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Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"


Kaishai posted:

'Have outran,' Muffin? Have outran?

I fear no confection that has not mastered the past participle. I call Doctor Kloctopussy to the top of this pagoda of blood as judge and witness, for my will is as strong as yours, and my kingdom as great. Mine shall be the butter knife that spreads defeat across thy scars, forever.

Lo, I have been summoned, and I have responded to said summons and do thusly respond, as follows:

You've written baroque, but I've had enough of it. Instead give me a story written clearly, concisely, verging on sparse, even. Not like that sentence.

In the spirit of eliminating the extraneous, this theme shall be your just desserts.

Deserts.

Interpret as broadly as you like, but please don't write a prose poem describing sand.

Upper Word Limit: 1000 words. MAKE EVERY ONE COUNT OR ELSE.

Due Date: Monday, Feb. 24, 2014, Midnight PST.

Dr. Kloctopussy fucked around with this message at 07:58 on Feb 18, 2014

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Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"


In with :toxx:

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"


BRAWL RESULTS: MUFFIN VS. KAISHAI

Dr. Kloctopussy posted:

Lo, I have been summoned, and I have responded to said summons and do thusly respond, as follows:

You've written baroque, but I've had enough of it. Instead give me a story written clearly, concisely, verging on sparse, even. Not like that sentence.

In the spirit of eliminating the extraneous, this theme shall be your just desserts.

Deserts.

Interpret as broadly as you like, but please don't write a prose poem describing sand.

Upper Word Limit: 1000 words. MAKE EVERY ONE COUNT OR ELSE.

Due Date: Monday, Feb. 24, 2014, Midnight PST.

Why you write so good? hard to judge :(

I liked both these stories for different reasons. I felt they both rose to the challenge of the prompt, and each had strong points where the other was slightly lacking. I edited both of your stories and cut out more than 10% of your words (though the proportionate number of cuts were close enough that the actual numbers did not play into my ultimate decision.) The edited versions are at the end of the post. (Sorry, not red-lined).

Muffin: I really enjoyed just reading this story, without thinking much about judging it. You maintained a definite "voice" and an economy of words. I enjoyed the opposing scopes of world destruction and the creation of new life. It was far-reaching while remaining intimate. I also liked how the card game was used to reflect the overall theme of holding onto hope. It wasn't subtle, but it worked for me. Your interpretations of desert (Antarctica, the result of global warming, and being barren) were creative. Much better than a prose poem about sand, thank you. As for weaknesses, your narrative arc is flirting with "vignette" territory, and two of your characters feel like place holders. Even your main character feels one- or two-dimensional. I felt the pop-culture references did not add very much, even to the atmosphere. I would have liked to see you push a just little further outside of your normal style. Editing yours was more challenging, because I had to decide what contributed to ~atmosphere~ and ~voice~ instead of just story, but I did cut over 10%, and did a bit of rearranging.

Kaishai: Your story had more of an immediate emotional gut-punch and a clear conflict and resolution (even though the resolution was only partial for the characters, it felt complete for the story). Your dialogue conveyed so many undercurrents and tensions. Especially when Elena says "You left me." That three word sentence says so much. It's been bouncing around my head for days. Your treatment of the desert theme was multilayered, covering not only the setting, but also the verb (Alexander deserted her), and the undertones of loneliness and survival. Naming the baby Sahara was borderline too-far, but ultimately I felt like it was okay--it felt like something she might actually name her baby. You'll notice in the edit that I did delete her calling Alexander by the nickname "Sandy," though. I was impressed by the contrast between the feel an style of this piece compared to other things you have written. On the downside, while this story was definitely concise, it also felt a little small. There were emotions under the surface, but I feel they lacked a certain complexity. The tension was straightforward, which gave it more of an immediate impact, but less of a lasting one. (Except that one line of dialogue that I love). You had a few awkward sentences and some places where the perspective became ambiguous. There were also a few places where I felt you told us something that could be left implied. Those areas make up the bulk of my edits.

This was an extremely difficult decision that I have been thinking about since Monday, in multiple consultations with SittingHere, and it is still difficult!! You are both winners of my heart, but there can be only one victor in Thunderdome. It is not two men enter, two men leave. So, this victory is not just by a hair, but by a very, very fine hair, like a bunny rabbit hair or something. So without further ado:

:siren:THE VICTOR: MUFFIN:siren:

I don't think I can argue for either of these stories as being objectively better than the other, so I ultimately, utterly subjectively, picked the one I enjoyed reading more, even though it was just a little bit more. I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT ELSE TO DO! THIS WAS SO HARD OH GOD! OH right, judges show no pain. Please replace this with big ego stuff.

Other random thoughts: I thought it interesting that both of your stories involved children, and that you both used repetition very effectively in a challenge about being concise (i.e. neither of the repetitions felt superfluous).

MY EDITED VERSIONS:
(p.s. these were great fun to edit and if either of you ever wants help editing please hit me up!)

The Great Southern Waste (Muffin, 713 words down to 627 words)

Want a cold beer at Scott Base? Stick it out the window. Bottle only: fingers outside and you’ll lose ‘em. The summer crew might enjoy a balmy 0 degrees celsius. The winter lot are less lucky.

Penguins and sterile darkness for a thousand miles. Nothing to do but drink, play poker, and drill ice cores. The sign on the door says Climate Research. The manifesto taped to the wall has three points:

#1 save the world
#2 no kids until we save the world
#3 don’t talk about The Thing Mad Max

We were playing Texas Hold ‘em with Gibbs and Murray when she told us. I had a pair of 3s. Terrible, but you play your cards against those on the table. Anna was not drunk. We had bags under our eyes. None of us had shaved in weeks. The rest of the crew were asleep.

Anna is as close to magic as I have met: the ice is her crystal ball. Every day, she stares at ice cores until her eyes are red, and swears she’s not been crying. She wrote a paper about them, then received death threats. She no longer talks to the press.

“It’s done,” she said, throwing down a few dollars. “Tubes tied.” Her voice was hollow, resigned. I met the bet.

“Me too,” said Murray. “Vasectomy. Boxing Day, back in the world. Doctor asked why. Told him I was a Catholic with a sex addiction. Shut him up.”

First three cards flipped over: Queen of Spades, King of Spades, Six of Hearts. Fuckall for me. Two more cards to go, turn and river. Two sorts of people chase the river: fools, and those with nothing left to lose.

Dangerous thing, hope.

I hadn’t gotten the snip, but I didn’t want them to know. It started as a joke. We’d made a pillow fort and wrote “no kids allowed” and got drunk and marvelled at the patterns of ice on the windows. It was cramped, boring, and cold in the base, but we stuck with it because we were saving the world.

Making it a better place for our-

Turn: Five of Clubs. Useless.

It was in front of us, clear as ice. The earth was dying, and we were paramedics. As news of Anna’s frosty reception made it south, our bravado faded. The first of many wounds. We realised we were undertakers, keeping the place neat for whoever wanted to look it over later.

Oh, humanity? Gone to meet Jesus, ain’t comin’ back.

We used to be scared of monsters that looked like people, then we cut out the middle man. The forbidden movie changed. A monster can be killed, but a desert can only be survived.

Barren. Hell of a word. You wouldn’t push your lover in front of a train, and you wouldn’t bring a kid into the mess that’s coming. Easier to-

River flipped: 3 of Clubs. I threw a few bucks on the pile. Murray folded. Chasing a straight, no doubt. Anna met the bet. She gave a lopsided grin, like old times. Gibbs saw the look, and folded.

“So, what’ve you got?” I said.

She shrugged and flipped her cards. Pair of Jacks. Good hand, at another table. I laid mine out. Murray laughed. “Trip threes,” he said, “bloody hell, saved myself some cash there.”

Gibbs crooked an eyebrow. “Just what the hell were you chasing?” he said.

“Dunno,” I said, “but looks like I found it.”

We drink, we play poker, we drill ice cores. They are more worrying each year, but the world is not worried. Terrible, but you play your cards against those on the table. We can only bet big and keep chasing the river.


--------

Deserts (Kaishai: 443 down to 388)

Alexander tasted grit as he knocked on Elena's door. He dragged his hand over his face, scrubbed the sweat onto his jeans.

The door opened, and she stood there, drawn and sallow. Red lines webbed her wide eyes. He spoke fast. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"You left."

"I didn't know."

"You left me," she said with the same old edge. He thought of leaving again.

Inside, the baby wailed. Alexander blocked the slamming door with his boot. "I want to meet her," he said.

"You have no right. Go back to wherever you went."

She bashed the cheap plywood into his foot and cursed him when he stood still for it. The cries got louder, shriller. Elena went to the child, and Alexander followed her into the cramped trailer.

She bent to gather the sobbing pink bundle from the crib. The baby's face was flushed as bright as her onesie. Elena cradled the girl against her shoulder and swayed, murmuring nonsense. Her eyes were too dull to spit hate at him.

Their daughter kept crying.

"Let me hold her. Let me give you a break."

"She's mine!" Elena tightened her hold; the baby screamed. Elena's face turned white.

Alexander held out his arms. "Christ, Elena, no one could take her from you."

The sound Elena made when she handed him their baby was like a sob itself. Then his right hand cupped his daughter's fragile head, his left her padded bottom, and he drew her to his chest.

She howled at being held by a stranger. She squirmed. Alexander rocked her, stroked a finger along her cheek. Would her wispy hair turn dark? or red like his? "Hush, darling," he said. "Sahara. Hush now."

Her wails softened: she was exhausted too. He looked up at Elena. "You should have told me."

"You left," she said, and he couldn't deny what was true.

"She should have a father. It's not fair to her for you to do this alone."

Silence. Elena had always been at least as honest as he.

Baked dust blew through an open window. Alexander turned, shielding Sahara with his body. She snuffled against his shirt, quiet and limp in his arms. Water pricked his eyes for the first time in years.

Elena's gaze had a heavy weight. "Maybe," she said at last. "Maybe."

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"


In. Please give me a flash rule, Seafood.

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"


Flashrule: Story is about people delivering messages, not the people writing them

Tank

*A girl gets in a tank to talk to a near-dimensional version of herself, then kills that near-self to steal her boyfriend*

Dr. Kloctopussy fucked around with this message at 05:57 on Dec 4, 2014

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"


Mercedes posted:

Dr. Klocktopussy!!!

You wrought the evil that is Dog Police, and for this I cannot let it go! You must be brought to justice!

I MUST HAVE MY VENGEANCE!

BRAWL ME![/b]

Finally some credit where credit is due.

You're on.

P.S. Dog Police is awesome and the best

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"


Kwasimodick posted:

SOME BULLSHIT THAT DOESN'T EVEN END WITH A GOLDEN BEAN, gently caress YOU.

For real, where is the goddamned golden bean? Crying now.

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"


:siren: Dr. Merctopus Brawl :siren:
(paging BadSeafood)

Perfect (700 words)

*Android Wife Learns About Feminism*

Dr. Kloctopussy fucked around with this message at 05:56 on Dec 4, 2014

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"


Mercedes posted:



I'll get my revenge on someone one day!!

ANOTHER VICTORY FOR...

:siren: ARF ARF ARF :siren:



:siren: DOG POLICE! :siren:

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"


In for this.


Dr. Kloctopussy fucked around with this message at 05:02 on May 27, 2014

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"



Ok, important question: Do I have to keep the usage errors, misspellings, and incorrect capitalization?

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"


:toxx:

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"


Bitter Yellow Flowers

*A healer and her husband learn about feminism the hard way*

I was born and she gave me the name of pain and freedom: Calendula, the bitter yellow flower.

Dr. Kloctopussy fucked around with this message at 05:59 on Dec 4, 2014

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"


OH, also:

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"


:siren: Yo Yo Yo :siren: I hear there is a week that is still lacking crits (at least one judge has a good reason for the delay and I am sure they will post crits eventually, but waiting sucks). Also I have been negligent critting some weeks when I judged. If you submitted in Week 98 (helpful link: http://writocracy.com/thunderdome/?week=98) then here is your chance to get a slightly less-late crit.

I will crit the first five people who ask, but please, don't ask for a crit if this was kind of a throw-away story for you. We've all written those, and there's nothing wrong with it, but don't claim a crit just because you can. (This judgment is totally up to you, I'm not going to try to determine if you "really" want a crit or not, but if you're thinking "sure, why not" then think about it a little more?)

Also, same rules but an unlimited number of people, if you submitted in a week that I judged but did not provide crits or did not crit you, then ask away. (I think angel week, but maybe others? http://writocracy.com/thunderdome/?week=87)

Okay, hope that wasn't too rude. :/

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"


First of requested crits. Ugh I forgot how tiring crits is:

Mercedes: Where are you coming from?

This story was pretty alright, even for the zoooommmmmmbbbiiie cliche! I liked the twist where Simon found a way to trick his zombie self into still delivering the antidote, instead of just killing himself or becoming a zombie or whatever they usually do.

The weakest part of the story was underdeveloped characters. Simon has a goal, and has to make an important choice about reaching that goal or saving his own life, but that decision is the only thing we really know about Simon. I guess we also know that he will shoot his companion when she turns into a zombie (YES, WERE-DOG, I KNOW), but who doesn’t do that these days?

Green teeth, black ooze, etc. Don’t really do much to distinguish this from the normal fast-zombie-caused-by-disease thing found in quite a few movies. Calling it the Dog Police virus felt shoe-horned in, because there was nothing to indicate that it was related to the police, and they sounded like zombies, not were-dogs.

Second weakest part is clunky word usage, especially unnecessary tells and overly convoluted phrasing. (e.g. He opened it and rummaged through the contents, becoming more frantic in his search until with a long sigh he pulled a silver vial from the bottom of the bag.)

Entenzahn: Chasing Away the Darkness
So at first I thought the first half of this was the second half of Merc’s and I was like: This makes no sense. Well, the first half actually makes sense. The second half makes zero sense. The song Dog Police makes far more sense than the second half of this story. The first and second sections are not connected at all. I mean, I assume they are connected in YOUR BRAIN, but they are not connected in MY BRAIN. And as the reader, my brain rules the day.

Second half: So I guess, Jen was molested by her father, and Maddie is her imaginary friend who helps her deal with that? And it is somehow related to the Dog Police virus because the moon looks brighter? No idea there. Too ambiguous, too disconnected, too shallow, this half gets an FFFFFFFFFFFF >:-[

Then I was like wait, wtf, why is everyone named Jen this week? And Benjamin? WTF IS GOING ON.

Actual Entezhan crit:
So, this story does not really appeal to me. It’s not terribly written and it makes sense, but it doesn’t really add anything to the established story of “imaginary friend convinces you to murder someone.” It also isn’t very horrifying.

I don’t really feel anything for the main character, and Ben is the most interesting character, but only he makes a good wine joke. I think stories of mind-bending and internal conflict rely on well-developed characters to draw readers into the story and inspire an emotional response. The plot is clear, I know what’s happening and why, just don’t care much. This entire story could be summarized in a few sentences and have about the same emotional intensity :(

Also, if Jen recognized that she and Maddie were the darkness, why the hell did she kill Ben? That was a dumb thing to do. Ben and Jen -- these names are too close together and at first I actually thought Jen was a weird nickname for Benjamin and was confused.

Words are mostly okay, though there are a few odd choices. You can’t “nip” at a glass of wine. A nip is a little bite, and you can’t bite wine. You can nip in for a drink, but you can’t nip a drink. UPDATE: I was wrong, you can nip a drink. Thanks google. Still, I don't like googling when the word "sip" would have worked just as well.

“I’m making the darkness go away,” she said meekly ← meekly does not make a lot of sense to me in this context. It might be said quietly, but not submissively. “I am the darkness” made me laugh. It is melodramatic and cliched.

Dr. Kloctopussy fucked around with this message at 00:09 on Jul 26, 2014

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"


In with week 20: Face your destiny

http://writocracy.com/thunderdome/?week=20

Someone needs to assign me a tarot card

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"


SurreptitiousMuffin posted:

:siren: Tiny Babies, INTERPROMPT IS READY. :siren:

100 word on Medvedam. Is Bear in English, verno? You must write story about the bear. These bear are very strong, and bring joy to the villagers in great outer Russia Krasnoyarsk Krai or Kamchatka. Maybe Medved is save day, I do not know. Is your story, little man. Bring great joy to villagers of Thunderdome or there will be sadness like melting dark ice that turns to mud in the months of spring.

The honey-eater smells the honey in the hive on the branch. The branch falls on the ground and the hive falls, too. The honey-eater eats the honey. The honey-eater rubs its sticky paws on a stick and pauses, wondering if it should eat more honey.

There is no more honey in the hive, but the honey-eater finds a doll to play with. The doll falls on the ground and her red cap falls, too. Her hair spills out like honey across the snow. The honey-eater eats the honey. The doll is wearing another red cap now: a wet red cap.

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"


Untitled

*A drug addict is sentenced to FTL Relativity Prison, and her sister feels guilty about it.*

Dr. Kloctopussy fucked around with this message at 06:01 on Dec 4, 2014

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"


oh whoops, forgot a word count and my prompt:

1063 words (1000 from prompt, +70 from interprompt bounty)

Prompt: Week 20 - Face Your Destiny

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"


Are there literally no submissions yet? I don't want to read 30 terrible stories all in one day >:-[

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"


I'm not going to read or crit any stories from anyone who complains after this point. Shut up and write.

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"


Sitting Here posted:

hashtag FJGJ

DQed for complaining.

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"


Sitting Here posted:

:siren: Who wants a chance to choose their destiny? :siren:

For those who are tired of playing TD on babby mode, here are two song choices that (in my opinion) will be harder to write stories about this week. The first two people who grab them can have them. If you already have a song and would like to switch to one these challenge songs, that's fine too.

Kokomo

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mP07Oyr7enQ


He Gives Speeches

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ct21c8xh6AE

In with Kokomo.

Edit: Look what you made me do.

Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"


New Life
1198 words

“It’ll be great!” Jill said. “Future resort location! Beautiful sunsets!”
“I read the brochure.”
“It’s on a K-type star, our best chance to discover extraterrestrial life!”
“Since the last time we discovered extraterrestrial life.”
“But that wasn’t us Amy, that wasn’t you and me. Imagine it--just us, exploring the galaxy, discovering exotic new forms of—“
“Rocks, probably.” There are a lot of rocks in astrobiology.
“Life!” she continued, undeterred.
“Bacteria,” I said. Astrobiology is pretty much water, rocks, and bacteria.
“Come on, Amy.” She pouted—a sure sign that I was about to give in and do whatever she wanted. “Let’s go. It’ll be fun. Plus, we’ll be lightyears away from Jennifer.”

A hop, skip, and a jump through the warp gates, and she’ll be lightyears behind us. Just like that. Flash out of existence for half a second, come back somewhere else, and leave the past beyond the veil. I wish it was true. I wish there was a place where I could wrap up all my fears and painful memories and just tuck them right out of existence. It doesn’t matter how many lightyears we are away from Jennifer when there are still other women everywhere in the universe.

I did go, of course. Jill can make anywhere seem exciting and anything seem possible.

“In books,” she told me, “women are always punished for deviant sexuality. If they are lesbian; if they have an affair.” She whispered it in my ear as we lay in the shuttle cabin on the way to K-T63490-P4; as she ran her short, precise fingers up and down my stomach, slowly moving lower; as her hard nipples pressed against my back and we flickered in and out of existence, jumping through holes in the universe. “They all die,” she said as I arched against her fingers, “just like Anna Karenina.”

I don’t know who that is. Another one of Jill’s lovers, probably. I don’t care. It’s hard to care about anything, slumped breathless next to Jill in the shuttle cabin, or in a dorm room, or anywhere. La petite mort, she calls it. She’s killed me a thousand times.

The rest of the shuttle ride, Jill tried to convince me to stop calling them warp gates, because they actually operate on the principles of blah blah blah. I don’t know, I’m an astrobiologist, not a warp gate engineer. And really, I’m only an astrobiologist because everyone told me it was the easiest degree to get. And unlike Jill, I did not spend all my elective credits taking classes like “The Principles of Not-Actually-Warp-Gates” when I could take photography and get an A just for showing up. Not that I really showed up all the time, but I still got an A because I guess I’m okay at photography. Even still, I only pulled a C average overall. That’s how you can tell this project is bullshit—they let schmucks like me come and work on it.

***

K-T63490-P4 doesn’t have much of a ring to it, but they’ll rename it soon enough. Sponsor an 18-month scientific research expedition and if “nothing of interest” is found, the government gives you exclusive development rights. For an entire goddamned planet. Hire some cheap new graduates to stare at a microscope, engage in some “contained terraforming” and start hauling in the sand: you’ve got yourself a “future resort location.”

Future—that’s the most important word in “future resort location.” When we arrived it was hot, dusty, and dead. The “scientific outpost” was basically a shack, and our living accommodations were worse. There were twenty-three people on the whole planet, including two other freshly-degreed suckers salivating at the chance to find new life. Or as I put it, stare at a drop of water for six hours. If you get bored, you can stare at a rock, too, just to change it up a little. The beautiful sunsets were beautiful for about three days, and then we adjusted and they were just sunsets. We rotated through our shifts, round-the-clock observation, eyes on the prize. I think we all went a little crazy.

I started taking pictures of the rocks. Lines, angles, volume, the interplay of light and dark across their uneven surfaces. They were beautiful to me. Jill laughed and said I was obsessed.

Huan was the geneticist on the station. She was just Jill’s type—funny, confident, smart—but it was me she talked to first. Jill was locked in the microscope shack, and I was sprawled out on the freshly grown lawn trying to sweat some of the heat away.
“Want to come try an ‘Aloe Dolly’ with me?” she asked, giving me a sly look. The botanist had built a tiki hut and started inventing new cocktails based on all the introduced species. They usually tasted good, but he had a serious problem naming them.
I looked over to the shack, thinking of Jill inside, staring at her drop of water.
“No thanks,” I said, “My shift starts in less than an hour.”
“Ah, you’ll want to be sober when you’re looking at the rocks.” She winked, and I couldn’t tell if she was making fun of me.

Jill, unsurprisingly, took Huan up on the offer for a drink. As I reemerged into the light six hours later, I saw them leaning against the bar. Jill said something that made Huan throw her head back and laugh. When she leaned back in to whisper in Jill’s ear, a drop of condensation rolled off her glass and onto Jill’s bare leg. Huan wiped it off and licked her finger. One of the beautiful sunsets filled the sky behind them, and without really thinking about it, I snapped a picture. At the sound of the shutter, Jill turned and stared at me. Her guilty expression turned into an easy smile so fast that I can’t even swear it was there in the first place. She waved me over and poured me a drink.

Jill started coming back to our room later and later, then not at all. She moved through the holes in my life, sliding in where ever I had just left, disappearing moments before I arrived. I started to appreciate rocks a lot more. You can leave a rock alone for six hours, and they’ll still be there when you get back.

I didn’t tell her I was leaving until the supply shuttle was about to take off. When she didn’t drag me into bed, I knew that this time she wouldn’t beg me to stay.

***

Two years later, Huan and Jill formally announced the discovery of a new bacterium on K-T63490-P4, which by that time had been renamed something tropical sounding. They named the new bacterium after their daughter. I sold the photo of them to a newspaper looking to do a piece on the “human aspect” of the discovery, and then deleted every copy. It’s not the same as leaving it on the other side of spacetime, but I feel lighter, ready to start searching again.

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Dr. Kloctopussy
Apr 22, 2003

"It's time....to DIE!"


In. Source material TBD.

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