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TD Week 34 Prompt: Empty Vessels Make the Loudest Sounds, The Mars Volta https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d0XepjKgZEY Title: In the Night Words: 1195 Louis sat on the balcony of the lighthouse, wondering if he should throw his half eaten can of beans into the sea. Round and round, in circular fashion, he chewed the pulverized mass in his mouth. It was in that twilight, the eastern sky an ombré of night, and the sanguine sun at his back, Louis could not eat another bite. He went into the inner pocket of his peacoat, pulling a weathered photograph. Creased and browning with age, was a woman, his wife, Linda. Putting the picture back into the wool pocket, he descended the stairs down. The first room was the pantry, with canned goods and a small hotplate, and further down, past a cot and blanket, and small wardrobe of hand stitched jeans, Louis entered the engine room. Diesel fuel engines powered the lighthouse, mostly the torch and rotary lenses at the top, and the radio and hotplate when Louis needed it. Often Louis would sit all night in front of the radio, swaddled in his threadbare coat and flannel, listening for something more than static from the sea. Sometimes, he would doze and a familiar voice would come through on the radio. Tears would spring to his eyes. “Linda? Linda, how are you?” “Louis, I cannot wait to see you,” she would reply. “I know,” Louis said, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “Soon, I promise.” And he would wake, and it would have felt so real. Echoes would chase through his ears of her voice, soft as flower petals and silk. Louis refilled the diesel engine and cranked it. He glared at the chugging cacophony, his own personal jailer, a remnant of tradition and laziness. Automation had begun to spread throughout the country, and yet this antiquated machine was both his savior and the anchor that kept him bound like poltergeist to the lighthouse. Stopping at the pantry he looked at the cans, stacks upon stacks. Linda’s favorite meal was a tuna melt on sourdough. Melted swiss, toasted bread, with a little relish mixed in with the mayonnaise, he knew the recipe by heart. He had not made the sandwich for years. Closing the door without removing an item, he went back to the top to stare out at the sea, waiting for no one. “Ha ha!” Louis said. On the horizon he could see a vessel, large enough for the lights of the boat to reach him. Several miles away, he was not sure just how many, but he waved. Knowing the boat could not see him did not stop him. The vigor of a younger man flowed through Louis, and he knew today had been a good day. Sitting down, he took out the picture again. A breeze blew through, causing him to pull the black wool closer around him. He hung onto the photo and ran a coarse finger over it. It was dark now, and only the light from the circling lens lit his view, but he knew her smile, and sunflower dress, every wrinkle and crack by heart. And then there was darkness. Louis bolted upright as the torch and lens dimmed and grinded to a halt. Skipping steps as many as he could without falling, Louis ran. In front of him the engine was grinding on something, and he could feel the heat coming off of it. Louis trembled at the thought of sending his hands into the inner workings of the generator. Forgetting to breath, he ran to the top of the lighthouse. Closer than before, he could see the ship, and he waved and shouted at it. Louis dragged his fingers through his hair and grabbed as much of its thinning foliage his head would allow. Back down the steps he ran to the radio. Quickly dialing, and checking hand written notes of frequencies, he called out over. Nothing. Dead. “Louis, is that you?” Linda’s voice came through the speaker. Louis straightened up. His breath caught in his chest. “Louis? Can you hear me?” “Linda, the lighthouse, it’s not working!” “I know, Louis, you have to fix it. You have to save them.” “I don’t know what to do!” Louis breathed in short, labored breaths. In the air was a scent of burning fuel. Louis ran down to the generation and dark smoke was rising from the engine. Back up the stairs he went, as many shirts, and pants as he could. Downstairs he began soaking the clothes in crude fuel, sloshing and splashing the fuel everywhere. Louis tried to shake the light headedness away as fumes filled his nostrils. Slumped against the winding stairwell, Louis cradled the bundle of soggy clothes in his arms as he got to the top. The ship was closer, but he thought he would still have time. Lining the balcony with the shirts and pants, he drew a lighter from his pocket. Backing down the stairs, he lit a trail of fuel that sent flames shooting up along the railings and roof. Coughing and spitting he continued his round grabbing more and more clothes, each time he noticed the smoke from the generator growing worse. Weary, he stumbled, kicking over a small drum of fuel, sending ripples under the generator. He hesitated. Nothing had happened yet, did he have enough time for one more trip, he thought. Finally, he stripped off his jacket, dunking his peacoat into the fuel, he ran back to the top to continue his bonfire. As he threw the jacket into the inferno at the top of the lighthouse he realized what he had done. Swatting at the flames he tried to retrieve his jacket, but the fuel soaked into his skin and hair began to burn and singe. He threw himself backwards, rolling down the stairs and landing in front of the radio. “Louis, it’s okay, you’ve done all you can,” Linda said through the radio. “No, you don’t understand, I have to save you,” Louis sobbed. “I can’t die like this, I can’t, I can’t.” “Louis, you don’t have to save me, we can still be together.” More and more smoke came from the engine room, and he knew the fire had started. Standing at the top of the stairwell he saw the entire engine room ablaze, blocking any exit out of the lighthouse. At the top of the lighthouse, the fire still burned into the night. Louis sat, coughing at the radio. “I’m so sorry Linda, I’m so sorry.” “Louis, I don’t care where I am, as long as I am with you.” “I tried, I tried to be good, I thought if I was good, you would be there with me in the end,” Louis said. “You can’t save everyone,” she said. Louis began to cry. More and more smoke began to fill the room. “But it’s all my fault, I was going to take you with me, I just needed more time. I needed more time to be a good man.” “Louis, you are a good man, you are. I love you Louis.” “I’m afraid that you won’t be there, that I didn’t do enough.” “I will be there, I promise.”
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Mar 31, 2013 09:33
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Inspired and written to this song. It's a Japanese song that is NOT JPOP. It is a Japanese crooner type of song. The linked video has English lyrics. Just a House Word count: 1049 “You know, it's funny. It's already been three months,” “How's that funny, Sam?” “I don't know. I thought I'd still be an emotional mess. Anyway, the agency is coming in today. They'll call you when they arrive,” “Alright, sounds good,” “Are you already there?” “Yeah, I'm just in front of the house. I'll call you after?” “Thanks. Talk to you later, Mikey,” I hung up the phone and looked at the house. I tried not to think about it. But the thoughts just came through. It's already been three months. Three months since our mom wasted away, with nothing to cover her but thin cotton sheets and a blue half gown. Blue was her favorite color. But she didn't care; her mind was already too far gone. She kept asking for Roberto. Her husband. I couldn't tell her that Roberto left years ago. She just kept smiling at me and would ask if her little Sammy was around. The service was a blur of handshakes and comforting murmurs. Sam couldn't stop crying. But he pulled through to give the eulogy. He was always in charge, in control. About a month ago, he decided to sell the house. He couldn't imagine living there. And something needed to soften the hospital bills. Selling the house was the easiest thing we could think of. He kept asking me if I was okay with this. I told him it was just a house. He slowly nodded and just asked me to sign on the dotted line. He took charge of the move too, hiring workers to take everything to a storage unit. I just signed more papers, allowing it all. But. Am I really okay with letting all this go? I got out of the car and started to walk around the house. The house hadn't changed at all. The creaky fence, the cobble stone walk way. The tree in the back. That's where I broke my arm from the old swing set. Sam dared me to jump off at the highest point. I happily jumped and landed arm first onto- Something caught my eye. It was a baby blue sweater, lying in the grass. I bent over and picked it up. The movers must have forgotten it. I smiled as I looked at the faded from washer mishaps and general abuse. College. Mom was so proud with tears in her eyes. I didn't even notice the newspaper wrapped lump she held behind her. She had knitted me a sweater, in between her two jobs. She said just in case Boston got too cold. I remembered that the sweater was too thin, even by California standards. But she worked so hard and- My phone rang again. “Hello?” “Hello? Mr....Trujillo? This is Alexandra, from Home Owners Estate Agency. We spoke earlier,” “Yes. Hi, how are you?” I walked back to the car and tucked the sweater in the trunk. “Fine, fine. How are you? You sound a bit under the weather,” “I'm doing fine,” I swallowed the knot in my throat. “Okay. I just wanted to let you know I am about five minutes away from the house,” “Got it. Thanks. See you in a bit,” I closed the trunk. “See you!” I hung up the phone. I went back to the house and opened the door. The inside was missing everything that made it a home. Just a big empty room. Except that it wasn't just any room. Sam and I would play tag here. Mom would always yell at us not to run around the house. But it'll be all gone. No more home. Nothing. It'll belong to a stranger. All these memories- Five minutes til show time. I have to stop thinking about all this. We need the money. I made a quick scan of the rooms, trying to see if the movers forgot anything else. “Hello?” a voice came from the door way. I looked up to see the agency woman, holding her pen and clipboard at her side. I walked over and we exchanged the usual pleasantries. Her eyes scanned the room while we talked. “Okay, Mr. Trujillo, I'm liking everything I see so far. But just a few things to note. One is that these scratches on the floor,” she pointed down with her pen. I looked at the scratches near the doorway. That was from when I brought a stray dog in the house. It nearly gave mom a heart attack. It scratched and stumbled to the door while she chased it out with a broom. She spanked me afterwards. “Oh, that's nothing a little elbow grease and some sanding won't fix,” I laughed, trying not to think about why I could remember the dog so clearly. She talk about more flaws. Such as the dent on the kitchen wall. That was from baseball practice inside the house. Sam's idea. We both regretted it. Some chipped parts of the wall. Baseball bats falling onto the wall. “Okay, let's move on,” she walked into the next room. The knot was growing bigger in my throat. We passed several crayon drawings on the wall. That was when mom was out working and we had nothing to do during summer. So we decided to draw all of our family and friends on the wall. We said it was so we can always see it when we walk by. She was furious at us. Of course we were spanked. But that never did stop us. “We can wash those out,” I managed to get some words out from the growing knot. “Okay, Mr. Trujillo, I think if we put a little more work, we can have this place sold pretty quickly!” she beamed. “Okay, that sounds good,” I tried to smile. Only a corner of my mouth lifted. “Are you sure you are okay? You seem to be coming down with something,” “It's just allergies,” I lied. “Oh, allergies are the worst!” she laughed. I nodded with my half smile. After some more preparations, she left; I was alone in the house. I felt lonely. Isolated. But I kept telling myself that it was just a house. There shouldn't be any second thoughts. The money was too good. It was... Just a house I can never come back to.
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Mar 31, 2013 09:54
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That video is blocked in my region. you guys have something like TWO AND A HALF HOURS LEFT
autism ZX spectrum fucked around with this message at 14:11 on Mar 31, 2013 |
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Mar 31, 2013 13:53
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Oh right, whoops. Shoddy hastily thrown together fanfic incoming, oorah.
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Mar 31, 2013 14:15
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Yeah I dunno. Whatever, here it is. This is the greatest song ever written about our national sport. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E3TBPgXrPLc Clash Strip “We’re the home team, how come we have to wear the clash jerseys?” Ben was still bare chested. He didn’t plan to put his jersey on until the last minute. With any luck, common sense would prevail and the visitors from down South would be forced to don an alternate strip. “They don’t have a clash jersey,” said Kieran. “They don’t even have the funding for a home ground. That’s the only reason we’re playing at our ground.” “Let ‘em go skins,” said Paul. “They can paint the numbers on.” “You really want to try tackling half naked players?” asked Kieran. “I can tell you from experience that’s a difficult task.” “Heh. I’m sure you can,” said Paul. “I’m sure you have lots of experience getting hands on with topless men.” “They went skins last season, dude,” said Ben. “Weren’t you there?” “Oh.” Paul thought about it for a moment. “Must’ve been that weekend I went up to the coast. How’d we go?” “Got slaughtered,” said Ben. “It was wet and we couldn’t hold onto them at all.” “Oh, right.” Paul picked up the clash jersey. “But anyway, did you catch what I was saying about you and topless men, Kieran?” “Yep,” said Kieran. “It was subtle but I picked up on it.” “It was a joke about you liking men,” said Paul. “A ‘gay’ joke, if you will.” “Very witty,” said Kieran. “A regular Oscar Wilde.” “What I’m saying,” said Paul, “is that you like co-” “You’re kind of making a big deal of this,” said Ben. “Would that be a problem for you, if he were gay? If I was?” “What?” said Paul. “Course not. It’s just a joke.” “Yeah,” said Kieran, “that was a pretty good joke, but you know what was a really good joke? That one where you pissed yourself on field.” “Get stuffed.” “And you tried to make out like it was sweat,” said Ben, “but everyone knew what’d gone down.” “You guys suck,” said Paul. He pulled the jersey on and headed for the locker room’s exit. “Awww, don’t get dressed already,” said Kieran. “I was enjoying watching your glistening abs.” “Go to hell.” “Make sure you stop off at the dunny,” said Ben. Paul gave him a one finger reply as he left. “Seriously though, these jerseys suck,” said Ben, once he’d left. Kieran shrugged. “Are they not fashionable enough?” “Because we queers are all about fashion, right?” Kieran laughed. “I didn’t mean it like that.” “Yeah, I know.” Ben pulled on the jersey. It itched, and smelled like it hadn’t been washed since its last use. “That tosser just got to me a bit.” “C’mon, we’d better get out there. Let’s smash South, eh?” “Yeah,” said Ben. He headed towards the exit. “Yeah, let’s give ‘em hell.”
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Mar 31, 2013 15:03
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To the tune of https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6p6PcFFUm5I Assisted I’ve been told to take it all in one gulp. We practised with a plastic wine glass, which I thought was a bit patronising until my trembles made me spill it down my jumper. I thought god, I’ll never live this down, which made me laugh hard enough to spill the rest. As I hold on to my cup of the real thing my hand takes a surer grip, as though it knows the import of what it’s holding. Surely that’s ridiculous though; if my hand knew what I know about sodium pentobarbital it would throw the cup across the room, and possibly punch the orderly in his stupid sombre face. He’d take it, too – his blank expression matches his white gown in the illusion that he is a piece of equipment. Mum and Dad wait outside, sent away so that they won’t stop me in the act, and the human cup holder waits in here, all so that I can do my part of the process. “So, are you a doctor?” I was never good with tension. “Ah, not exactly. I am more of a technician.” His voice has that singsong Swedish quality, like life’s fine and the air is clean, and Good Storage will solve all the world’s problems. gently caress him. “A technician? Like you fix boilers in the morning, and do this in the afternoon?” Bastard. He won’t even smile. “No, just... just this.” “Just this? So how many have you done today?” “T-we’re not really supposed to talk about that.” He smoothens his collar like it’s a job interview, like my opinion of him matters in any way. “Just a job, right?” Despite the pain, I smile as I ask. “Just a job. Better than telesales.” “No kidding! That’s why I’m here.” He gasps, before his sees me grinning. “Dude, joke.” “Sorry,” he says. “People are generally a bit more serious.” There’s a single tree in the garden, strategically placed to be visible from my seat. A young cedar, I think, though it occurs to me that now, I’ll never know, despite Dad’s best efforts to teach me. On the wall by the window there’s a picture of the Milky Way, impossibly big and yet squeezed onto a cheaply framed print. I imagine that if you could magnify that picture, really blow it up over and over then it too would be a picture of that tree, and a picture of me and the jumper and the orderly in his gown and Mum and Dad outside the door in their Sunday best, dressed for a funeral they are uniquely able to predict. The tree and the galaxy sit together like hieroglyphs, a sentence made of objects, forcing their meaning upon me. I clutch at the think strands of wool, grandma’s knit, and I feel like her; sitting at the end point of a narrative someone else started writing two years ago in that GP’s office. Light catches and pools in the glass, and dances on the face of the orderly. “Try to be strong,” he says. And what? I think. But in that liquid, clarity reveals itself. With a smile, I chuck the poison back. It slides down to its destination, oily and thick. So languid in its travel, as though it has all the time in the world to kill. My throat tickles as I imagine the gentle ice spreading through my body, suffusing the pain, embracing my cells and singing them gently to sleep. Fight’s over. The heart, running for twenty-six years, finally getting its reprieve. Lungs relaxing and deflating and the pain, two years of pain, being satisfied and released. The blazing sine wave that runs through my mind quietening and dying. I can see all these things in that second, and I smile. The orderly gasps, and Mum and Dad practically fall into the room. Mum gazes at me, her face frozen. I grip the seat tightly enough to tear it off. The orderly opens his mouth to speak- The Milky Way spins on its faraway axis- The liquid sinks into the carpet- “Dad,” I ask. “That tree...”
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Mar 31, 2013 15:30
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Dayenu (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mSfrxV_Kcig) Word Count: 1235 Thanks to Uncle Avi’s efforts, we had blown through the majority of the Passover Haggadah. It was supposed to be a solemn night, where everyone took turns reading the story of Passover from their photocopied Haggadah, either in Hebrew, phonetically spelled English-Hebrew, or plain old English. But uncle Avi was hungry, and almost half the people at the table weren’t even Jewish. “Ok, we done, let’s eat,” he’d bark in his thick Israeli accent. “Read the whole goddamn thing!” Aunt Beth screamed from the kitchen. Uncle Avi would stare down at the table, running his hands over his bald head, his watch dangling loosely from his wrist, and try to jump ahead a paragraph if the next person around the table wasn’t fast enough in reading their section. Cousin Mark wasn’t fast enough in reading the four questions, and when after only asking, “Why is this night different than all other nights,” Avi jumped in. “Because it Passover! Let’s eat!” “Read the whole goddamn thing!” Aunt Beth screamed from the kitchen. Uncle Avi muttered an obscenity in Hebrew as Aunt Alli excused her son’s slow reading in her thick Long Island accent, “Mahk was always bettah at Mayth.” And now here we were at Dayenu, the final stretch. We had made it through all the plagues God cast down upon the Egyptians, the Jews had packed up their unleavened bread, and they had high-tailed it out of Egypt. It was time to sing thanks to God and then eat. I glanced at my wife sitting next to me to see how she was holding up. She was flipping back and forth through her Haggadah, furrowed brow, trying to match up the mumbled singing from around the table with a block of phonetically spelled Hebrew. I felt a twinge of guilt for dragging her out to this Long Island circus. It didn’t last long. I had been dragged to my fair share of Christmas and Easter masses with her family. “Day, dayenu!” the table shout-sang the chorus, the only part they really knew, pronounced “Die, die-ay-new!” Enough, it would have been enough, it means in English. If God had only brought us out of Egypt, that would have been enough. They launched in to the next section of the song, mumbling and muttering and sputtering about the miracles of parting the Red Sea and sending Manna down from Heaven to sustain the wandering Jews for 40 years in the desert. Then, “Day, dayenu!” Enough! That would have been enough! Finally, He gave us the Torah and brought us to Israel, etc. Although that’s all the song covers, there’s still the final “Day, dayenu!” of course. “Beth, let me help you with the soup,” Grandma Eleanor said, before even Uncle Avi could turn to the issue of food again. “Read the whole goddamn thing!” Aunt Beth screamed from the kitchen. “It done!” Uncle Avi shouted back. “Let me help you with the soup, Beth,” Grandma Eleanor repeated. “We’re not doin the soup yet!” Aunt Beth screamed from the kitchen. Aunt Beth appeared in the doorway in a stained apron. “Everybody grab a plate. We’re doin it buffet style.” Some relatives shuffled off to the kitchen. I waited for the first wave to die down. So did Grandma Eleanor. “Isn’t this nice, Ben?” Grandma Eleanor asked me. “Being with your family? Seeing everybody?” “It is, Grandma,” I said. Dayenu. That would have been enough, Grandma. “But your father,” she continued. “He had to move and take you and your mother across the country. You grew up not even knowing your family! I hope you don’t turn out like him.” My wife returned to the table with an empty plate. I investigated the first course in the kitchen. Chicken liver. A purplish horseradish-like substance. A cucumber and tomato salad. Mounds of ground-up fishy meal called Gefilte fish. I returned back to the table with my plate covered in chicken liver. “Try the gefilte fish!” Aunt Beth implored. It looked like regurgitated fish, like something a Jewish bird fed to Jewish baby birds. “No thanks, I don’t . . . eat that,” I said. I couldn’t think of a polite lie. I ate the chicken liver, ignoring the chatter around me, only stopping half way through to check on my wife again. She was frowning disapprovingly at me. I looked down at my dark sweater. I inspected my khaki lap. I hadn’t spilled any food. “That’s very fatty,” she told me. Dayenu. Enough. I ate the rest of it. “So, when are you having kids, Jessie?” Aunt Alli asked my wife as Aunt Beth passed around matzo ball soup bowls. Her husband, Uncle Brian elbowed her. Dayenu. Enough. “You’re not getting any younger. You and Ben should move out to Long Island by us. Start a family.” “Not yet, Alli,” I said. “They kill you with the taxes in the city,” Grandma Eleanor exclaimed. “And they kill you with taxes out here! They’re all crooked, those politicians.” Everyone could agree to that. Dayeun, Grandma. “The Republicans are the worst of all,” she said, pointing at Uncle Brian, her conservative son-in-law. Uncle Brian didn’t rise to the bait. He took his plate and went in to the kitchen. “How college?” Uncle Avi barked at Cousin Mark. “It ok. Classes are hard,” Mark replied. Dayenu. “Classes - who care. How are the girls? You meet lotsa girls? You take them to bed?” Uncle Avi erupted in hoarse laughter. Mark laughed timidly. “Well yeah. There are lots of parties, and,” he trailed off. Aunt Beth joined everyone at the table. “There’s brisket and Chinese Chicken set out for after the soup.” She started in to her soup. “How’s work Ben?” “Busy. I may have to go back to the office after this.” It was true, but I was also planning my exodus from this place. “Plus we couldn’t get a very long rental on our zipcar.” My wife kicked me. Dayenu. I was spouting off too many excuses for an early exit. “You’re kidding me,” she accused me. “It’s Passover.” “Well, I’m the low Jew on the totem pole.” “You people work so much these days. You had to run out early on us on Yom Kippur as well,” she reminded me and my wife. “I tell ya, people work too hard and too much,” she addressed the table. Uncle Avi shrugged his shoulders, palms up. “Cars need fixing. I fix.” “Not you. People. Kids. We start burying them in work so early.” She was attempting a segue for some personal work kvetching. “One kid at my school was so sick and tired of all the homework his teacher was dumping on him – I don’t give my students a lot of homework, what’s the point? They hate it and they don’t do it! Anyway, this kid, let me tell you what he did, he threatened the teacher. Physically. In front of everybody!” Great story, Beth. Dayenu. “I wish the kid had done it!” she continued with a laugh. “I would have gotten to go home early!” After the main course, I reminded everybody I had to leave early to head back to work. “It’s good to see your family. It’s good that we came,” my wife said in the car on the way back. She meant it. And it was, but perhaps seeing them for Yom Kippur would have been enough. Jagermonster fucked around with this message at 16:51 on Mar 31, 2013 |
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Mar 31, 2013 16:05
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Sitting Here posted:
 -- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V1jYO64l0fM Safer havens - 534 words As soon as he falls asleep, he drops the ice axe and I pounce. I barely have enough strength left in me to move a muscle, but it's still enough. I just need to get on top. One arm over his nose and mouth, he's mine. I can't feel the sweat freezing on my exposed arm. Stopped feeling my arms hours ago. He struggles for the axe, but it's too late. Any strength he had left is lost. I'd say he died quickly, but the line is blurred here. He died days ago. I like his jacket. Fur lining and a hood. I spend days getting it off him, then I realize it's only five minutes. I take bite from my last protein bar. Five bites left. I leave the gas station. I have to struggle with the door even though it's only an hour since I arrived. Snow up to my ankles. I grab the skis next to the door, wind tears me to ribbons. I don't even know if the jacket helps, can't feel anything anyway. I kneel down and prepare to take off my gloves, realize I left them by the corpse. I laugh and shake my head, feel the dizziness. I sit down for a moment, just a moment. One more bite. I enter the gas station again. Spot my gloves. Back out, more snow, skis on. The charred sign next to the station says LIFORN. I have a brother in Los Angeles. Last safe haven I know of. It takes me an hour to realize it's the one I left dead in the station. By then I'm in the suburbs. The houses form uniform lines along the road. A long gate to the city. Windows broken, doors kicked in. The sameness of the suburbs never changed, it's all the same pattern. Same broken windows, all doors kicked in. The snow form lines of mounds where long dead cars lay buried. I'm not long from home, just down this hill, past that store. I remember running to the store during the winter. Colder weather, mom wanted me to wear a scarf. I could use a scarf, I could use some shoes. I'm in the doorway now, looking at the empty spot on the wall where the coats used to hang. I remember this place as a warm comfort, I could close the door and I'd be safe. The door hasn't been closed in a year or more. The snow runs down the hall and into the living room, like the outside world puked despair into my home. I wonder why I'm home. My brother said he'd found a gas station, I should go there, he said it it's safe. I could use some new shoes. I turn around and I'm knocked down. The girl is no more than a wisp of life, but she has more strength than me in cold blue arms. I grab for my knife, realize I left it in my brother's leg. I'm not sure if I'm dead, the line is blurred. She removes my jacket, it feels like hours but I barely feel a thing. I should find my brother. Black Griffon fucked around with this message at 16:33 on Mar 31, 2013 |
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Mar 31, 2013 16:30
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Che Faro Senza 1200 words Che Faro Senza from Orfeo ed Eurydice Orpheus wailed his first lament as I saw the crimson glove fall past the opera boxes, fluttering down like a silk leaf in autumn. I stood up. Altogether I'd been planning for this moment, since the night I had contacted the Doctor, for nineteen weeks. It still made my stomach squirm. I edged my way along the row, apologising to a Miyake-clad socialite as I rustled her pleats. I was dressed impeccably, of course; it was a crucial part of the game. My Olympia stilettos were the finest and least convenient part of my ensemble. I kicked them off as I cleared the seating. A matron looked askance at me and I winked at her, as I strode past her up the aisle, tapping my watch to check timing. 75 seconds to go; ahead of schedule. I pushed through the Exit doors. An usher opened his mouth to explain I couldn't come back in until the next intermission. I waved my hand at him, clutching my belly with the other. The nearest toilet was to the right down the lushly carpeted corridor so I turned that way. After sixteen steps I checked behind me to see if he was looking at me; he wasn't. I ducked down the side corridor that led to the emergency stairway and dropped to my knees before the access door. As I pulled the lockpicking kit I ran through the next steps in my head. "She's guarded," the Doctor had said. "It won't be easy." I'd said something flip in response and he'd just looked at me through his heavy-lidded eyes. And now I was double-timing it up the winding stairs of the Met, emergency access door behind me and crazy romantic goal somewhere in my future. The textured rubber of the stair treads was cool under my stockinged feet. Three flights, four, five. I stopped at the door to the highest floor. My heart was pounding, not just from the climb. I took a few moments to breathe. Then I touched the card the Doctor had given me to the reader and it blinked green. The door opened with a push. I'd found out about the Doctor from Jake, a cousin who did Government contracting work during the war. "He's one of those dudes, 'fia bean. Y'know? When people say they know someone who knows someone, he's the second guy. He's the someone." I'd got the number, but I don't think I really meant to use it. But then I'd got the text, from a number I'd thought was dead and gone. One word: "help". I cracked open the door, peered out. There was a burly type in black DJ and shiny shoes about three metres down the corridor. Bored expression. Hadn't noticed the door open. I eased out my decoy phone, kneeled, and skated along the carpet down the corridor away from him. He still didn't notice. I felt a little bad for him as I let the door close with an almost inaudible clunk, but only a little. He was a guard, he should be noticing this stuff. I was like a mystery shopper, they could take it up with him at his next performance review. I pulled out my other phone and hit the call button. A few seconds later I heard the phone on the carpet go off, muffled by the door. A shape passed in front of the cloudy glass and I waited, counting breaths. At five I jerked the door open, taser in hand, took three steps and touched the prongs to the guards neck. There was a snap, and a smell of ozone. He jerked and pitched forward, measured his length across the carpet. I picked up my decoy, tucked it away. Looked up and down the corridor; nobody. I checked my watch again. The door to the opera box opened at a touch, and I saw her. Helena. My love, my long lost, sitting there all forlorn. She had what looked like a Vera Wang gown on, bare pale crimson-nailed hand clasped in her gloved one. I coughed, suddenly at a loss. The multiple ticking timers in my head blurred, vanished. She looked up. "There is one thing," the Doctor had said at our last meeting, "that you must promise me." I'd waited for him to finish. The Doctor was a tall man, ascetic in appearance. He had a thin black moustache. "Don't look back. You will risk much to get her back, this I know, but she may... Well. Who can say what will happen. But never regret what you do." "Sophia," she said. Stood, came to me, embraced me. I kissed her. Her lips were cool. I'd imagined this scene so many times, found myself observing it. The missing glove spoiled the look, I thought dispassionately. I pulled back. "There's... Did you... " I stopped, tongue-tied. "We need to go. There's a guy outside. He'll wake up soon." Helena inclined her head. I pushed open the door, taser ready, but my inquisitive bodyguard buddy was still stretched out on the carpet. "Down the stairs, love" She smiled at me, ducked out into the corridor and through the door back to the stairs. As we were descending she put her hand on my shoulder. "Sophia, I need to tell you -" I shook my head. "Save it until we're out. We need to get back to the crowd so we can leave with them, it's the last aria now." We rounded another stair and I pushed open the access door on the level I'd started at. I could hear Tronfi Amore winding up inside the auditorium and I pulled out my two tickets. "No, it's... Sophia, I'm having a baby. Eight months." I stopped, looked at her, shook my head. "You mean his... You're..." I shook my head. "Later. Come with me, do what I do." The applause started as we pushed our way back in. I snagged the heels from where I'd left them. My mind was whirring as we sat down. I could feel Sophia watching me from the corner of my eye and I started clapping. She followed suit as the cast filed out, did their bows. "I can't - we can't. We'll have to run," I said into her ear. "You understand that, don't you?". I couldn't tell if she'd heard me. Then she stood up. "My glove!" The glove had fallen at the foot of the stage. She squeezed past the other people in the row as I gaped at her. This wasn't in the plan. Other people were getting out of their seats, the first drops of water in the flood I wanted to escape in. I jammed my feet in my stupid expensive shoes, stumbled after her. It was too late, there were too many people. Helpless, I saw her reach the glove, bend down for it, pick it up, look at me with an expression I couldn't read. Then I saw him, sepulchral in black. He stretched out his arm to her. She looked at him for a long while, then took it. sebmojo fucked around with this message at 13:19 on Apr 19, 2013 |
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Mar 31, 2013 16:34
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Was there a flash rule that I missed that said you must use the word "cacophony"?
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Mar 31, 2013 17:26
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It'd be magical if ESB and toanoradian joined us  Anyway, I've got the short list handy and I'm going to start posting crits. I haven't heard back from the other judges, so some of you may be spared. One of you is going to lose. Symptomless Coma Rather Watch Them Pug Wearing a Hat Nikaer Draekin SpaceGodzilla Jagermonster Cancercakes Chewie23 Khris Kruel CantDecideOnAName Noah
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Mar 31, 2013 17:41
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Khris Kruel posted:
Rather Watch Them posted:I really, really tried not to judge the pieces based on my opinion of the song. Honest. However, after immersing myself in your pile of turds, I came out having gained fifty pounds and sporting a neckbeard. Video game tunes and the prom? A SERIOUS piece about video games and the prom? You gotta be making GBS threads me. autism ZX spectrum fucked around with this message at 03:21 on Apr 1, 2013 |
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Mar 31, 2013 18:26
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pug wearing a hat posted:Seeds - 693 words Nikaer Drekin posted:
SpaceGodzilla posted:
CantDecideOnAName posted:This, I don't even know what to do with. There's not a whole lot wrong. There's no story either. Nothing happens. It's impossible to care for the prot when there's no conflict, no story arc. There's an attempt at characterization, the whole focus on colors could add to a story, but it's not a story in itself. Spend some more time thinking about who you're writing about, what their problems are. Don't introduce characters like men on benches unless they play a role. Give us some sort of interaction between characters instead of telling us about an inert observer. CancerCakes posted:
Noah posted:
autism ZX spectrum fucked around with this message at 01:36 on Apr 1, 2013 |
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Mar 31, 2013 18:59
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Thanks for the crit, very helpful advice in there. Made me laugh out loud, too.
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Apr 1, 2013 00:10
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SpaceGodzilla - give it some time and go back to it. Let the ideas mature a bit and tighten everything up!Chewie23 posted:
Symptomless Coma posted:
Jagermonster posted:Dayenu systran posted:Was there a flash rule that I missed that said you must use the word "cacophony"? autism ZX spectrum fucked around with this message at 02:11 on Apr 1, 2013 |
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Apr 1, 2013 01:48
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I guess I was going too subtle. drat. Ah well. Not sure if it's a good thing or a bad thing that the worst thing in my story was that nothing happened. I'll go with good, considering some of the crits other folks are getting. Thanks for the fashion pointers. I usually dress in a jeans and tshirt so I pulled all that out of my rear end.
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Apr 1, 2013 02:26
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Nubile Hillock posted:Word Count: 1235 A hard limit is a hard limit. Tough poo poo. Whoops, thought there was some leeway. Won't make that mistake again. Thanks.
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Apr 1, 2013 02:43
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Jagermonster A hard limit means no leeway. Clean it up and take it to the farm! I was especially bitter because you had tons of places you could have cut it down. I want to introduce you guys to a literary innovation started in this very thread: screaming ellipses Khris Kruel posted:
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Apr 1, 2013 03:40
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CantDecideOnAName posted:I guess I was going too subtle. drat. Ah well. Not sure if it's a good thing or a bad thing that the worst thing in my story was that nothing happened. I'll go with good, considering some of the crits other folks are getting.  "
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Apr 1, 2013 03:43
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SpaceGodzilla posted:"Heh heh heh, I lost in a slightly less ambitious way than the rest of you losers A loser's a loser, and I'm no better than anyone else (as is obvious by my prose). Just trying to stay positive here.
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Apr 1, 2013 03:45
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I dunno, someone's gonna be the ultimate loser, and if you're not that person, you'll be better than someone.
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Apr 1, 2013 05:23
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Nubile Hillock posted:a turd of a story Many thanks for the crit. I have to say that I let the lyrics lead things rather than the video, and I was stupidly determined to write something about Dignitas and then try to fit a story into it, which never ever works. I can't believe that I still let that happen. There are references to an ominous 'diagnosis' but I guess that isn't enough. Thanks for the compliment at the end, even that I've hosed up since he doesn't actually kill himself, he just chucks the cup on the floor and imagines its effect - "the liquid sinks into the carpet" / "is this darkness or the dawn?". But hey, it was fun to do. Look out for something utterly non-boring and dialogue-free, next week.
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Apr 1, 2013 07:40
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Symptomless Coma posted:dialogue-free uh oh! Are you sure? I read your story three times and it was only on the third pass did I realized he was sick. I never caught the fact he didn't die.
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Apr 1, 2013 11:47
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Authors Crit: 1. Kaishai 2. Sitting Here 3. Echocian Kaishai - It Is the Last (634 words) In the autumn, six months in advance of Easter, Michael set a topaz into the space left for it in the forest-green enamel of a pendant. Only when he'd finished did he notice the quiet of the workshop around him. He took the loupe from his eye. Henrik Wigström stood at the back of the cavernous room, waiting for the jewelers who remained in the Petrograd shop to grant him their attention. Apparently Michael had been the last delinquent. "Next year's egg for the dowager czarina will be made of Karelian birch," Henrik told them all. "The surprise will be silver and gold, if we can acquire them. Master Fabergé wouldn't take it amiss to find such materials in the back of a cabinet where they might have been forgotten." Henrik's eyes didn't linger on any particular craftsman, but Michael's fingers trembled against enamel. When the law had come down forbidding jewelers to use silver or gold, He alone was given the task of setting rose-cut diamonds in the tiny clockwork elephant and He put the emptiness of the workshop out of his mind, though fewer than two dozen men still worked there. He One piece of news reached Michael's brain. He approached Wigström on that third day of March and asked, his throat tight, "The czar has abdicated?" Henrik nodded curtly, and Michael pressed on: "What of the Easter egg? The dowager's egg?" For several long moments, Henrik looked out one of the windows. "The order for it hasn't been cancelled," he said at last. The workmaster's voice lacked enthusiasm, or any audible emotion at all. Never mind that. Never mind the craftsmen who wondered aloud Then it was done. Michael picked up the winding key. The men of the workshop gathered around him as he inserted it into the elephant's side and turned it. The soft clicks of the gears were a song. Sunlight fractured inside the diamonds that paved its golden sides as the elephant walked across his table. It raised its miniature trunk, and the silver tusks flashed; its eyes flashed, and broken light scattered across the aged wood; he could have covered it with one hand. Wondrous, he thought. Ridiculous. Majestic. Scarred jewelers' hands clasped his shoulders. Michael nudged the elephant to turn it around, to make it march in front of them again.  BEAUTIFUL MOMENT SPOTTED Your buildup to this moment has been great, and this doesn’t disappoint. Very nice work.Master craftsmen watched a testament to their artistry mimic life in the glow of the falling sun, its footsteps louder, briefly, than the voices of Petrograd. This was in my top 3 of the week. You obviously had put in some effort into researching and detailing how Russian jewellers worked and the intricacies of their creations, and the payoff with the elephant walking is one of the few truly present in the Dome this week. The only bit I’m not too happy with is that the last paragraph could be a little longer, but I understand that you are aiming for ambiguity and it still works.--- Sitting Here - Bury Me With Emeralds 966 words Through my open window came the haunting whistle of a passing train. Then another. Then another. "Yes, I know, you're a train. You're all trains, who the gently caress cares?" I stood up and slammed the window shut. In the time it took me to walk from my computer and back, I'd received two notifications about photos I'd uploaded, an invitation to a local artist's opening, and four increasingly plaintive messages from Julia: I just feel like I have to drag you out anytime we go somewhere. Really makes everything feel one sided, you know? You there? I saw that you were typing for a sec. My favourite line out of the three Julia messages because Whatever Dan. Either you care or you don't. Then she'd signed off. I flopped down into my chair and began crafting a scathing reply for her to find when she signed on again, then thought better of it. If getting her to gently caress off was as simple as ignoring her for a minute, it was better to keep quiet and let all the breakup business take care of itself. I flipped idly between webpages. No updates on the social feed. Nothing happening on the photostream. Click. Click. Refresh. Click. Julia. I stared into empty space, realized I was imagining her; Julia and her great cleavage. Julia, bare arms taut as she shot elk with a plastic riffle at the bar. The way her makeup flaked over her acne scars, even though I told her she looked better without... Another bit I like is the flaking makeup. Cute, small details which drives home how close these two used to be. I shook it off and reached for my pack of cigarettes. Empty. And because there were no cigarettes, by god I needed a loving cigarette. I'd have a smoke, get some air, I told myself. Get Julia out of my head. Outside, the crows and gulls were louder than I could ever remember, wheeling and soaring in a great cloud over the city. A few people had paused on the sidewalk to marvel at the sight. "There's so many, you ever seen anything like that?" an old man said to me over the shrieking din of the birds. I shook my head. "But this is why god invented headphones, right?" "You'd do yourself good to look at somethin' else than your cellphone," the old man said as I walked away. My earbuds were already halfway in. Out of ten gigabytes of stored music, my phone seemed stuck on the endless tracks of shoegaze bullshit that Julia had insisted I download after we'd screwed to My Bloody Valentine a couple times. I flipped through songs, not knowing what I wanted except that it couldn't remind me of her. Flip. Flip. Flip back. Listz's Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2, an artifact left over from a hot pianist I'd tried to impress once. The song started and I set off toward the smoke shop. The sun was setting beyond downtown Seattle, the Olympic mountains a haloed wall on the far side the Puget sound. The beginning of Liszt's Rhapsody was stately and sublime, and the thousands of birds above swirled in great formations that moved in time with the arpeggios and cascading musical phrases. Halfway to the shop, I passed through a ball field that afforded a panoramic view of downtown. I could just pick out Elliot Bay by the little slices of glittering sea between skyscrapers. More birds flocked overhead, pigeons and sparrows joining the gulls and crows. They were almost beautiful, I thought. When you couldn't hear them. BEAUTIFUL MOMENT SPOTTED Ok, it’s obvious you have chosen the music for where the music and the birds (THE BIRDS) are swarming Seattle and the earthquake hits, and it works brilliantly here. About the real nitpicky complaint I have is that when he was looking across the ballpark there doesn’t seem to be any indication as to why he would do so (since it doesn’t seem to be in his personality as a goony goon to just look at sunsets), but that’s just me trying to find faults. Do you know how hard it is to do that when you are trying to critique good work and I LEFT IT TO THE ELEVENTH HOUR.A grey and white cat bolted in front of me-- --then heaving, shaking earth. The ground surged up to meet me, or was I falling down? Over and over, undulating waves of grass. Here the hiss of an underground pipe, there the groan of a collapsing apartment building, bursting underground pipe doesn’t seem to share the same severity level of the collapsing block and over it all the screams of man and birds alike crescendoed into a terrible death knell. The rhapsody reached its friska --one of my earbuds was still in--growing louder and louder, dissonant harmonies racing toward a towering climax while skyscrapers collapsed into a slurry of mud and silt. The collapsing skyscraper is too similar to the collapsing apartment buildings. Suggest removing the earlier apartments. I pushed myself onto hands and knees, only to be slammed back down again as the earth rippled and shook, pliant as fabric. There was nothing Some twenty seconds went by before the worst of the earthquake passed. Could use a quick mention he’s still curled up here. Twenty seconds to wipe the skyline clean, to turn the bay into a swamp of twisted steel and broken concrete. Liszt's Rhapsody came to an end. I pushed myself to my feet, pulled the one Reflex made me pull out my phone to take a picture. Then I looked at the top of the screen; no bars. I almost laughed. Who the hell would I send a picture to? Most of the people who mattered My heart skipped a beat, then, as I thought of Julia. Julia and her annoying terrier. Julia, who couldn't change a lightbulb and breath at the same time. Julia crushed under debris. Julia running from looters. I looked north, past the tapering stub of the Space Needle, to Queen Anne hill. I'd walked across town and climbed that hill every day when I first met Julia, because she was afraid of buses and hated my apartment, and I was getting laid. Guess you dragged me out of the house after all, I thought, and set out north, over the bones of the Emerald City. Another in the top three this week. I said enough about the moment. With respect to the earthquake scene, I thought it was also well done but it was very slightly less thought out than the preceding sequence. Some bits were a little unclear, but overall it conveyed the message that Seattle had been turned to ruins, and the goon coming to the realisation he may have lost everyone and the person he love(d?). Nice work.--- Echocian - Turncoat (996 words) The entire South Quarter was ablaze when Marcus charged up the staircase of Stonebridge Manor. It was deserted; the only sounds came from the anxious chatter of his men outside and distant shouts Alerio greeted him with a raised goblet and a lazy smile "Are you drunk or are you mad?" Marcus stalked across the room. "The South's gone up, the fires will consume this district before the hour's out. We have to leave!" "Why the rush?" Alerio took a deep drink from the goblet and waved it toward the window. "Enjoy the view. You'll never see the likes of it again." "I've seen enough!" Marcus took the goblet away and dumped its contents on the floor. Red wine Alerio snorted. "Arson? Certainly not." Now he turned from the window, unfolded himself from the divan with leisurely grace. He smiled, lips red from the wine. No need to keep saying he’s smiling. Marcus swallowed against a rush of heat through his body as Alerio slipped an arm around his waist. "You think in simplicities. Won't you join me?" Marcus shied away. "You are mad. So help me, Rio, even if you're connected to the rebellion, I'll not abandon you to this!" Marcus swallowed. "So you are connected to it." It was so hard to focus with Alerio this close, leaning against him, silk on steel. "I could put a word in. I could...I could find an excuse." He gritted his teeth, seized the man's shoulders and shook him. "Dammit, Rio, why? You knew what I'd have to do if-" Alerio pressed a silencing finger to his lips. "Yes. So say no more." He took Marcus by the shoulders in turn, pressed him down to the divan and kissed him until they were breathless. When their lips parted, Alerio caressed his lover's face, cupped it in his hands and directed Marcus's gaze outside. "Just look at it, Marc," he whispered. "Have you ever seen such a beautiful sight?" Marcus looked. Flames licked across the rooftops, vivid red against the smoke that turned the southern sky to starless night. It was entrancing, in its way, like an ever-changing sunset in the wrong direction - but Marcus knew there was more to the east, and soon to the north. Alerio could usually get him to see things in his odd way, but this was one scene Marcus couldn't reconcile. BEAUTIFUL MOMENT SPOTTED He turned back to Alerio, all fine bones and lean limbs, long lashes and wine-red lips, consciously sensual in every movement and far too calm as the world turned to chaos around them. SEXY BRO MOMENT SPOTTED It was nearly enough to make him forget why he'd come here. The man he'd fallen in love with. A traitor to the kingdom. His voice cracked. "No. Nor will I again, if you don't come with me."Alerio chuckled softly and traced a hand across his back. "Not what I meant." He curled against him and kissed his neck. "This is hardly the time-" The kiss turned into a bite. Marcus gasped and pulled away, though he longed to give in. "Don't do this. Don’t do what? I can get you out of the country." Alerio sank back against the sill and stretched, tilting his head playfully. "My loyal little soldier, disobeying orders?" Marcus forced himself to look away from that invitation. "For you, yes. Please, whatever you've done, I can keep you safe." Alerio sighed. The levity faded. "And lose you, as well? They already know about me. Don't think they won't catch you." "I'm willing to take that risk." "I'm not." He sat up and spread his arms. "If you're so willing to burn along with me, then lay with me here! Otherwise, leave. I don't intend to escape. We would meet the same end either way." Marcus stared at him. One of his men shouted up the stairs for him, but Alerio dropped his arms and quirked a wry smile. "Hell of a way to go, don't you think?" Smoke and flames blurred in his vision. Marcus blinked back the tears. "You never were one to do things in half-measures." Before his vision cleared, Alerio rose again, wrapped his arms around him. This time was a kiss of finality. Marcus felt it in the firmness, the near desperation. He choked back a sob and held his lover for the last time. Only when footsteps pounded up the staircase did Alerio step back and stroke Marcus's cheek. "Go, love. Be safe." Marcus turned and walked out the door. He met his man in the hallway and shook his head, heedless of the tears that streaked his face. "Back to the horses. We're leaving." Behind them, the notes of a violin rang out into the still air - sweet, lilting, utterly unsuited to the situation. So thoroughly absurd when destruction loomed on the horizon. So wonderfully, hopelessly brazen. OK, THIS IS TAKING THE PROMPT A LITTLE TOOOOOO LITERALLY MOMENT SPOTTED Marcus pictured the nightmare alternative - his lover bound to a stake, blindfolded, bundles of sticks stacked at his feet. A traitor's death. He stumbled to the bottom of the stairs and buried his face in his hands. If Marcus were caught aiding a traitor, that would be the end for both of them. "He's right, drat him," he whispered. A little laying it too thick here again. We already know it’d be the end for both if he was found aiding Alerio. Have him whisper something else instead. “Rio,”? Choking back tears etc.He gathered his men and rode off, leaving the burning city and Alerio's reasons far behind. I’m very glad there are no janitors in this story because that would change things a lot. You have a good grasp on dialogue, and the story is sweetly romantic in the face of great despair. My issue, as you probably notice, is that some bits seem to repeat messages more than it is necessary, and it makes some bits as subtle as a sledgehammer. Overall, I enjoyed it, despite it being almost a literal rewrite of the prompt in 996 words. I did like the violin though. The Saddest Rhino fucked around with this message at 13:46 on Apr 1, 2013 |
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Apr 1, 2013 13:28
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Nubile Hillock posted:uh oh! Are you sure? Stupid-dialogue-free, then.
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Apr 1, 2013 15:42
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Thanks so much for the feedback, I always appreciate it when people take the time to do a line-by-line criticism. That's gotta take up a huge chunk of time. My only question -- was it clear enough that it was supposed to be a retelling of Persephone and Hades? Because rereading it, I don't think I was clear enough about that.
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Apr 1, 2013 16:09
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I've sent my picks to Hillock. Those on the shortlist have every reason to be quaking in their boots.
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Apr 1, 2013 18:38
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FOR GLORIOUS CASCADIA. But yeah thanks for the feedback duder. Sometimes I really can't resist writing odes to my beloved region.
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Apr 1, 2013 18:45
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Nubile Hillock posted:"Stuff..." Thanks for the crit! I always had the problem of either having nothing happening (like now) or everything happening (and hopelessly confusing the reader). I'll work on it some more
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Apr 1, 2013 19:09
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Been away with guests and such over the Easter weekend, so I'm preemptively in for the next prompt.
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Apr 1, 2013 21:13
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Nubile Hillock posted:Pain. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fTyIKnRQdx0 Thanks for taking the time despite the DQ.
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Apr 1, 2013 21:30
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pug wearing a hat posted:Thanks so much for the feedback, I always appreciate it when people take the time to do a line-by-line criticism. That's gotta take up a huge chunk of time. get drunk, read lines er'day. You're welcome pug wearing a hat posted:My only question -- was it clear enough that it was supposed to be a retelling of Persephone and Hades? Because rereading it, I don't think I was clear enough about that. No you're completely off your rocker. I would have had to have been tripping balls in the Parthenon to even begin to draw those things together. There's nothing to infer that anywhere. But I'm also denser than lead, so maybe you could point it out? Steriletom posted:
Join the upcoming TD. Work on mapping out a straightforward action sequence before you go balls out with fantasy. It would do a lot for you. Some things worked but they were crushed under the weight of the things that didn't.  THIS WEEK'S LOSERIn honor of the Greeks, the judges chose a loser through Democratic vote. This week the losertar goes to: Khris Kruel and his gripping fantasy piece Vambraces at Sea autism ZX spectrum fucked around with this message at 22:25 on Apr 1, 2013 |
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Apr 1, 2013 22:15
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No more excuses. I'm entering in the next one no matter what the next prompt will be.
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Apr 1, 2013 22:28
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Thanks for the crits, Hillock. I actually intended the story to take place a little further in time than you thought- I'd just finished reading This Side of Paradise when I wrote it, so I was thinking maybe late 1910s-early 1920s. Still, the criticism's totally valid, since I obviously didn't make the time period explicit enough. I totally agree on the beginning, looking back at it now. Now that I know where the story ends up, once I start reworking it, I'll probably strip most of the frst four paragraphs or so and craft a more atmospheric (and explicitly researched) opening. Nikaer Drekin fucked around with this message at 22:39 on Apr 1, 2013 |
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Apr 1, 2013 22:37
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Nikaer Drekin posted:Thanks for the crits, Hillock. I actually intended the story to take place a little further in time than you thought- I'd just finished reading This Side of Paradise when I wrote it, so I was thinking maybe late 1910s-early 1920s. Still, the criticism's totally valid, since I obviously didn't make the time period explicit enough. The research is actually the reason I stopped doing period pieces. Look up any steampunk lit mag and you'll see exactly what not to do. If you're doing that time period you better mention the fancy electric lighting (maybe this place still has gaslamps?). The architecture would play a big part - the Belle Epoque ballroom would be a big step away from some of the other 1910 stuff, as you're practically verging on Art Deco at that poing. I'm sure the prot would have an opinion on encroaching modernity. Join the irc chan and we can totally geek out about retro stuff. I'd love to read the piece again when it's done.  WE HAVE A WINNERsystran YOU ARE THIS WEEK'S WINNER. Don't get too high on your horse now, though. Was it the best story? Yes. Was it the best piece of writing? No. You did phenomenal things with a song I absolutely wanted to hate. I played it as I read your piece and something wonderful happened. I don't know what kind of voodoo it was, but it worked. Congrats. You hit the prompt at all points - clothing, music, narrative arc and even touched on greek tragedy. There were some things I didn't like, and a crit is incoming. Various Awards I'm hanging onto power for as long as I can. My time is over, but my ego isn't nearly as inflated as it should be. Best in Class Sebmojo! (obviously) By far the best piece of writing submitted. Wonderful piece. You thoroughly dominated the prompt. I have some issues with the story and a certain ambiguity present. Expect a crit. If I didn't have a bone to pick with your superiority in Thunderdome, I would have been blown away by the writing and let everything slide. Most Enjoyable Kaishai! I really, really wanted to give you the win. The song and story together were the most enjoyable read this week. I'm a sucker for the underdog... and the story kind of left me wanting. It was a lovely vignette, but I've read this cliche over and over and over. It worked every time, though (and had me clapping my hands together like a toddler with downs). Expect a crit! Best Sports DialogueI have no idea what's wrong with chairchucker, but I could read his stories of bros in locker rooms all day. After experiencing his entry I grew more chest hair and got the beer burps somethin' fierce. autism ZX spectrum fucked around with this message at 23:08 on Apr 1, 2013 |
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Apr 1, 2013 22:44
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If I get time in between my massive amounts of work I might provide some vague, food-stuff pairings for your stories so you understand what they tasted like to read.
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Apr 1, 2013 23:40
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I did not expect that. I loving hated the song too and still do.
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Apr 1, 2013 23:40
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systran posted:I did not expect that. I loving hated the song too and still do. um disqualified for not liking best song in universe
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Apr 1, 2013 23:42
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MORE CRITS HaitianDivorce posted:Starstuff That said HaitianDivorce, I didn't hate your story. I thought it was a cool interpretation of the prompt, but the execution left a lot to be desired. Fumblemouse posted:Hard Computation This seems to be one of those pieces that would benefit from being longer, however I'm really not into the coldness of the voice. It's detatched to the point where it's offputting - if the narrator doesn't really care about what's happening then why would you expect the reader to? Nubile Hillock posted:Tallgrass Obviously I don't have very many complaints about this one, since you won. However, for readers who aren't giant nerds, it's kind of difficult to even figure out that you're talking about insects, let alone what is actually going on. The word "Everbreath" in particular threw me off on the first readthrough, and I think it's probably unecessary especially when there's already so much other stuff that the reader is trying to figure out. I'm not actually sure if I want you to play up the insects so it's more obvious, or play it down even more so it seems like actual people doing really weird things. Either could be pretty cool, I reckon. pug wearing a hat posted:Private Browsing This one is obviously difficult to do a line-by-line of, but I enjoyed it a lot. I think you did yourself a disservice though by submitting a conceptual piece, because it was difficult to judge against everyone else's. However, I appreciated it because I harbour a secret desire to do a conceptual prompt someday so it's nice to know that at least some of you are into that sort of thing. I would probably have ordered the data in the opposite way to make it easier to read, if only because the reader's natural inclination is to read from the top down and not the other way around.
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Apr 2, 2013 00:00
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Nubile Hillock posted:The research is actually the reason I stopped doing period pieces. Look up any steampunk lit mag and you'll see exactly what not to do. If you're doing that time period you better mention the fancy electric lighting (maybe this place still has gaslamps?). The architecture would play a big part - the Belle Epoque ballroom would be a big step away from some of the other 1910 stuff, as you're practically verging on Art Deco at that poing. I'm sure the prot would have an opinion on encroaching modernity. Join the irc chan and we can totally geek out about retro stuff. I'd love to read the piece again when it's done. Grazie. I wrote that between 1 and 5.45 AM with the help of a lot of red wine. Looking forward to the crit, I've loved your other ones. And if you want to judge two weeks in a row, just do it imo. Noone's going to gainsay a bona fide ULTRACRIT SUPASTAREdit: vvvvvv Nubile Hillock posted:This paragraph is what hosed everything up for me. Who is this guy? Why is he here? In a piece this short it pays to have simpler motives. If she was being stolen away from yakuza or mobsters or an abusive boyfriend, you'd have won. There's just this big, weird lack of development of this one crucial part that makes things fall apart. Excellent point. I guess you can divine he represents Hades in some way (since the story is Orpheus/Eurydice) but when I got to him it was like 5.30 AM and I had 120 words to cut to get it down to 1200 so motivation for weird ex-boyf in black or whatever fell by the wayside. Just be glad I didn't surrender to my temptation to point out that the Doctor was nicknamed Dr Seuss (=Zeus!!!!). sebmojo fucked around with this message at 01:46 on Apr 2, 2013 |
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Apr 2, 2013 00:18
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