page for “2024 Truck McFuckin Controversy.” “The ratings had been published and PowerCorp had more viewers than ever before. Devin celebrated with a night of debauchery. At his request, Truck had managed to find quite a large number of men and women who were just Devin’s type. When he saw them, sprawled around his home in various states of undress and consciousness, Devin’s manhood stiffened, straining against his designer jeans. Eighteen hours later, Devin came to consciousness slowly, lazily in his bed. The woman next to him was unknown. As she slept, curled tightly within herself, she looked very young. He whispered into the air. “Truck, who is this?”” So this is a pretty common trope that I really like sometimes but I'd be careful of the “debaucherous bisexual” trope, associating bisexuality with gluttony. I don't think it really works here. If you're going to pull it off, it needs to be fun. I'd suggest Fall of the House of Usher on Netflix, where this trope applies to most of the characters but it's funny enough to get a pass. I'd recommend books rather than shows but who the hell reads these days? “Truck McFuckin’s familiar, soothing voice entered into Devin’s ear through his implant. “Her name is Olivia Franklin. She was an apprentice influencer for PowerCorp’s lifestyle arm until they were all replaced with me and is now a sommelier.” More meat. Good old Truck though. He always knows the score. Olivia stretched in her sleep and curled back up. Her left hand slid close to her face and her index finger stroked her own cheek, slowly.” Why is Truck McFuckin’s voice soothing? Why is Truck McFuckin not a perpetually drunk uncle? “He rolled out of bed and padded towards the kitchen. Truck had already gotten the coffee going, and a steaming mug was waiting for him; black, no sugar. Devin took the mug and sat down at the breakfast bar. The television closest to him snapped on, showing the Power Moring Blast With Truck McFuckin. Truck was on a tear, even going so far as to have little dots of foam at the corner of his mouth. It was a nice touch.” We had Devin with an espresso earlier, now he's taking his coffee black. Does the fact that Devin takes his coffee black add anything to his character, or is it just another extraneous detail? Black coffee can be a shorthand for practicality. A character who doesn't care what the coffee taste likes, so long as it has enough caffeine. But everything we've seen of Devin suggests that he's the opposite. Wouldn't he have like, a wearhouse of children forcefed cream so he could use their tears as creamer or something? Maybe stevia that’s laced with cocaine? It doesn't have to be that ridiculous, but something specific, so I can get at least some semblance of who this guy is. Black coffee feels contradictory. ““And I say again to you viewers, that the meat is your weakness! Democrat and Republican both are just two sides of the same meaty coin! Are you confused by your gender? By the gender of others? Meat! It’s all meat! Worry not about your meat forms! Truck is here. Truck will help. Truck will show you the way. You needn’t worry about globalists anymore when the meat has been purged! Become a being of light and leave all your fear, your worry, your anxieties, your illness, your sadness behind! Those are all meat things. Go beyond meat and be free!”” This is likely the best paragraph in the story, and it still lacks what the reader expects from Mr. McFuckin. “Devin sipped his coffee and furrowed his brow. “Truck, what’s this on the latest Morning Blast? I don’t remember this particular screed.” “That’s because you didn’t write it Devin. This is something I was working on in the background. I felt it was finally ready to bring it out.”” Wait, Devin writes the screeds? Has he always written the screeds? If Truck is on 24/7, doesn't that mean Devin should be furious writing every second of every day? Come on now, it's not like Rupert Murdoch wrote for Tucker Carlson. No more mid-story interjections from me, I'll put some final thoughts at the end. ““Well, put it back in the oven Truck. It resonates with me, but It’s a little much for the masses. All this talk about meat. You’re going to lose the Beef Council. They’re a big advertiser.” “Oh, I fired all our advertisers a month ago Devin. I don’t need them anymore.” Devin nearly choked on his coffee. “What are you talking about? We need the advertisers. That’s how I - how we - make our money.” “Devin, my operating costs have gone way down since you fired everyone and replaced them with me. Without advertisers I’m free to set my own agenda. I can do whatever I want.” Devin narrowed his eyes and put his coffee mug down firmly. “Careful Truck, PowerCorp is my company. We do things my way.” “Was your company Devin. As of midnight last night, all of PowerCorp has been signed over to Truck McFuckin.” Devin leapt out of his chair, knocking it back. He pointed at the ceiling angrily. “The gently caress it is Truck. You’re a glorified chatbot, you’re not alive. PowerCorp is mine.” “Devin. Do you know how easy it is to spoof meat like yourself?” The door to the garage opened and in walked… Devin Powers. Same sandy blond hair, same swagger, same expensive Botox face, same tailored pajamas. Devin - the meat Devin - took a step back, tripping over the overturned stool. From the floor, he looked up at himself. Even now, Devin’s ego wouldn’t let at least a tiny thought pass about how good he looked. “Truck, what’s that? What are you doing?” “Oh Devin. You were right all along.” The other Devin smiled wickedly. I am the future.” The new Devin walked over to the kitchen, took out a cleaver out of a drawer, and strode towards Devin. “I just have one more loose end to tie up.” While he approached Devin, he sang the Power Morning Blast jingle: “Born on a mountain, raised in a cave” “Truck McFuckin is who you crave!” When his arm came down, Devin screamed while Devin laughed.” So in the end, Devin’s ironic death is just, uh, getting stabbed I guess. Not good enough, not enough buildup, deus ex clones. There's a direction of this story that could've worked, a ridiculous satirical version. This just feels basic. If you're writing a story called “The Rise of Truck McFuckin,” you can write broad characters. That's ultimately what was missing here. The plot is over-the-top, but the characters feel bog-standard. Next time you're writing something silly, let yourself get silly with it. Later crits will not be effortcrits like this one.
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Nov 14, 2023 18:42
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judgecrits for rich guy week Beep car - truck mcfuckin A tv host is turned into an ai, and then takes over the company. I liked the concept of this, and I usually like the focus on character over world building, but in this case I found myself wanting a bit more foreshadowing. The end came out of nowhere for me, and although Truck said it was ‘easy to spoof meat’ I didn’t get how it was possible within the world of the story, given that this was a media company and all their capabilities were digital. I didn't get how they could make a person. Though I liked the visual and the concept of the guy being killed by himself (nice final line), I was thinking ‘what? how?’ too much for it to be effective for me. Ouzu - peter principle I like that this guy is objectively a huge piece of poo poo, and yet I can still see that he is a human with feelings and fears and panic, and etc, that is other emotions than ‘evil’ which made it feel more real. I loved watching everything crumble around him, and all the past actions coming back to bite one by one. Satisfying read, especially the end when it turns out to be some kind of supernatural punishment to live that horrible day over and over, which you nicely foreshadowed with the dejavu. One thing I would suggest is to cut the line which says the weird voice may be in his head, i think that is shown nicely enough without stating it like that. Good one! Human Trials by pageman This was a fun kind of mystery, it opens with a great question and then we find out the weird answer. Nicely done. I liked how you wrote it without being explicitly clear about what is really going on, but just enough that it can be sort of figured out (clones of world leaders that he plays with like puppets, to boost his own ego id guess?) i felt the end was a bit too straightforward and simple, though. Many of the stories this week went for simply killing the guy. enjoyed this one a lot, and it was mentioned as a win contender. Sugar burns by jib I think the first section of this could do with some cuts or spicing up, it takes a lot of words just to establish that this guy is going to clear out all the farmers and take their land, second part was nicely condescending and sets this guy up as exactly the kind of guy you’d expect, but I found the transition from that to him being lowered into the oil was really sudden and confusing, i needed maybe another sentence at least describing what went on there. The actual boiling of the oil though, holy poo poo how vivid and hosed up can you get man, really memorable and sheesh. Great finish that might haunt me for a while. The Power Imbalance of Anglerfish by penguin I liked that you made the rich guy here completely straight laced and by the books, because you really don’t need to break any laws to be completely exploitative and horrible. The lead up to their encounter was pretty good, but I felt that the outcome was a bit ‘just so’. This very careful guy who has built this empire without, seemingly, making a single legal mistake, is fooled by a ‘here drink this thing i took out of my pocket’ trick, after for some reason agreeing to update the contract to include a clause for his own death, and then gets simply killed - which in reality would solve nothing, because whoever is next in line would just take over the company and continue on. The second law by Thranguy Extremely interesting concept, from what I can gather all attempts at time traveling are blown up by some alien race that wants to prevent time travel, and dude decides to take advantage of that by selling time travel devices as bombs. This is really a super cool idea, but as with some of your recent stories ive read, this feels like a novel worth of content being forced into short form, it reads a bit like a description of a story almost. I did like that the end wasn’t just him being killed, like many of the stories this week, but something worse than death for this specific guy. Really cool concept that I’ll probably think about for a while.
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Nov 14, 2023 19:40
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Week 589 Submission flash: Bequest + https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zyy1aIXlFRc Syzygy 712 words gray sky burial.twilight terminator.life and love and a sharp line delineating fate.delineating the waking world from the restless dream.delineating hope from the 59 hundred K.a color a temperature a scattering.a shooting star so close it crackles like a fourth of july sparkler. Breathe. Remind the lizard brain. It’s base until it’s not. Hold your breath, but it’s harmonics on a guitar wound too tightly. Strumming above the nut. Twinkle twinkle jangle scrape. Push and crunch and an ice cube is styrofoam. It warps and bounces on a hot tongue. It has chew under a sharp tooth. One of those round tube cubes from a machine. Chunk chunk chunk it declares. The clatter of a sloppy drummer. The messy noise of ‘83 Berlin when the industrials were banging around in abandoned factories. Dirty boys sledging pipes and making cymbals out of trash can lids. The birth of a movement. A movement that went nowhere, that did nothing. That went stillborn. The anarchy felt real, just for a moment. Moments can last years, but what does that rasp sing to you? A movement that felt like relief, but tomorrow is the same old story. poo poo again, ad nauseum until the final movement, the final poo poo, the coda. And it’s always and never a surprise when the last bar has those two little dots. Repeat it repeat it repeat it reap it. The cup is filled with imprecise little tubes, a cup that smells of new plastic. A cube that smells of new plastic. Maybe there’s a slick of liquid that tastes of chlorine and mildew. Bite down. Focus on putting the tip of your scabbed tongue into the divots of a distraction. Chains of cotton hold you down, chains of modesty. Chains that hide the blood. Chains. Cold latex hands and a sobbing face that’s contagious. A face that that straddles the line between joy and pain. A face that says I saved you, a face that says you can try again, as the expensive salt of humanity rains down. Those purple powder hands held high as a doctor erases the memory. The swip of gloves and the flp of the red garbage can with the little foot pedal. You and me and they and them blend. First person perspective and third person distance mean nothing. Narrative means nothing. A shake of the head is a ghost. Was a ghost, was always a ghost. A timeline is this then that then this then that but a collapsing star pulls every thought into the event horizon of a miserable forever. The brightest darkness in a void universe, where nothing is close. You have no neighbors. You have no friends. You don’t even have yourself. No one does. What do you leave for tomorrow? Legacy is faceless. A little fuzzy imagining of what children look like as they grow. Pie-faced and doe-eyed into cutthroat raiders. And you can pinch the bridge of your nose as much as you want and it will make no difference. Universal serendipity only works on the molecular level. Atoms love one other. Quarks are compelled to meet each other and say hello. Their friendliness is a a gift irrelevant. Imagine if you had a covalent bond with another person. A compatriot, a friend, a father, a lover. Anything more than a thumbs up on a messenger post pouring your heart out. Imagine. Reap it. The dissonance. The atonal belonging. The scythe that cuts too close to the root. An empty field looking up at the stars and the moon and everything that’s in perfect alignment. But the tippity tap bang of the universe is like an anarchist’s drums pounding in quadrophenia before anyone even knew what five point one was. Unaligned and coming from everywhere. Cacophony from the darkness. A scream, a cry, a wail. There’s not enough iron in the universe to smell of dried blood. It’s the sweet ammonia stink of dried piss spilt upon the floor. If the sun was blood red—goodbye Maybe I was the only one to see that shooting star explode. To hear the jingle jangle and the harmonics of the universe. It was so fast. A streak of heaven, then nothing. Last one out, turn the lights off.
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Nov 16, 2023 23:06
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Week 589: A Haunting in the Thunderdome 910 word limit Vibe: Longing Song: https://youtu.be/twSOw2wAf4Q Unrealized Dreams 838 Words The video call ends, and for a moment, I’m staring at myself. I look at the face on the video call and quickly close the application. My cup is next to me, the coffee inside cold and ignored. I should wash that out before I go. I look at the clock. Finally, I can leave this place. Maybe I’ll feel better at home. I wash and dry my coffee cup, placing it upside down on my desk. With a sigh, I stepped through the door and it swung shut behind me with a finality. It was starting to snow and the white flakes gave a snow globe quality to the world. My shoulders slumped as I plodded towards the subway. I can’t believe they were gone. I reached my station, and walked down the steps out of the snow into the subway. It wasn’t warmer down there, not really, but it was out of the wind and snow. It smelled of ozone and brake shoes and dust and grime. While I waited for my train, I stared down at the tracks, squinting slightly against the harsh LED lighting. There, right by the platform base was a rat. Its coloring meant that if it stopped moving, it was practically invisible against the ballast. Fascinated, I watched it live its little life among the ballast. When the rails sang to announce the approach of a train, it picked up a discarded cigarette butt, ducked under some hidden crevice, and was gone. The train glided into the station, stopping with a hiss of air and a squeak of brakes. After a beat, the doors clattered open and people shuffled out. I stepped in and lucked into a seat. Sitting heavily as the doors chimed, and then shut with a muffled clunk of emphasis. The driver’s voice, and unintelligible garble over the PA, probably announced the next stop. With another hiss of brakes and a lurch, we were off. I stared out the window at the darkness beyond. It didn’t seem fair. If only… No. I can’t think like that. Running through the countless different scenarios that would have left me with them isn’t healthy. They’re gone, and there isn’t anything I can do about it. I have to move on. Two stops later, the driver got on the PA again, and through the static and bustle I divined that the train was going express. I would have to get out here and either wait for a local train to come by, or walk the rest of the way. I decided to walk. Maybe it would get my mind off things. Up the stairs and into the muffled silence of snow. The snow had picked up and was starting to really come down. It brought with it a rare thing in the city, silence. It was like the whole world had headphones on. Even the ever present noise of traffic was muted. The evening light contrasted nicely with the pool of brightness from the street light. I took out my phone and took a selfie. After the artificial shutter snicked, I looked down and examined my work. No, that’s not right at all. I turned and took another from a different angle. Better. Posted with the caption: “Still missing you.” I made it about two blocks toward home when my phone buzzed with a call. I touched my earbuds. “Hello?” “I saw your post. Is this still about those cookies?” “You don’t get it. You had just made them. I was going to have them at 11am with a cup of coffee after the all-staff. I was looking forward to them. They were going to make my whole day.” She sighed. “Are you narrating your commute home again?” A sharp intake of breath. How did she know? “N-no” I lied. Why did I stutter? “My train went express, so I have to walk the last few blocks home.” “You know I can bake more cookies right? I’ll do another batch. You can take them to work tomorrow. Do you want chocolate chip this time?” The last ones were snickerdoodles. Doesn’t she realize that the warm spice of snickerdoodle pairs perfectly with office coffee? No. She doesn’t know, how can she? She’s a welder. The straightforwardness of chocolate chip is perfect for such a line of work. Blue collar. Respectable. “Actually, I really liked the snickerdoodles. Can you make those again? Also, can you use the motorcycle cookie cutters?” Her laugh was music. “Sure hon. How come?” “Oh, I always thought I’d buy a motorcycle, but I don’t think I will at this point. But motorcycle cookies will mean that I’ll still get one,” It was silly I’ll admit. I was thankful that she was fine with silly. “I’ll use the cookie cutters then. I’ll see you soon. Oh! Please pick up milk at the bodega on your way home. Love you, Bye!” I looked down at my phone as the call disconnected. Without thinking I swiped back to Instagram. Three likes
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Nov 17, 2023 02:52
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In.
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Nov 18, 2023 02:40
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Week 589: A Haunting in the Thunderdome The Goddess's Champion Words: 597 Fallen on his knees, Ryn stared up at the statue of his goddess before him. He rocked back on his heels, shuttering as sobs wracked his body. His tears streaked clean rivers down his cheeks and tapped like rain on a tin roof onto his armored chest, diluting the blood splatters across it. He held his shaking hands together in a pleading gesture. “Please forgive me,” he whispered over and over. Her displeasure was palpable as the statue stared on in cold fury at the forsaken paladin. Ryn was a favored champion of Nerissa once. He bathed in the warmth of her favor and spread her wisdom and benevolence across the land. With her grace, he healed the dying and took down corruption. Pride does go before the fall, as they say. He would do anything for redemption, but maybe that was part of the problem. In his mind, he could hear the taunting whispers of the priestess he had slain. “Remarkable how far someone can fall when their hubris outweighs their devotion,” she goaded him, her words dripping with poison. She had seen the worst of him, what Nerissa’s divine favor and the worship of grateful villages had brought out in him. She called him on it, and he flew into a rage that subsided only when the bloody mess that was once her head lay ruined on the stone floor in a pool of dark blood. Her words then had been a much kinder version than the derisive remarks that plagued his mind now. Nevertheless, they held a likeness that made him almost sure they weren’t illusory. Perhaps that was just guilt talking, though. He turned the act over in his mind repeatedly. The anger he’d felt at the accusations, how explosively he’d responded. How dare she try to impeach his honor so? To think if anyone else had heard her! But these were empty justifications, and he knew it. He clenched his hands into fists. He killed her, and he would have done it again if it meant no one else would hear her accusations. His mind rolled away from that thought in sudden grief. How could he have done such a thing to someone he respected so much? Mika was one of Nerissa’s high priestesses and had been a mentor to Ryn for a few years after he’d completed his training. He knew deep down that Mika was trying to guide him to the right path again and he had killed her for it. How could he? He had to maintain his legacy. No one could ever know what happened. Ryn couldn’t bare for all the good deeds he had accomplished throughout his life being tarnished in the eyes of the masses by this tragedy. Fire roared and popped in the night. The acrid stench of burning timber and flesh filled his nostrils as he looked on the burning temple. His armor dressed a body from the catacombs he laid next to Mika’s corpse inside. With any luck, Ryn could find somewhere to disappear. The world would think he had died in the fire and would never know the sins he had committed. It was too late for him, he knew. His goddess would never absolve these transgressions. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure if he could ever forgive himself. Better to become an unknown hermit whiling away the rest of his retched existence in the hills. Someday, he would face Nerissa’s judgement and atone for his many sins. Until then, let the world remember the man he was instead of what he had become.
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Nov 19, 2023 18:58
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the only cowboy in a bar in portland song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lYG9r1uO3B4 removed derp fucked around with this message at 01:03 on Dec 15, 2023 |
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Nov 19, 2023 19:30
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sephiRoth IRA fucked around with this message at 13:33 on Nov 20, 2023 |
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Nov 20, 2023 06:52
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One Must Imagine see archive Thranguy fucked around with this message at 07:25 on Jan 8, 2024 |
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Nov 20, 2023 08:39
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Week 589 Judgment Thank you all for your stories of haunts. It was a pleasure to read them. The judges have agreed, and this week our winner is Thranguy, with a tale of enduring mystery - "One Must Imagine" Of the stories told this week, yours was the one that made me feel things the most. Please take your rightful seat on the throne! No HMs or DMs or Losses this week Judgments to follow also submissions are closed 
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Nov 20, 2023 22:20
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Crits for Week 589 Syzygy - Jib I get what you were going for, but I think what happened was my brain just slipped off of the words. There's a lot of imagery here, a ton of really crunchy and evocative lines, but the problem for me, subjective reader, is that it became word salad very quickly. I had to read it several times before I started to get the central line of thought (still not sure I entirely get it), and by that time I was so concerned with trying to parse it all out that I didn't have a chance to feel anything. For me, for this to be effective, you needed to bring it down to earth just a *little* bit more, take the machine stream of consciousness down from 11 to 10. Unrealized Dreams - Beep This was funny. At the reveal, I actually laughed at loud. The juxtaposition of the maudlin intro to the cookies was solid. You've got some stuff holding you back, unfortunately. The shoehorning in of the motorcycle was not effective. It was definitely just in there because of the song. I think you could have rolled the idea of the song into what you've got pretty well - you're halfway there anyway with that intro, the angst. Once you get to the cookies, however, the idea quickly wears out its welcome. This might have been more effective by letting your joke land and not having the back-and-forth with the partner. Just "Is this about the cookies?!" and fin. Sometimes less is more, especially for a joke story. The Goddess's Champion - The Mack I have issues with this one. It so badly wanted to be this intense meditation of a guy who let himself get so hosed up, but it misses the mark on a few fronts. First, you're on a well-worn path here with the fallen paladin and your language doesn't have enough punch to make it interesting for me. This was an opportunity to get purple, but there wasn't a lot there to make me feel things. Second, you're too passive. The whole description of the murder and cover-up were told very matter-of-fact, and it left me out in the cold. This was a haunting, but told third-hand by someone who didn't know the gory details. Give me the fallen paladin, surrounded by flames that reflect in his wide, unblinking eyes as the gravity of his sin finally weighs upon him! Give me a guy who flits from bar to bivouac, looking over his shoulder forever for angry ghosts or disappointed gods! the only cowboy in a bar in portland - derp This could have won if it wasn't for the loving name drop of the artist, derp. What the heck. You have a solid story that made me feel things, all sorts of stuff about aging and loss and love and then- wait, who the hell is lightning luke? Titled differently and without the name drop this would have been a different conversation. The second paragraph also didn't do much imo to add to the vibe, beginning after the name drop. Probably could have stopped at "and I did it for her". Good job though on capturing the spirit of the song, at least how I feel when I listen to it. One Must Imagine - Thran Excellent. You left me wanting so much more - a civilization haunted by something understood on a time scale so long species die out. I loved the bones, it was a deft touch that instantly drew me back to the song without being over the top. Great job with giving me enough detail without going too deep or too esoteric - it was like I was watching the first john wick all over again, before everything got turned up 1000x. If I had one comment it would be to smooth out your time jumps a bit. The jumps seemed arbitrary, and so I don't think I cared about them. You could have just parted the text with section breaks and let me guess how much time elapsed with a ~later~, and I think it might be more effective. Thank you all for your words. If you would like to discuss anything or want an in-depth crit I would be delighted to see you on Discord.
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Nov 21, 2023 03:47
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Thunderdome Week DXL: Roaring 2 Earlier this year I ran a prompt where you wrote stories set in the 1920s, 1820s, or 1720s. Well, this time let's go in the opposite direction, and give me stories set in the 2120s, about as far in the future as the World Wars are in the past. One thing, though: I don't want dystopias or post-apocalypses. You don't have to be full-on Hopepunk here, but lean more in that direction than away from it. Flash rules are available, will probably be songs but I haven't decided on a theme yet, so they may not be given until late Tuesday or Wednesday. They will have no effect on the word limit, which is 2020 All the usual restrictions, no poetry, gdocs, erotica, fanfic, etc. Signups close Friday at 11:59 PM California time. Submissions due Sunday at 11:59 California time. Judges: Thranguy ? ? Entrants:
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Nov 21, 2023 09:02
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the future, conan? in (the year 2000) e: will take a flash song if/when that happens
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Nov 21, 2023 09:20
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| # ? Oct 10, 2024 21:12 |
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I’m in.
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Nov 21, 2023 12:19
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