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Engine Trouble (687 words) Carmine had always had a good fifteen inches on Tanis, not that she minded too terribly much. Whenever she decided she required his attention she would take him by the collar and yank him down to her level. Today he was smoking and she found herself grateful. Even as she held him, she shuddered at the scent and began rifling through his pockets. “So,” Carmine asked as she shared his addiction, “What am I looking at?” “Hmm?” Tanis mumbled through the paper and nicotine. “What’s wrong with it?” “Wrong with what?” “With the car.” With a flick of her wrist she produced a small match, and released him to strike it in the palm of her hand. It was a suicidal happiness, what she had, something treasured and adored. Their lives might be shorter but the lengths would be the same. “The car’s dead.” “Dead?” “Yep.” “You’re sure?” “Preeeetty sure.” “Well what’s wrong with it?” Tanis took the cigarette from her lips and gestured into the tangled depths of the engine compartment. In Carmine’s eyes sprawled a veritable labyrinth, but to her it was as the contours of her own soul. Towards one thing in particular she motioned, not that Carmine could’ve told the difference. “Do you know what that is?” “No.” “Know how it works?” “…No.” “Then she’d dead Jim and that’s all you need to know.” A wry smile escaped her as she dropped the hood. Carmine stared for a minute more before turning to the road. The sun was high and twenty miles in every direction. At least they had water. “So what happens now?” she asked. “We wait,” he answered. Carmine sank to the sand on the passenger side, the road before him stark and infinite. He wet his lips and whistled an old song, a simple prayer from the bottom of his heart. Tanis joined him, nestled in the dirt between his legs, shoulders back against his chest. Without a word and without a thought Carmine drew his fingers through her hair, a gentle teasing at the back of her neck. She shut her eyes and hummed in tune, comfortable there in the wake of the clouds. Carmine took his cigarette between his fingers and examined it at length. Not that great a flavor, this pack. Must’ve picked an off brand. He sighed and crushed it idly amidst the grit and gravel, then took Tanis’ and disposed of it likewise. Her eyebrows knit but she voiced no protest. Something would come. Something would come. There was the sound of a motorcycle in the distance, first faint then frantic then screeching to a halt. “Well now, what have we here?” Tanis peeled her eyes as Carmine continued ruffling her hair. Neither of them felt any reason to get up off the ground just yet. A biker had pulled in before, bearded and grinning, gold in his teeth and too much wind in his hair. He pushed his goggles to his forehead and let out a low chuckle, a simpering laugh that was more of a cough. “Couple drifters I see. Car broke down?” Carmine considered his question a moment before answering. “Yes.” Again the biker laughed, a little louder this time. A practiced annoyance, unquestionably deliberate. “Suppose you’d like a hand getting back to civilization?” “That would be kind of you, yes, if you’ve a phone or anything.” “Ah ha ha, well now, thing is stranger I’ve got no time for some errant rear end in a top hat and his busted up four-wheel drive. Now the two of you look pretty cute down there together so maybe just stay put till this evening, get used to hiking in the dark.” “Ah, well, I’ll take your advice under consideration.” “Eh heh, course, if it’s too hot for the little lady there you could always strip down.” It was here Tanis interrupted them, her voice just above a whisper. “Carmine?” “Yes?” He looked down and saw fire in her eyes, a spark of rash ingenuity. He knew what she would ask before she asked it. “Do you know how to ride a motorcycle?” He smiled and nodded.
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Feb 18, 2013 05:59
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Doing a thing on a wing.
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Feb 26, 2013 05:42
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This one didn't turn out how I wanted but what are you gonna do. What to do When Eaten Alive (495 words) I was thirteen years old when my grandfather first taught me to eat octopus. A small Korean restaurant near our tenements served them, ropey and raw and very much alive. It was alive that we ate them, grandfather insisted. It was the most important thing. The second important thing he told me was to bite out their beaks before starting on the rest; an amateur mistake many made was to miss it. The most important thing he told me when I asked. “My child it is the secret to immortality.” A single octopus served alive every year. That was the secret to the old man’s longevity. But it had to be alive and just once a year, and every year or you’d die. If you ever ate two you would die. If you ever missed one you would die. You could start whenever – whenever you wanted – and at that age you’d be stuck. “This truth I uncovered in the autumn of my life, so to you I share it in your spring.” At the time it seemed like a logical thing. I certainly did not mind the taste as much as I thought I would. My sisters felt differently, refused to even touch them. I pleaded and I wept as I knew they would die. I hugged grandfather tight as we knew they would die. The years stretched on, and with every octopus I felt myself change less and less. But of course, for I was the only one who listened to grandfather. My first sister found love and lost it again. Again and again. She grew old and bitter and distasteful of others, distrustful of others. And when she died she withered away, to skin and bones and ash and grey. There was not even enough left to bury, so we planted her remains amongst the tulips in the garden. My second octopus was better than the first. I think by then I’d acquired the taste. My second sister found fame and fortune, and kept them both. A thousand nights and a thousand lovers, and when they were over she died with a smile. Her blood was so pure we distilled her remains and kept them in a wine cask alone in the cellar. My third octopus was definitely the worst. Still I kept at it, grandfather’s words in my ears. My third sister traveled the world, and we did not see her for some time. On returning she announced she had drunk her fill, and passed in her sleep in satisfaction. We buried her down in the Earth she loved so much. My fourth octopus was unquestionably the best. They all felt downhill after that one, if only comparably. And so I stood with my hat in my hands, the last of all of us on the hill where we lay. My ninety-fifth octopus tasted like nothing. I suppose I’m used to the flavor by now.
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Mar 3, 2013 05:59
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The message itself is a voice in the bottle, which like every bottle will only say, "Soon."
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Mar 5, 2013 01:03
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HA HA YOU FOOLS. Oxxidation may have won but the spearhead is mine, and I'll be dead before I judge any more poetry. THIS WEEK ON THUNDERDOME, EPISODE XXXI, "Russian Nesting Dolls." You know what I dig about Russia? It's big. Stupidly big. But what else I dig about Russia is a lot of its literature focuses on the lives of the little people. This week I want a small story told within the scope of a larger one implied. Something small and intimate among a handful of people, but nested within a much larger narrative we never get to see the full brunt of, like having tea in the middle of no man's land. Something large and looming is stirring in the background, but all that concerns us is the scene that's before us. There are, of course, some restrictions to this:
You have until March 8th, 11:59 PM Pacific Time to announce your participation, and until March 10th that same time and place to disappoint me. Your judges will be myself, Oxxidation, and Budgieinspector. Additionally, Oxxidation has a little something he'd like to share with the class. Oxxidation posted:So, the latest prompt has a vague Russian theme, and for the last prompt, the majority of Thunderdome fell under a genie's curse that made them believe Wikipedia was a good venue for understanding vaguely defined po-mo literary styles. I think this is an ideal time for everyone to try and redeem themselves by paying some tribute to one of my favorite Russian authors, early surrealist Sigizmund Krzhizhanovsky THE BRAVE AND THE BLOODY Sebmojo - Second Day of the Rains Jeza - Welcome to the Spiderdome Dr. Kloctopussy - The Garrity Incident Swaziloo - Further Orders Steriletom - Love Found and Lost in Phuket WilliamAnderson - Inside Tears Nubile Hillock - Coyote Noah - Downhill Toanoradian - Old Uncle of Old Street Erogenous Beef - Off Base 0 Rows Returned - Just a Blur Systran - Last Night at the Club Sitting Here - The Magician's Apprentice V for Vegas - Return to the BlackCat Benagain - Sitting Pug Wearing a Hat - Visitor Beezle Bug - When/If I Grow up Some Strange Flea - Recovery CancerCakes - The Night Before Battle HellishWhiskers - Distance Kaishai - Gravesite BarbarousBertha - Good Night Bad Seafood fucked around with this message at 19:06 on Mar 11, 2013 |
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Mar 5, 2013 23:15
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Sign ups are closed. I even let you guys have thirty extra minutes because I'm so nice. Noah and Steriletom have already delivered. The rest of you have the rest of the weekend to come up with something more substantial than the ocean just randomly being gone.
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Mar 9, 2013 09:35
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8 hours remain. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-00JZo-jlyI
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Mar 11, 2013 00:00
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30 minutes remain. All you stragglers best get fired up.
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Mar 11, 2013 07:30
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Submissions are closed. Purple Prince, Greatbacon, JuniperCake, and Honey Badger have failed, letting down children's hospitals across the country. To the rest of you I say stay tuned.
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Mar 11, 2013 08:10
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The judges have convened. Some Strange Flea, you managed to hit both the prompt and the flash rule with an equal measure of grace and style. You also managed to pull off a time travel hat trick without making it feel like a hat trick. For this, victory is yours. Lest you feel too comfortable however, Sitting Here was your close second. Meanwhile, in the pit of despair, CancerCakes' finds his own clumsy attempt at genre fiction wallowing in the sea of its own regrets. Your characters were barely characters, your dialogue barely dialogue, and you only ever really snatched at the hem of what we were getting at, though at least you tried. For this you lose, though it would be within WilliamAnderson's best interest to know just how close he was to taking your place. Crits to follow. Some Strange Flea, the stage is yours. Bad Seafood fucked around with this message at 04:22 on Mar 12, 2013 |
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Mar 12, 2013 03:33
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swaziloo posted:Didn't even notice there was a flash rule. Who the gently caress is Oxxidation anyhow? Oh, the new guy. A judge? Well, poo poo. I even said Oxxidation might step in and stir things up in my OP, which he did. You really should have expected this.
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Mar 12, 2013 05:49
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Homegrown crits like momma used to make. Noah - Downhill You manage to say an awful little here with an awful lot of words. The whole things reads dull, probably because it is dull, focused on the lives and times of dull people. Steriletom - Love Found and Lost in Phuket First of all your title would flow better with Lost and Found reversed. Secondly, since I caught some chaff for "The ocean just randomly being gone," this is probably the best time to sit everyone down and explain what I wanted from this prompt, that being a larger sense of narrative interwoven with your smaller, more personal story, but without dominating it. Instead you told me a story about a dude who falls in love with the prostitute his buddies bought him, only for them to walk outside and, oh dear, tsunami, I guess this is happening now. Though to your credit your ending-ending was strong. Very strong. That aside I really didn't get much more out of this than I've gotten out of every other time I've read this story. Not only does the tsunami feel stapled on to the last half of the story, it's also the only real thing that grants the story any sense of novelty. Nubile Hillock - Coyote Stuff Happens about sums this one up. Not a whole lot of nuance to it, though some of the language and the character voice is nice. Has a lot of confidence, which is something I can dig in a shorter story, but it doesn't do enough with it. CancerCakes - The Night Before Battle H'oh boy, this one. Ignoring the general clumsiness with which you tackled this prompt and how many sentences of it could do with a rewrite or omission, it is ultimately your characters and dialogue that fail you. Not a one of the people you've populated your story with is anything more than paper thin, and what dialogue you attribute to them frequently isn't even attributed or actual dialogue. Recounting the gist of what someone says works a lot better when trying to capture the general flavor of a much longer sentiment than when you're basically just telling us exactly what they said but without the quotations. Your protagonist Roger, who is the closest of all your characters to actually being a character, comes off as merely pathetic instead of sympathetic, and his sudden yearnings of the glories of knighthood come off as just that: sudden. Like you were wrapping up your story and realized your protagonist needed another dimension to lean against lest the whole piece fall over. Jeza - Welcome to the Spiderdome This is beautifully written for how little sense it makes. It's got a good personality but left me feeling more than a little schizophrenic; until you named the other guy James in the last sentence I thought this whole thing was Barry talking to himself and sending himself out to do things, while still somehow being there. Looking back on it now, if you had just bothered to name both your characters near the beginning and continued to refer to them as such, you could have avoided this. Unfortunately, even if you had, it wouldn't feel like a smaller story tucked inside of a bigger one. As a stand-alone thing it shows some promise, but in this week, in this Thunderdome, it failed. Beezle Bug - When/If I Grow Up Lots of fantasy window dressing that does absolutely nothing to accent the piece, which in and of itself is very basic and muddled. I don't have quite the same distaste for genre as Oxxidation has, but even I know if it adds nothing to the story you should probably dump it. Pug Wearing a Hat - Visitor Lots of saying and explaining and attributing going on in this one. When you've got good dialogue you don't really need to attribute much of it, and more often than not you'll be accenting your words with actions instead of reiterating that people are talking. And thank God you included that disclaimer at the end there or you would've been waltzing on some pretty thin ice. WilliamAnderson - Inside Tears I really need to reiterate how close you were to losing this one. Between your saltine prose and your characters I couldn't even begin to care about, you went a step below just tacking on some larger narrative and paid it minimal service or consideration. But even excluding the prompt this isn't a story I would have any desire to read or any interest while reading. Benagain - Sitting I liked this. It's crude and a bit unpolished, but I liked it all the same. This would probably be my favorite take on Oxxidation's flash rule except that I can't help but feel it doesn't really get at mine; it's still a little too vague in that department. Still, you managed to introduce and distinguish three characters from one another in a relatively compact amount of time, and even made me care about them a bit. Kaishai - Gravesite Nothing about this piece stood out to me, which I guess could be taken two ways. Nothing in it really irritated me or came off as wrong, but none of it struck an accord or felt like it was anything more than what it was. I will say I actually think the casual atmosphere could be used to intone a certain familiarity or even comfort with death, but you don't really push it that far or even take it in that direction. V for Vegas - Return to the BlackCat Had to go over this a couple times before I decided I liked it, and believe me when I say that's not a point against you. More often than not I like a thing the more I have to mull it over, and I ended up liking this, or at the very least appreciating it. You quickly and succinctly set up the nature of the beast, that being the sun, before settling in on the lives of our poor bastards. Although their names and even their personalities sort of blend together after a bit, I actually think it works to magnify the nature of what they're up against, the heat and the sunstroke. Unfortunately, you've still got a lot of rough spots what need ironing out, a lot of rough dialogue and description, but prettied up I think this could've been a stronger contender. 0 Rows Returned - Just a Blur Have you ever just turned on the television and caught a single scene from some B movie action shlock right before they cut to commercials. That's how this whole thing reads. Some Strange Flea - Recover This is another one I had to read a few times to get a good bead on it, but I suppose your victory speaks well enough for itself. You've got some clear, powerful moments here and some solid writing to carry them, and the way it all loops back on itself works great. I especially admire what you did with the last sentence cutting it up into scattered fragments presumably as the stone hits. Wonderful. Erogenous Beef - Off Base Heavy-handed as they come without even the common courtesy of dressing it up in a velvet glove. This piece doesn't deserve much else to be said about it. Systran - Last Night at the Club I was more interested in whatever it was your protagonist was avoiding doing with his father-in-law (planning a funeral?) than anything else that transpired in this story. BarbarousBertha - Good Night Stiff and unnatural prose, but you already know about that. Instead I'm going to complain about how the larger story and the smaller story in this case are one and the same, rather you've just presented a small piece of a bigger puzzle, and very little in the way of characterization that makes us care about what that bigger puzzle actually may look like. Toanoradian - Old Uncle of Old Street Old guy sells odd stuff he gets in the mail. Doesn't really do anything or go anywhere, but it's competent I guess. Sitting Here - The Magician's Apprentice This was originally my favorite to win before I read it and Some Strange Flea's piece again. No shame in coming up second though. I actually think my favorite bit about this piece is how there's clearly some element of time travel at play, yet the exact nature of it is vaguely defined enough to be one of several distinct possibilities. Your characters are human and your set pieces are better than you may realize. I don't think this was cut too short, but I would like to read more of it. Sebmojo - Second Day of the Rains Two guys talk and share mostly the same voice doing it. There really isn't much of a story at work here, not on the greater end of the scale nor the lesser, and what little you do imply of the former most directly feeds into the latter, which I would have preferred you avoid. These are not two people in the middle of their own story set against the backdrop of a larger one, these are two people literally just discussing the larger story in the place of any of their own. To your credit though this is one of the few times I've read a verbal accent and not hated it, so good job there. HellishWhiskers - Distance You know - there's just something about this piece that really bugs me. Can't quite put my finger on it - but I'm sure it'll come to me in time. I'll keep you posted - okay? I actually thought this one started off strong but lost its way a bit as it went along. The sharp and short prose near the beginning lends itself well to the quick and dirty thoughts of someone recounting time in between being irritated at the people he lives with. I think if you did this again with a sparser style all around it would come across much more fittingly. Swaziloo - Further Orders Everything about this washed over my eyes like getting dunked head first in an aquarium filled with gasoline but still being able to make out the huddled schoolchildren on the other side of the glass. It was dull and plodding and awash in things happening for no particular reason I actually cared to find out about. Dr. Kloctopussy - The Garrity Incident As a general rule of thumb, the most interesting thing about any given non or inhuman character should never be the fact that they're non or inhuman. Your characters are more flavor than substance, and your story isn't anything even substantive at all. Bad Seafood fucked around with this message at 17:13 on Mar 12, 2013 |
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Mar 12, 2013 08:17
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In it.
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Mar 12, 2013 21:47
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It's called calling a shot.
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Mar 14, 2013 22:14
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Present tense because I hate all of you. The Rock of the Selfish Child (787 words) My father sits across from me, his head in his hands, that same prayer on his lips as he spoke not an hour ago. He delivered the benediction himself, his voice calm and measured. Only now does he hide behind his hands, those huge hands, a humble plea from a humble man after a lifetime of service. Was it enough? I am never quiet sure what it is he is thinking. I’ve never been good at getting inside people’s heads. I’ve never seen my brother cry. He's always been the large one, now larger than father. He cares very little about very few things, but even he seems to care about this. A week ago he was as brash as ever. Today he is inconsolable. Even he is inconsolable. So what’s wrong with me? I have seen my sister cry. Many times. But not today. Today she locked herself in her room and refused to come out. Even when they set me up to get her she wouldn’t come out. After awhile father said let her be. Said that she'd be there after her own way. She’ll be here. Perhaps she was. I was here and don’t really feel it. Did we switch places when I wasn't thinking? I shift uncomfortably in my chair, concerned, but not for the reasons as everyone else. In a circle we sit, dower faces in black. Only I feel excluded, alone in the crowd. Here is an interesting fact: last week my mother died. Again and again I have tried to think of it any other way, but those thoughts will not come. Instead, a notification: your mother is dead. Instead, an update: your mother has died. I process and understand, I know what death is. Yet why is it I whose eyes will not cry? I begin to feel scared. Scared because I am not scared. Sad because I am not sad. If I cried now these tears would be mine, mine and all mine, for mine and my own. Two months ago I cut my fingers doing the dishes. A serrated knife. I couldn’t stop crying. Last week my mother died, and it merely registered as a change in the seasons. What’s wrong with me? I’ll cry. I have to cry. I must cry. Nothing. I feel nothing. I have felt nothing before, and it has never been so terrible a nothing as the nothing that holds me now. Is this correct? Is this right? I loved her, didn’t I? I’ll miss her, won’t I? The answer is yes. Yes to everything. Yes to all. Still the tears will not come. Not even the inkling of tears. Before me sits a glass of water. I drink it and scan for the rest of the family. My uncle and aunt sit somber in silence. My cousin sits anxious, her eyes shut tight. My grandfather’s chair is empty. He must be outside. Since grandma passed he prefers to be alone. About a mile off the church there’s an outcrop of rock. It’s the only thing I can think of right now. It’s a harsh and constant thing, and when the waves rise up with the tide at its base it feels like you’re sitting on the edge of the world. Everyone knows about it, but I’m the only one who goes there. There are birds in the breeze and the faint smell of salt, and the waves cough and splinter in a tapestry of foam. The day mother died I went out there and stood. Stood alone, stood for hours, not sure what to think. At home all was chaos but here it was calm. Yet the comfort I felt could not tell me how to feel. I glance again about the room, and feel a stranger in a strange land. I cared for her. I loved her. I know I loved her. And she loved me. She loved us all. So cry drat you cry drat it cry, cry, cry, cry. Nothing. Still nothing. I’m as miserable a human being as ever there’s been. Far worse, I am sure. My tears are only ever my own. From the cool of the room comes a warmth at my shoulder. I recognize that hand, those fingers, worn and familiar. I look up into my father’s eyes. Now more than ever I wish I could cry. My father says nothing. Simply smiles, and massages my neck. I don’t know what to say. Father simply shakes his head. It looks like I don’t have to say anything. No matter how fiercely the waves strike the rock, the rock does not break, but that doesn't mean it wasn't touched.
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Mar 18, 2013 07:23
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I came back from space. Gimmie the library.
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Apr 5, 2013 07:39
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Bad Seafood posted:I came back from space.
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Apr 6, 2013 05:52
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Based on Mr. Linden's Libary. Descartes (897 words) The room had been a bunker once upon a time. During the war, before The End. Roger was only a child then, just a boy, his father a captain, and later director. Now he was the director, and it seemed a strange and curious thing to look back on the war as thing thought of fondly. Roger shut the door behind him. The lock didn’t matter. Hadn’t mattered for years. Under his arm was the book that had arrived this morning, and in his hands crumpled the letter that accompanied it. The room had been cleared years ago. Only a few photographs and a couple scraps of old maps still adorned the walls. And there in the center he sat. The Guest they called him on official channels, though some had other names for him. His head lulled lazily, eyes wrapped in bandages. His hands and his feet were kept separate and secure by four great railroad spikes, one for each extremity. Two through his palms through the armrest of his chair, and two through his feet through the floor where they’d nailed him. His face and features were young but lined. You’d never guess he’d been here for fifty years. There on a table beside him, his one companion, an old military radio. Its cord ran down to an outlet in the floor, but it hadn’t picked up a signal in thirty years. Not that it needed to. Roger stood before the Guest and waited. This was a room where silence made its home. There was no telling how long he’d have to wait. After a minute Roger flipped open the book he’d brought with him, and began to read. “There were fields there, tick and beautiful, a tapestry of greens and yellows that lead down to the brook where all thirst could be quenched. There was music in the stream in the flow of the water, and those who heard it never wished to hear anything else all the days of their lives.” It was a simple sentence. Nothing overtly sensational. The rest of the page and the whole of the book for all he knew was comprised of such sentences, harmless in isolation. Yet as he began to read down the page, more and more they knitted together in his mind, a seed of a place, both great and terrible in its beauty. It was a perfect place, yes. A place that absolutely could not be said to exist. His fingers trembled as he reached to turn the page, when a laugh cold and cruel interrupted his world. Roger snapped the book shut and remembered his surroundings. Again the radio laughed and lit up with sound. “Ahhh, Arcadia. One of my favorites.” The voice from the radio was tired and distant, yet carried itself with a musical bearing. Roger had been a boy when he’d first heard that voice. Now he was a man, old and withered, but the voice had not lost its sting. “Roger, dear boy, how are you this morning. It’s rather early to see you in here.” “This arrived in the mail,” Roger raised the book, “One of yours, I suspect.” “Indeed, indeed. Very good, Roger. That’s three you’ve found so far. Only four to go.” Roger held the letter tight in his hand. “It was recovered in Cairo. A string of deaths. It was…Agent…Agent Harrier who finally discovered it.” “Ahhh ha ha ha, Agent Harrier. I always knew she was a good little girl. Does she still call you uncle in official transmissions?” “She’s dead.” The voice from the radio dissolved into static. Roger grit his teeth. “Dead? You tell me the girl is dead?” “Suicide. No fowl play. Your book,” Roger spat, “Was entrusted to her. They found it open by her corpse, finished, the last few paragraphs obscured with blood.” “Ahhh, well, that would seem the popular method to use.” “P-popular? POPULAR?” “Settle down, Roger my boy. Settle down.” The voice from the radio seemed to savor these words. “I would never be so coarse, so bold as to suggest HOW one might cross over, but that doesn’t mean I never suggested the possibility exists.” Roger grabbed the radio, the book and the letter falling to the floor. “Why are you doing this? WHAT DO YOU WANT?” “What do I want? What is it with you humans? You always think I’m out to get you.” “I want my niece back you son of a bitch. We want everyone back.” “I guess you’ll just have to recover the rest of my books then won’t you. Shouldn’t be too hard to find the rest in circulation. Only took you, what, thirty years to find three?” Roger felt himself overcome. He released the radio and snatched at the power cord, yanking it from its spot. Still the radio hummed. “AH HA HA HA HA HA HA OH ROGER. YOU SHOULD KNOW BETTER THAN TO THINK THAT WOULD WORK.” Roger fell back, startled, and grabbed the book as he made his way out of the bunker. Only as the door shut did the radio’s laughter cease. Roger leaned back against the polished metal surface of the entrance. He looked to the book in his hand and thought of his niece. “Sarah…Sarah why. Why did you-” He couldn’t help himself. The old man buried his head in his hands.
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Apr 8, 2013 01:00
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Good crits.Kaishai posted:Oh, dear. Were you rushed? Yes. Maybe. Yes, actually, but I brought it on myself. No excuses. It is what it is. Kaishai posted:If I understand it right, this is a post-apocalyptic piece featuring an alien whose personal library of seven books brings destruction to the humans who read one. It's possible these books caused The End. Roger has finally tracked down a third book, leaving four still abroad to cause damage. His niece died to recover it. The alien's motives are unknown, but human deaths only amuse him; he was captured fifty years ago, nailed to a chair, probably blinded, and now communicates through a radio. I refrained from using exact terms to try and create an atmosphere of ambiguity. Once you slap a label on something it becomes something definite, something expected, whereas dancing around the need to definite it allows the reader to define it for themselves. I won't go into the particulars because I don't want to influence the other judges' interpretations, but I will say there's a hint in the nature of the title. Kaishai posted:Honestly, though. Fowl play? But nah, you totally got me on that one. However, Kaishai posted:'The voice from the radio was tired and distant, yet carried itself with a musical bearing.' What? (Again.) I'm not sure where you were going with that clause, whether you intend to tell me the voice is musical or convey some sort of audial poise on top of that. Maybe 'yet held to a musical dignity'? I don't know.
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Apr 8, 2013 19:58
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More crits. Wonderful.systran posted:What is Descartes referring to? I have learned about him before but forgot most of it and had to look him up again. If it's anything deeper than a "I think, therefore I am" reference, then most people probably won't get it. Nubile Hillock posted:Nothing is explained, it’s a neat vignette though. Who is everyone why should we care? We may never know. Kaishai posted:When all's said and done I'd like to know what I've missed in the title, if no one else gets it first--I looked up Descartes pre-crit and couldn't make the connection. Now for some light reading. Wikipedia posted:[Descartes'] Demon, sometimes referred to as the Evil Genius, is a concept in Cartesian philosophy. In his 1641 Meditations on First Philosophy, René Descartes hypothesized the existence of an evil demon, a personification who is "as clever and deceitful as he is powerful, who has directed his entire effort to misleading me." The evil demon presents a complete illusion of an external world, including other minds, to Descartes' senses, where in fact there is no such external world in existence. And as long as we're on the subject: Wikipedia posted:Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius is a short story by the 20th century Argentine writer Jorge Luis Borges. The story was first published in the Argentine journal Sur, May 1940. The "postscript" dated 1947 is intended to be anachronistic, set seven years in the future. The first English-language translation of the story was published in 1961. Wikipedia posted:Arcadia...refers to a vision of pastoralism and harmony with nature. The term is derived from the Greek province of the same name which dates to antiquity; the province's mountainous topography and sparse population of pastoralists later caused the word Arcadia to develop into a poetic byword for an idyllic vision of unspoiled wilderness. Arcadia is associated with bountiful natural splendor, harmony, and is often inhabited by shepherds. The concept also figures in Renaissance mythology. Commonly thought of as being in line with Utopian ideals, Arcadia differs from that tradition in that it is more often specifically regarded as unattainable. Furthermore, it is seen as a lost, Edenic form of life, contrasting to the progressive nature of Utopian desires. Wikipedia posted:The Summerland is the name given by Theosophists, Wiccans and some earth-based contemporary pagan religions to their conceptualization of an afterlife. Wikipedia posted:Escapism is mental diversion by means of entertainment or recreation, as an "escape" from the perceived unpleasant or banal aspects of daily life. It can also be used as a term to define the actions people take to help relieve persisting feelings of depression or general sadness. Wikipedia posted:Myst is a graphic adventure video game designed and directed by the brothers Robyn and Rand Miller.
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Apr 9, 2013 04:01
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Nubile Hillock posted:Dude if I've gotta take a whole semester of Obtuse References 32A w/prof. Skoffsatyue there's something terribly wrong with your story. And you only really needed to know that first one, I just felt like sharing everything I cribbed from for the sake of Chairchucker is already the King of Australia.
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Apr 9, 2013 04:17
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Sitting Here posted:at the same time I'm disappointed no one has picked it yet Hard and Deep with intent to win, in loving memory of the late HereticMIND.
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Apr 9, 2013 18:14
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Sitting Here posted:Mr. Seafood, the world wants to know, what are your final thoughts before embarking on this voyage of no return?
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Apr 9, 2013 18:27
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Dr. Kloctopussy posted:Slave and Slaver, Weave and Waver I still haven't forgiven James Joyce for this.
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Apr 13, 2013 10:03
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I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Hard and Deep by Heretic Mind (430 words) Ten Seconds to Midnight (377 words) The world was drowned in sound and violence, but Brian for his part had never felt better. “Sniper on the ledge! Two o’clock!” Brian turned sharp, his body on automatic. There framed in the window he saw only a face – a mask, not a man – and he emptied his clip. What stood there exploded in a fine red mist. Brian chuckled to himself as he fetched a new clip. Yes, yes, this was much more satisfying that tilling the farm. Waiting for harvest time. Waiting to die. Here he had felt that he finally belonged. Here he had purpose. Here he was free. The smell of blood and sulfur hit him hard as he stumbled out into the streets. Conrad stepped forward and cut out in front of him, and was delivered salvation by a stray RPG. Brian leapt back and let loose a spray of bullets and profanities, a funeral dirge for the sake of his friend, and a ticket to Hell for those who had killed him “gently caress you, all you motherfuckers!” There was a tremor through the earth and the wall burst apart. There in the wreckage rolled the form of a tank. “S-poo poo!” It was a rundown old thing, both weary and weak, yet enough that could kill him Brian knew only too well. He scrambled back across the rubble and the smoke as the turret turned slowly, fixed on his location. The tank belched fire and missed him by inches, some dilapidated apartments taking the brunt of the damage. There was a sound of rockets, and the tank burst into flames. Brian peered out from his hiding place and flipped them the bird. Then he heard something he did not recognize. He took off his helmet and looked to the heavens. The sky was clear but there was no God. In his place sank a spear, a finger of light, that most terrible gift from mankind to himself. Brian dropped to his knees. The spear dropped down, and for the briefest of moments all life was illuminated. Then came calm. Then came silence. And the darkness thereafter. “loving BULLSHIT,” Brian ripped his headset off and hurled it across the room. “Nobody told me there was a time limit!”
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Apr 15, 2013 04:00
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Dr. Kloctopussy posted:I am actually reading Ulysses right now and even Joyce uses more commas than Seafood did in the original. Doesn't let Danny Boy off the hook though. He's just lulling you into a false sense of security. You'll get a good dose of the stuff later on, whenever it is that he gets 'round to Molly. James Joyce posted:a quarter after what an unearthly hour I suppose theyre just getting up in China now combing out their pigtails for the day well soon have the nuns ringing the angelus theyve nobody coming in to spoil their sleep except an odd priest or two for his night office or the alarmlock next door at cockshout clattering the brain out of itself let me see if I can doze off 1 2 3 4 5 what kind of flowers are those they invented like the stars the wallpaper in Lombard street was much nicer the apron he gave me was like that something only I only wore it twice better lower this lamp and try again so that I can get up early Bad Seafood fucked around with this message at 05:51 on Apr 16, 2013 |
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Apr 16, 2013 05:49
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If I ever become famous I am burning all my letters.
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Apr 16, 2013 06:26
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That's some real Angus beef.Erogenous Beef posted:gently caress it, I'm a nuclear history nerd and you dropped an Atomic Clock reference in your title. You get a line-by-line, Seafood. I do want to say that I'm marginally disappointed: I expected a highbrow concept out of you. But excuses, excuses. No more excuse. I talked big and didn't back it up. I can only own it and move on.
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Apr 16, 2013 23:26
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CancerCakes posted:Bad seafood your crit is coming, but I just spent the last 7 hours drinking sangria and eating paella so I'll put it out tomorrow hopefully, Friday at the latest. Don't feel obligated or anything though. Erogenous Beef already put me through my paces with a line by line, and Sitting Here's sure to hang me out to dry where I belong. Really, it's not even a piece that deserved even one response, let alone three. If it's just about putting your critique into practice though, fire away. Alternatively, you could always offer to do someone else's.
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Apr 17, 2013 09:03
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magnificent7 posted:(and people keep re-doing zombie stories because nobody's gotten it right yet).
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Apr 17, 2013 19:12
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First they came for the hugboxes, and I did not speak out for I was not a hugbox.
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Apr 21, 2013 09:42
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Now with 100% less gratuitous profanity. Ammit Inc. (1,188 words) Dresden closed his eyes and listened. In the dark of his mind the wind farm felt like it went on forever, an endless sea of sparse grass and turbines. Calm, desolate, it had already become his favorite place to recoup. His favorite place to meet new people. Sergei. That was the name he had been given. Not a name he’d expected to be common. He’d been told to wait for them, pick the time and the place, but for what purpose or how they tracked him down he only vaguely understood. They always had ways, he supposed. And he, too good natured to refuse. There was the sound of an engine in the distance. A car. It echoed in his eardrums, closer and closer, until at last it stopped and fell into silence. He heard only the wind now, felt only the wind. Saw nothing. He wanted to be surprised. The car door clicked and the sound of scuffling and footprints filled his senses. Dresden peeled his eyes with an acquired squint, finally deigning to look. He had wanted to be surprised. “Are you…Sergei?” “The one and only.” Sergei shut the door to the car and leaned against it. Sergei stood long and tall. She was also a woman. “I wasn’t aware Sergei was a feminine name around this country.” “It isn’t, but you can’t choose your parents.” “Hmm, I suppose not.” Sergei smiled. She was sharp dressed and professional, a single flower in her hair the only ornamentation in an otherwise practical haircut. Unfortunately, the woman herself was delegated to Dresden’s peripheral vision, his point of interest drawn to what she held in her hands, cradled like a child. “Is that a crocodile?” “Stork would prefer it if you called him by his proper name.” “Stork? You named him stork?” “Can you think of a better one?” There was a moment of silence. “You know, now that you mention it-” “Enough,” Sergei raised her palms, still balancing the crocodile, “Not that this isn’t a fascinating thread of conversation, but we’re wasting time. My name is Sergei, which you can thank my parents’ high Russophilia for, and this is Stork, my assistant, whose name you can thank me for. How do you do?” She walked forward, her right hand extended as tough in an awkward attempt for a handshake. As Dresden reached to reciprocate, with a flick of her wrist she produced a small card in simple black and white. Dresden hesitated a moment before taking it, its script bold and unmistakable. AMMIT INCORPORATED “Knowing evil is our business.” Dresden flipped the card over as though expecting to see something, but the back was blank. There was no other information on the card, no logos, no phone numbers. Sergei shifted Storks weight in her arms as she gestured for the card back. Dresden thought to ask if she didn’t have more, but decided this might be a silly question to ask to the woman who willingly carried around a crocodile of her own volition. “A pleasure, I suppose. My name is, er-” “Ah, ah, ah,” Sergei quickly reassured him. “There’s no need. No evidence, nothing like that. We know who you are, and that’s enough.” “Ah. I see. Thank you.” “Though I must confess, your accent betrays you. Not from around here, I gather?” “Not natively, no. I arrived sometime last month.” “Boat or plane?” “I flew.” Sergei held in a modest chuckle and turned towards her car. She did not beckon him, but Dresden understood he was to follow. Sergei slid Stork gently onto the hood of her vehicle before entering it to rummage around in the backseats. She emerged with a golden scale and two metal folding chairs. Dresden looked to Stork, who stretched happily in place. It took only a moment for Sergei to set up the chairs, but she took her time balancing the scale which she placed next to Stork. Satisfied with her fiddling, she settled down into her folding chair, Dresden having already taken his. Stork simply nodded his head. “Well, I suppose you understand what this is about.” “Vaguely. The voice on the phone didn’t stress the particulars.’ “We find its best that way. Merits a more honest response. Now if you could kindly roll back your sleeves?” Dresden complied. As he did Sergei reached over and tickled Stork beneath his jaw. Stork twitched and yawned and opened his mouth wide. Dresden had a sinking feeling he could guess what came next. “Now, please insert your hand into Stork’s mouth.” “I was afraid of that. Do I have to?” “It’s the most important part. More important than the rest, I assure you. And you needn’t worry, Stork is well trained. Your arm is in no danger, though I suspect it wouldn’t be anyway.” “Danger of losing it, no, but I still feel pain.” “I understand. Nevertheless, it is perfectly safe. Stork is as much a professional as I, and as much a member of our company as I.” Dresden signed and extended his arm. Stork’s jaws shut slowly around it, his teeth just barely prickling the surface of the skin. From a pocket Sergei produced a small notebook, seemingly brand new, and with it a golf pencil finely sharpened. “Now then, the particulars.” The interview lasted roughly an hour. Formal questions mostly. Where he was born, where he had lived, what he had done and who he had done it with. Dresden answered with complete honesty, or as much as he could drum up depending on the question. From time to time Sergei would frown and look to Stork before taking a small weight from her pocket, usually brass or silver, and toss it lightly to herself before placing it on the scale, one end or the other. Beyond her questions she had surprisingly little to say, and never asked him to elaborate where he felt he might have stopped short. She made quick work, though. By the end of the hour she had already filled half the book. Dresden hadn’t thought he’d said nearly that much. The sun was setting when she finally shut the book, pencil within, wrapped in a rubber band. She seemed satisfied with whatever she had gleaned from their time together, and immediately pocketed the weights from the scale. Without so much as a word of command, Stork opened his jaw and released Dresden’s hand, which he withdrew very cautiously. “Is that it, then?” “For now. You’ll receive another phone call in the future, no doubt, but I shouldn’t think you’ll be seeing me again. Or Stork.” Well that was a shame. The little had been growing on him. “That complicated?” “Knowing evil is our business. We can’t afford to cut corners. Whenever someone like you shows up, we’ve got to be sure where they stand.” Dresden rubbed his wrist as he stood from his chair. “I understand. Well, I’ve got to be off.” Sergei simply nodded and turned to put away the scale. She never turned to see him leave, even as he zipped off into the skies, cape fluttering in the wind.
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Apr 22, 2013 08:00
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Hit me.
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Apr 24, 2013 00:39
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magnificent7 posted:is it possible
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Apr 24, 2013 19:52
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HA HA HA kill me. Life And (438) I can still remember the taste of that autumn. The air there was crisp and cool to the tongue. Josef was tired. He’d spent the night digging. Refusing our help, ignoring our concern. It was his idea after all. That’s why he had to do it. I don’t know why I was ever surprised. Karl had opted to break into the medical supply closet. He was never much for words, but he seemed to understand. He returned with rolls and rolls of bandages. All of us knew that father wouldn’t miss them. Unlike Josef, he was not adverse to assistance, and I did what I could to help him prepare the body. “Do you think it’s an angel?” It was the first thing he had spoken all day, and what’s more a repeat that he’d asked me last night. I don’t know what he expected me to say. It looked like no angel I’d ever seen. In the evening it fell like a star to the earth. We gathered in the forest to fish it out of the pond. Its wings were white and soft and feathered, but its body was black and spindly and coarse. With a face like a barn owl’s it looked to the heavens, extended one finger, then started to die. When Josef was eight he found a dead bird in the attic. In five years time his response had not much changed. He declared we would bury it, and snatched up a spade. The angel weighed little when we pulled it from the water, yet its body weighed down as we lowered it to the earth. Karl had decided to leave its face open. I reached down to touch it, and closed up its eyes. After we climbed out, Josef started to shovel in the dirt. He wouldn’t let anyone else do that either. Amidst the sea and the rain of crumpled leaves, he completed our island, our naked mound of earth. The three of us stood back and examined our work. Josef and I argued over what we should say. Did we want to invoke God? Did angels even believe in God? We argued for awhile as we were wont to do. It was Karl who silenced us, face bowed palms together. He simply said please. “Please look after your son.” Shortly thereafter the three of us left, only to return in a few months time. The world then was thick with snow and ice, yet our island alone remained bare and exposed. Then came spring, and with spring came flowers, and the flowers that grew there never have died.
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Apr 29, 2013 03:52
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"The wolf sheds his coat once a year, his disposition never." Now gimmie that Greece Lightning.
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May 10, 2013 09:18
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[Greece] Alcohol is Free - Koza Mostra & Agathon IakovidisBad Seafood posted:"The wolf sheds his coat once a year, his disposition never." It was midnight down by the fisherman’s pier, and I could barely see through the ocean of whiskey. I turned on my wipers, convinced it was raining. I never saw the old man before he was dead. His name was Arsen the newspapers said, a modest obituary with photographs provided. He sported dark eyebrows and receding grey hair, but what dominated the picture was his magnificent mustache. I had never seen its equal, and suspect I never will. Arsen for his part had lived here and there. The funeral was on Sunday with thousands in attendance. I’ll admit it was bewildering, the old man’s popularity. I hung round by the gate and listened in on his friends. To hear them tell it there was no where he hadn’t been, and nothing he hadn’t done. He was a butcher, a barber, a soldier, a chief; once in Barcelona he’d appeared as an extra in a movie, and so charmed the director he received a speaking part. He’d lived his life modestly but traveled around, and touched the lives of many who were here for him now. But it was his mustache, in particular, they fondly remembered. Seemed he’d always had it, even in his youth. He’d been a bit of a drunkard then, with a love of fine women and a taste for malt beers, and it was with the utmost satisfaction he’d wipe away the foam with his fingers. A few short years later he’d given it up to become and honest man, but his fingers still found their way to his face. It was then I decided to give up the drink. I gathered my collection and threw it out into the street. As the bottles struck the pavement they shattered into butterflies, the spirits within bursting and draining into the gutter. I gave up also cigarettes, fast cars, and loose women. I would become a regular Jesus Christ, and in two thousand years people would set their watches to me. This was my plan. This was my vision. But it was only then that I truly saw the old man. It started in the market with a man selling eggplants. He looked nothing like Arsen, but when I turned around there he was. It happened again over a period of days. Everyone, everywhere, I would see had his face. He never said a single word to me, but he didn’t have to, for he knew I understood. They never had captured the man who had hit him. The man stood trembling with eggplants in hand. After a week of this I chose isolation. I would wander around brick yards and sleep in old factories, and sit in the park when I thought no one there. Even still I could feel him, his breath on the wind. I would to the sky and trace his mustache in the clouds. Not one month after I’d promised myself a future of sobriety, I found myself drinking in a bar off the docks. A man with his face offered me drink and I took it. I didn’t stop drinking till I relived that cold night. In a drunken stupor I wandered out into the night, my hands in my pockets and not a lot on my mind. I heard a small loud, growing loud, getting closer. I looked to the left and saw two bright lights.
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May 13, 2013 05:04
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IT'S TIME, whatever that means. Thunderdome Week XLI: Get Everybody and the Stuff Together This week we're keeping it short and snappy. I want stories about people who are up to no good. Maybe they're murders, or kids breaking curfew. Whatever your chowder, they don't want to get caught. For tone I'm thinking something bittersweet. I like melancholic fiction, and I don't think we get enough of it. Finally, after signing up you will be assigned an item. This item must figure prominently in your story as an object of sentimental importance to one or more of the characters. We're talking dead dad, family heirloom, Can't Leave It Behind levels of attachment here, so don't let me down (you will probably let me down). You have until May 17th, 11:59 PM Pacific Time to say that you're totally in on this, and just two days more (same time and place) to come up with your excuses for not actually submitting anything. Those of you without excuses will have 1,000 words with which to irritate me. Your Judges Bad Seafood Erik Shawn-Bohner V for Vegas Some People JonasSalk - A chess pawn Systran - A ring Erik Shawn-Bohner - A letter opener Kleptobot - Foreign currency Oxxidation - A pair of glasses missing one lens The Saddest Rhino - Rubber boots Sebmojo - A mint condition teddy bear Fumblemouse - A hunting rifle which has never been fired DoubleDonut - An old umbrella Voliun - A footlocker key Magnificent7 - A knife with tally marks scratched into the handle CantDecideOnAName - A yellowing newspaper article kept inside a notebook SurreptitiousMuffin - A torn open baseball held together with tape Nubile Hillock - A lime green guitar Perpetulance - A rusted tin soldier Radioactive Bears - A movie ticket Dr. Kloctopussy - A tea kettle with painted leafs Sitting Here - An antique shoehorn Chairchucker - A paper bag full of broken shells CancerCakes - A medal of distinguished military service Jagermonster - Prayer beads Martello - A child's sun hat threaded with ivy Crabrock - An unopened letter Nikaer Drekin - A hip flask with ornate engravings Cpt. Mahatma Gandhi - A notebook with the same name written over and over again within its pages Monkeyboydc - Cowboy spurs Impermanent - A painful photograph Noah - A straight razor with words on the blade Black Griffon - A small bird cage Fart Particle - Two flint arrowheads Bad Seafood fucked around with this message at 06:16 on May 15, 2013 |
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May 14, 2013 03:21
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Sign ups are closed. 48 hours remain.
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May 18, 2013 08:08
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:Heads up: research is hard and foreign ideas are frightening to me.
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May 19, 2013 08:22
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