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Trade-offs 870 words Economics and a protagonist who can see anything in the past but only if it occurred over 100 years ago. I had been working with Dr George Wick on a groundbreaking stochastic economic model for over a decade. My historical knowledge was invaluable to the calibration process. So George was furious when I told him I was leaving the group. The toll had become too much for me. I could see the past, but only the distant past. And the more time I spent in the past, the more I wanted to leave the present. I saw her in a park on an overcast day. It was October 1915, and the Great War raged on. She sat on a bench, sobbing. In her hand was a letter. I knew what was written. I had seen her brother die at the Somme. He would never know he didn't die alone, as she would never know she didn't cry alone. My office door swung open and slammed against my bookcase, toppling loose-standing books. In marched Wick, blistering. “Leave? You can't leave!” “I can,” I said. “And I will.” He advanced towards me, and his eyes flickered to the half empty bottle of Scotch on my desk. He struck the desk and pointed at me. “Are you still chugging the pills too?” “No,” I said, my hand cradling my pocketed codeine. “You've been watching her again,” Wick said. “I can tell, Emile.” I shrugged. “Why do you do it to yourself? Can't you just get the info we need and leave it at that?” “I can't spend any more time in the past. I just can't.” “Emile, stay with us. Just for a little while longer.” “I can't.” “I'll tell the dean about your office habits if you refuse to help.” “Tell her. My care can go no lower.” Swearing loudly, Dr Wick left. The door rebounded multiple times behind him. A few days later, I sat in my office again. A new pill-induced warmth filled me as I held a glass of whiskey. I saw her as she walked into a Gothic building blackened by time; the East Sussex Asylum. Her mother lay in a bed with idle eyes fixed to the ceiling. The daughter told her terrible news, the mother remained motionless. I just had to see her, the daughter, happy. Just one more time. But I was at the boundary. This was happening too recently in the past. I couldn't watch anymore. Even the present was better than this. I dropped my drink. A hand was at my throat. My breath accelerated, and I beat the hand away. The dean stood in front of me, her brow heavy with worry. I recognized the man whose hand had been touching me. It was the doctor. “Why are you here?” I asked despite knowing. “You've been in a daze, your eyes just staring at nothing, for over ten minutes now, Dr Pichowsky. I feared you'd taken too many of those,” she said, pointing to my pills. She picked up my whiskey, “Or too much of this.” “There is nothing wrong physically with Dr Pichowsky,” the doctor said. “But I think it would be wise to do some further checks at a proper medical facility.” “I agree,” the dean said. I didn't agree. I tried to leave using force. But as soon as blood burst from the doctor's nose I slumped to the ground. A lachrymose loathing swept through me, and then the dean helped me out of the office, making heartwarming but empty promises as we went. En-route to the hospital, I flickered between the crying woman at the bedside of her vacant mother and my own time in the ambulance. The dean sat beside me. I wondered why; I hardly knew her. Weeks later, I sat in a rocking chair, looking out over the fields and forests. Forbidden places for me now. I had been referred to a mental institute, mainly based on the evidence of Dr George Wick. But it wasn't helped by my frequent absences. “You have a visitor, Emile,” an orderly said, standing behind me. I didn't turn. I suspected it was George. And it was. He sat in the chair across from mine. “Hey, Emile,” he said. “How are you doing?” I remained studying prohibited places. “Doesn't look too bad here,” he said and continued after a pause and a deep breath. “Emile, I just wanted to apologize for what happened. I didn't expect any of this to happen.” I shrugged. “I'm just waiting.” “Waiting?” “I've become like a moth without light.” Wick furrowed is brow, “Emile, are you okay?” Time extended with silence. “We've published the model, by the way. It's making waves. Your name is on the paper, of course.” I shrugged. “It's useless anyway. I know it, you know it, and everyone suspects it.” “We could still refine it. Are you still visiting her?” “No. I can't go back. The cocktails I knock back each day keep me firmly in the present.” “You can't go back at all?” “No.” He left not long after that. First, he told me some unsolicited stories about colleagues and informed me of the good health of his family. Even with his unperfected model, he seemed content. After he left, I went back to thinking about lost time and restricted topologies.
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Oct 4, 2015 23:36
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In. And thanks for the crits.
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Oct 7, 2015 08:24
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Kaishai posted:Critiques for Week CLVII Thanks for the crit. In fact, thanks for all of those crits.
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Oct 10, 2015 19:00
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5 of wands[reverse], the Magician, and the Hierophant 5 of wands[reverse] - Conflict avoidance. Or a more subtle presence of conflict. Magician - Power, individual agency. Hierophant - Group, religion, the individual's place in the group. I tried to interpret the cards together like a proper reading. Divided by a Lemniscate 1341 words The sun was descending from its zenith at Bi’lin, a small village situated twenty-five miles south-east of Tel-Aviv at the border between the West Bank and Israel. It sat on the Palestinian side of the fence near a yellow gate, one of the few passages to be found on this border. The area was dominated by sand but was far from barren with acacia trees, olive trees, and other vegetation adding rich greens to the pale background. Bi’lin itself consisted of no more than a few hundred homes, a smattering of shops, and a handful of mosques. Aapo Rivlen, a Samal* in the Israel Defense Force, stood atop an Israeli hill overlooking Bi’lin and studied one of the mosques. He waited with a small unit of IDF soldiers for it to empty of the people currently praying. Five more minutes and the Asr prayer would be ending. He didn’t give his men any orders. They knew their roles. He took out his water canteen and slowly unscrewed the lid. He drank a little, although he was barely thirsty. The first group to leave the mosque dispersed and headed away from the fence. The next group consisted of young men; they marched straight to the yellow gate. Aapo and his men remained in their current position. More people streamed out of the mosque, and more young men joined the march toward Israel. A few hundred made their way to the fence with stones and rocks in hand. They stopped about a hundred yards from the barrier and started clattering their makeshift artillery at the gate. Aapo had orders to stop the protest and break up the expected crowd. Without saying a word, two of his men made their way down the hill toward them. They stopped short of the range of the rabble’s projectiles and fired tear gas canisters over the fence. The crowd grew angrier and threw stones at the Israelis in retaliation. In response to this act of aggression, Aapo and his unit rushed toward the fence. They unlocked the gate and advanced into Bi’lin, and the villagers retreated. All the while a shower of rocks fell on the soldiers. As Aapo led his men down the path into the village, smoke from the tear gas and clouds of sand blew across it. More tear gas was launched toward the mob so that a much denser cloud surrounded them. The soldier beside Aapo flinched as a stone struck his face. A drop of blood meandered down his face, but it was quickly dried by the sand covering his face. Aapo looked on at the crowd with ambivalence He knew that the villagers would grow bolder if they weren’t deterred; that they would potentially breach the barrier one day, rather than merely protesting its presence. But he also felt helpless in this perpetual conflict. He saw a child in amongst the protesters. He was no older than eight years. Aapo ordered his men back. He had decided to end the farce earlier than usual. He normally recognized most of the members of this flock of dissenters, but today he saw many new faces. All of them were children. So long as they remained on the right side of the fence, he thought bitterly, everything will be okay. ## “Is it not written in the Torah, ‘You shall not oppress the stranger.’ And later that, ‘You shall have one law only – the same for native born and stranger.’” Aapo spoke to his brother, Rabbi Zemel, as they walked through the markets of Tel-Aviv. He asked, “Then how do we justify dismissing the Torah so explicitly?” He shook his head as he avoided eye contact with his brother. Zemel smiled at his little brother’s question. A smile that would have infuriated Aapo, had he seen it. “Little brother, often choices aren’t made by ourselves. We merely react and try to make the best of a situation,” Zemel said. “They’re getting younger all the time,” Aapo said. “We’re not doing anything to prevent them from attacking us, we’re just creating more ill-sentiment.” “I think it is naive to think that there would be no conflict if we merely stood by and let them do what they want; what they want is to take this land back. The government do what they can. But all men are fallible, Aapo.” “I just want to be a good Jew, follow the Torah. But I feel that my position in the IDF prevents me from doing so,” Aapo said, studying the produce on sale and still avoiding his brother’s face. “And I cannot just leave for my sake. I have a responsibility to the Israeli people.” “Yes, you do. But your responsibility to God is most important.” Zemel stopped walking. He put his hand on Aapo’s shoulder, causing him to turn and face him. “You know, of course, of the recent kidnappings of our fellow Israelis, done in the name of Hamas. They are the enemy of God. And you fight them, Aapo. You should be proud.” “But pride is not what I feel, brother.” ## Shots drowned out all other sounds. Aapo had come to Rafah, a town in the south of the Gaza Strip, with a small force led by Sagan** Levinsky. They had been tasked with closing a known tunnel exit in that area. However, at the exact time that they had arrived a small group of Palestinians had emerged from the tunnel. Sagan Levinsky was already dead. One of the first bullets fired had struck his head. Aapo was in charge. He sent a fire team to his left to take cover behind a pile of rubble and ordered them to contain the enemy with suppressing fire. He told them to fire off-center when they saw his unit nearing the tunnel entrance. He set up another fire team on the other side of the entrance with the same order, and then made his way down with three soldiers. His point-man threw a smoke grenade into the tunnel, obscuring their assault. Aapo waited a moment, signaled to his men to advance on his word, and threw a grenade into the tunnel. As soon as he heard the explosion, he shouted. “Now!” His ears screamed with the roar of bullets, and his mind was chaos. He ran in, rifle on fully automatic. Not releasing the trigger, even after his magazine was depleted. His chest rose and fell with great speed. He replaced his spent magazine with a new one. He scanned the tunnel; little light from outside managed to break through but he could make out the distinct shape of the pile of bodies. Movement. Before he could react, shots had been fired from ahead. He lifted his rifle and shot at the shadow he had saw move. Two of his men advanced past him. Aapo moved toward the person he had shot, stepping over the other Palestinian corpses on his way. He struggled for his torch, his shaking arm acting against his will. He finally released it from his belt. With a trembling hand, he illuminated the shadow. He saw death he knew he had caused. He could see that he had been young, no more than fifteen years old. He turned off the torch and sat on the ground. A muffled sound reached him. One of his men had shouted that the tunnel was clear after searching ahead. He heard footsteps approaching him. He was sure they were those of his soldiers, but if they weren’t, he wouldn't have cared. “Are you hurt, Samal?” one of the soldiers asked. “No, no. I am fine. Is anyone injured?” “Two dead. Sagan Levinsky, and that last one got Berkowitz.” As long as they stay on their side of the fence, everything will be okay. “Pride?” Aapo asked, but quietly so that his soldiers couldn’t hear. He rose to his feet. “Take Berkowitz out,” Aapo ordered. “Leave the Palestinians. Let them be buried in a grave they dug themselves.” * IDF equivalent of sergeant. ** IDF equivalent of lieutenant.
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Oct 12, 2015 00:28
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A Dull Day 89 words In a quiet apartment, a man sat at a desk. He was bored. He stood up, fumbled around in his pocket, and eventually removed a lighter. He then set his jumper alight. The height of the flames caught him by surprise. He dashed to the bathroom. By the time he arrived, the jumper's synthetic material had melted into his skin. He dashed to a sink, put out the flames, and sighed. The rest of the day was filled with the arduous task of removing his jumper from his skin.
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Oct 12, 2015 11:38
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In. Bitte.
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Oct 20, 2015 20:53
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In.
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Nov 4, 2015 13:35
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Umbra Vesuvii 1499 words The earth had shaken, and fire had razed the city. We were under siege from the gods, but we hadn’t known it then. We had thought the gods angry because of the pauper prince, little Nero, and his orgies, but he was gone now, and we were still besieged. Pompeii has always been loved by the emperors, but the emperors have not always been loved by the gods. The tumultuous land had tossed our lamps to the ground, and fires had spread wildly. In the aftermath many people had left, fearing more from their angry gods. But many stayed and we repaired our town, and rebuilt their villas. It was our home, even if it was the pissing ground of the rich. More than a decade had passed since then, and out of the ashes, a demon rose. And it plagued Pompeii still. It was taller than Vesuvius itself. Shaped like a man with the posture of a creeping faun. It had no features, just a black demon sucking all light. When it was not terrorizing us, it slept behind the mountain. We spent our mornings collecting the corpses. We did not want their souls wandering our city; we had angered the gods enough already. The priests cried out that we must appease the gods; and so we would have soon ran out of lambs. They knew that the gods were angry, but they didn’t know why. And worst still, they didn’t know how to undo their rage. We’ve all done bad things, I know I’m no virgin priestess, but what could an entire city have done to deserve this beast? Again, we looked to the emperor and his relationship with the gods. Nero had fled life, and Vespasian had ruled for two years. His reign had been less extravagant than his predecessor. He introduced so many taxes that even piss had one. Quite fittingly he died struggling to stand in a poo poo-smeared toga. The current emperor, Titus, was no priest, but he paled in comparison to some of the divine jesters who have ruled our empire. Some say it was the god of the Jewish people who was angry because of Titus razing their holy land. But why did Pompeii suffer alone? I said to those people, “Look at yourselves, that is where the fault lies.” They did not like being told this. They said, “Look at Rome, it too burned. Twice!” Yes, but the first was because of the Christians, so they said, while Nero sang a lament and tried to sate the fires with his tears. The second because Nero rebuilt thoughtlessly. But we’re all bad here, worse than the rest of the empire; even the poor are too decadent here. Pompeii was the favored toy of the emperors, and the gods, being good parents, were taking it away from them until they learn to behave. Grumbles were heard from the nearby Phlegraean Fields to the west. We feared another demon would come. I woke early as I did each day. My home looked out across the bay; the sun created a golden facade on the sea. I could see Neapolis. The people there had not been bothered by the demon. They said it was because they were still following the old way, revering the gods correctly, not putting too much emphasis on earthly goods. But we didn’t either, not in this house. We lived in the less affluent section of Pompeii, but it had nothing on the slums of Rome. We lived comfortably. If it weren’t for the shadow. I left my house and went about my morning duty; clearing the streets of the dead. My wife often asked why didn’t we just leave. I said, “The demon follows us wherever we go. Remember those who fled to Neapolis? The shadow still loomed over them, it followed them there.” We were at the mercy of its whim. Others tried to leave, but they always returned to Pompeii, dead. I feared we weren’t meant to survive. That Pompeii was to be removed by divine will or otherwise. The first soul I had to sweep still lived. His legs were broken, making harsh angles where lines should have been straight. His child's arms were crushed against his bleeding body. The only thing which moved was his left eye; a crow pecked at his right. I shooed the bird away from the living carrion. I covered his eye with my hand, said my prayers to the gods, and then slit his throat. If we were being punished, I became numb to it then. How could we be held accountable for the slaying of children? When would it come for my own? I hoped it would come for me before, but I suspected the young weren’t being punished, we were. A sound like the striking of an anvil added to the grumble from the west. Was the beast manufactured? Was its creator working on another? Were the other cities working against us, envious of our wealth? It was said that Titus was on his way to Pompeii. To save us, I supposed. But what can a mortal do against such a thing? Not even Vespasian in death had been granted divinity, a purely administrative thing in the past. So what claim to divine right could Titus have in life, if the tax man had none in death? Where even the likes of Nero were allowed a place in Olympus away from the drudgery. They said now, “The beast comes from Hades. It is the Styx ushering us below.” It is said that Aeneas came to Cumae, only a few leagues from here, and there the Sybil allowed him passage to the underworld. If the way goes down, it must come up. And each day the darkness sent countless to Hades. Weeks later as I wheeled a pile of bodies down a cobbled street, jarred by each stone, a shadow loomed in the horizon. It came from the Fields, not Vesuvius. Another beast had come! What had we done? I cried then, and my tears fell on the faces of the dead. I stared at the ever growing shadow. But it never grew upwards. And then a mass appeared. It wasn’t dark. It shone. And as its shadow covered my face, I saw it. An Olympian. On Earth. He limped; Hephaestus. He wore brilliant armor, the likes he had created for the heroes of old and the other more mighty gods, like his brother Mars who had stolen his love. In his hand he held his hammer. Were we saved? He bellowed to the shade, commanding him to wake. The animated darkness rose from behind Vesuvius, a roaring storm. Hephaestus pointed his hammer at the mountainous shade. “Son of Fire, return to your cell!” The god charged towards the product of his power, the sun reflected off him so he appeared like fire himself. His hammer crashed towards the head of the beast. It lurched down and leaped forward. He grabbed the legs of the blacksmith, lifted him high above the ground, and threw him down. The god struck the world like a bolt of lightening. He rolled away from Vesuvius towards our town. I feared the god would roll through our homes, but he stopped abruptly on the city's parameter and jumped to his feet. The darkness fled towards our city crashing through homes and tossing men towards the sea as it went. Hephaestus turned, and threw his hammer. It struck the black monster in its featureless head, and it fell to the ground. Before it could rise, the god dashed forward, picked up his hammer, and fell about smashing the beast. Each crash was met with a cheer from the people of Pompeii. For now, we weren't forsaken. He crushed the demon into a tiny, dense, black box and tossed him into Vesuvius. There was a mighty roar, and the ground shook. If it had been night, another great fire would have ruined our town. But the mountain relented. Hephaestus bellowed again, imploring us to leave this forsaken town. Then he limped back from where he had come from, grumbling loudly enough for our mortal ears to hear the words. Forsaken. Decay. Rome. Downfall. Time. Pompeii. And first. Over the hills he went, and with him the wonderful light left our lives. The darkness had left too, but the shadow of Vesuvius still loomed over us. My wife and I gathered our children in our arms, and we headed to the harbor. We would sail for Sicily and hope that we had suffered enough for our sins. But still some remained as if they hadn't heard the words of the god. As if they didn't expect Pompeii would be removed from existence. That it wasn't cursed, just like the entire empire. Perhaps they hoped the gods would return. I believed that they had just delayed fate. A fate we had created. And even gods are powerless against fate. Lazy Beggar fucked around with this message at 09:45 on Nov 9, 2015 |
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Nov 9, 2015 09:40
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I appreciate your kindness. Many thanks.
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Nov 9, 2015 11:47
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In with a gambit.
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Nov 10, 2015 22:52
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docbeard posted:I'll take one. I'll critique something of yours in return if you want. I'll take one and with the same offer for a counter crit.
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Nov 12, 2015 00:19
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Schneider Heim posted:Crits. Thanks for the crit. Want me to crit something? If not, I'll crit someone else''s story from any TD week. In fact, I'll just do that anyway.
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Nov 16, 2015 00:33
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A Sealed Fate 1239 words I avoided quick movements when it was that cold. I feared my limbs would snap off. Ice surrounded my breaker, the horizon blurred into the icy blue sky. I hated this season, but money was to be had from the little hunting we were permitted to do. And money wasn’t to be had often these days. “Look, captain!” one of my men shouted. “There’s a full herd of ‘em.” And it was full. We would have reached our daily quota by noon, if we got them all. At least fifty seals, I guessed, so I sent out all of my men to collect their pelts. I told them not to bring back the un-molted coats. I couldn’t be bothered with the hassle of shifting them; now that they had been banned for so long, most avenues had been closed. Perhaps that was right. I stayed on the ship, watching my men traverse the ice with their sacks and hakapiks, grim tools for cracking the seals’ skulls. I didn’t have the stomach for the noises it made, so I tended to stay on the vessel. And just as well I did! In this distance I saw the silhouette of a cluster of people in the distance. They advanced in a straight line towards my crew. I suspected another ship had spotted the gang of seals and planned on sharing our haul, or rather forcing us to share it. I wasn’t for it. The men from my ship were unaware of this ambush so I grabbed my rifle, moving faster than I’d have preferred, and jumped on to the ice. As I made my way towards them, I noticed they weren’t moving. No tell-tale sign of a long stick rising over their heads and the resulting distinct colouring of the perfect white ice. I looked through the rifle's scope at them. They were each of them looking around the surrounding area, searching for something. Had they somehow seen the impending danger? I moved faster still, wincing at each crack my weary body made. As I grew closer, I could make out the horrid sound of seals. Why weren’t they clubbing them? These hardened men hadn’t gone soft, had they? I could still see the approaching crew making their way towards them. Hadn’t they seen the danger? I called out. It wasn’t until my third cry that they all turned towards me. I reached them and then I saw why they were puzzled. They were surrounded by seal pelts. No blood marred the ice. No carrion remained for the birds. “What is this?” I muttered to myself. The barking was growing louder. If there were no seals here, where was the noise coming from? It couldn’t be! The gang I thought were men! Then I looked up and they were almost upon us. Seals! The sunlight reflected off their deep, dark eyes. They had stopped about ten yards from us, about fifty of them. Their innards were exposed as if they had shed their pelts and blubber. The barking was deafening. And then they charged at us. Some shouted things like “Run!” or “God help us!”, but we all ran towards the ship. It took us a few minutes to realise we were no longer being chased; it wasn’t until we stopped because of the sight of our ship. We could see it, in the distance, set alight. “What is this?” I asked again, this time more loudly in hope of answers. My men offered none. And I had none myself. We spent hours there. We had tried to reach the ship, but it had proven too dangerous. When we had gotten closer we were all stricken with the desire to vomit. The burning smell was disgusting; one of the hunters pointed out that the boat, the parts not yet engulfed in flames, were gleaming. It looked like they had been rubbed with fat. Or blubber, one of them suggested. And throughout, always the yelping persisted. The pile of pelts saved us from freezing out there. Plenty of other hunters came this way, so we waited for them on their return leg. Eventually another breaker came. We gave them the pelts as a way of thanks. But really they just worried us, and so we wanted shot of them. I’ve not seen any of that crew since that day. And I haven’t told anyone about it. I returned to St John’s the next day. I don’t know what my crew did, but I suspect they left too. Every night I went to bed and I heard those seals cackling. Whenever I managed to actually sleep, I would always dream of that century of black, gleaming eyes. Then the clamour of their mirthful yapping would ring out through my head, and I would awake. One night I awoke in just those circumstances. But when I came to, the laughter didn’t die. I sat up on my bed. Where was it coming from? Was it in my head? Light danced outside of my window chaotically. My nostrils filled with that horrid smell from that day on the ice. I jumped out of my bed and ran towards my window. My car was upturned and burning. Smeared across it were profanities. Disgusting words written in blood. Curiously this calmed me in a sense; anger had replaced fear. It was typical animal activist stuff. I called the services. The fire brigade were on their way, along with the police. It was going to be a long night. As I was about to sit down, I saw movements in the shadows cast by my burning car. I had a mind to go out and lecture those naive activists. I would ask them what difference there was to me and a butcher on the high street! I ran out of the house. I hoped to catch them and detain them for the police. As soon as I left the house, the barking intensified. I had forgotten about it in my haste to catch these violent protesters. I ran down the steps from my house into the garden and stopped. The noise was coming from behind me; it sounded similar to a swarm of bees but with more guttural and whiny sounds mingled in with the buzz. I slowly turned around, but I already knew what I would see. The glimmer in the black circles. The deep, sad eyes of the peltless seals. My anger dissipated, but my fear didn’t return. Seeing them, I felt a release. I could accept vengeance from them, it made sense to me. They advanced slowly. They beat with their flippers until I crumbled to the floor. They then scrambled on top of me, some slapped, others stamped. I didn’t fight back. Then I heard the sounds of sirens. I didn’t feel relief knowing help was on its way; I felt cheated. The bloody seals fled the scene so by the time the police arrived, I was sat on the floor on my own. I could still hear the faint sound of seals’ laughing when the officer asked, “More problems with activists, eh?” “It was the seals!” “The what... are you okay? You look pretty bad.” “It was the seals. Can’t you hear them?” I asked. The officer shared a worried look with her partner. “What are you talking about?” “You don’t hear it?” I whispered my question this time. And still they barked.
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Nov 16, 2015 01:19
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In. And I'll take a pre-crit, WeLandedOnTheMoon. Please. When should I get it to you by?
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Nov 17, 2015 09:22
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Self Reflection 1212 words I was a bit mystified, the first time I married, but happy. My father, being a priest, presided over that ceremony. He didn't attend the second. And by third, he no longer accepted I existed. I too had felt negatively about them; not because of religion, but because I had known each time, at the beginning, that our shared happiness would dissipate. Guilt had weighed my happiness down. I have spent my life, when not ruining relationships, studying words and how they relate to thoughts, how we frame the experiences of life. Yet I constantly failed to translate my knowledge into a practical tool. Every time I uttered something hateful or didn't say something kind, I would analysis it but too long after to do anything about it. It did, however, often help with my work. Respected at work; hated at home. Both justified responses. I often pondered over the symmetry of moments in our lives; these similarities didn't upset me. I could see how the banality such a simple pattern suggested, each moment a regurgitated memory, might cause despair. But in me it instilled hope; I could stop repeating mistakes or missing opportunities if only I could model my past so as to aid myself now. And that is exactly what I did. One day, I was putting my boots on, and my wife called from the bedroom, “Can you take the rubbish out, please?” I had already seen the black bag; it blocked my only exit. “Of course! I'm not stupid!” I would have said, but my phone buzzed before I could: Calm down, Nick. Just say yes. Pleasantly. Like you did last time! And so I did. I left the house wondering why I had been so angry. Had I really thought my wife considered me stupid? Of course not, just old self doubt creeping about. I smiled. An argument missed, and my program was working. Frequently the program, my old self, helped me. Those instants when flailing emotions could have caused untold misery were filled with a logical dialogue born from my previous experiences. One dark evening on a wet November day, I waited for Tracy, my wife, to return from work. She often finished late. She was a child counselor, which I was immensely proud of, and her responsibilities didn't respect time. It drained her, but she felt the need to help people. And who deserved help more than children, she would ask. Before she returned, my phone buzzed: Tell Tracy you are proud of her. There is no record that you have, but it is clear that you are. My eyes widened at this. What a coincidence that I was just thinking about that! The front door creaked open, and I went to meet her. “I'm proud of you, Tracy,” I said. “Really proud.” She looked baffled, but with a sparkle in her eye. “I just wanted you to know,” I said. “I already knew, silly,” she said. “But it is nice to hear you say it.” She came towards me, stopping just in front of me. “I'd hug you, but I'm awfully wet.” I told her I didn't mind, and we held each other for as long as it felt right. It did so for a long time. Soon I grew dependent on the program. What it had done was simple; it forced me to think before I spoke, a lesson I should have already learned, and to have the courage to say pleasant things without fear of them being scorned. It rarely interfered at work; it had the ability to measure emotional stakes. Or maybe I just found it easier to be kind to people I cared less for. What does it matter if a stranger thinks I'm a clown? If ever I suspected my wife thought so, rage would have filled me. But that was before the program. One Sunday, we sat sipping coffee and perusing newspapers. My phone buzzed: Tell her you wished you had been kinder before. Before I could let her know, she spoke. “You get a lot of messages these days. Who could possibly need you now?” I looked at my phone. It wasn't going to help me now; I had never experienced the suspicious spouse. I felt anger rising, but fear overwhelmed it. What would I do without the program? I had never expected this. “Work,” I said. “I know why you've been so nice recently,” she said. “You're full of guilt.” How right her words were, but how wrong she was! She demanded to see the phone. Guilt and fear outweighed my anger and indignation. I knew she wouldn't like the program, but what choice did I have? I passed her the phone and she scrolled through the messages. She quickly understood what it was. “It's all been fake?” I tried to explain that it was real, that it was myself. I told her about symmetries in moments and using the past to aid the future, but my words were muddled; I just confused her. “An affair would have been easier, at least that would have been real,” she said. “But it is me!” “If it is you, stop using this program.” I agreed not to use it. But I was already thinking how I could use it without her knowing; I knew without it I would just make things worse. Before long I felt the decline again; we were more distant than even before the program. I thought away the anger and trusted my positive remarks but every time I said the right thing, she suspected it wasn't me. And how could I blame her? Things got so desperate that she shouted at me, demanding to see my anger, something real. And so I did. I was failing again. I needed to use the program. I asked it a question I should have asked long ago: “How can I make her happy?” Leave. The solitary word focused my confusion into a calming clarity. It was right, so I resolved to leave. If I needed a program, or a phantom of my past, to be kind to her, I did not deserve her. I packed a few things and waited for her to return. She came home late that night. Her eyes were barely open, and the darkness under her eyes almost made weep. She looked so heavy, as if gravity worked twice as hard on her. I told her I was going. She fell to the floor and began to cry unbridled tears. In between sobs, she begged me to stay. She said she would be kinder to me. That she would even use my woeful program. I didn’t know what to do, what to say. As she knelt on the floor with her face in her hands, my phone vibrated. It asked me a question: If you stay, will you be happy? I knew the answer. I picked her up from the floor, and we hugged. And I stressed that I had to leave, for both of us. We kissed, and I left. The heaviness I had grown used to left me. I was alone, as I was meant to be. I closed the door and wondered if the weight had left her too. Lazy Beggar fucked around with this message at 03:07 on Nov 23, 2015 |
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Nov 23, 2015 03:02
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Thranguy posted:Startup Week Crits Thanks for the crit.
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Nov 24, 2015 21:28
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Oh and I'm in.
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Nov 25, 2015 19:52
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Broenheim posted:Start-up crits Thanks for the crit.
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Nov 28, 2015 12:54
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Saudade 1200 words I was used to being alone. It was my fault. I had ran away like I always did. I travelled from town to town, barely stopping. Staying would have tired me more than than the walking did. I was alienated in the towns because I never knew the local language. And often I fought because I was sensitive to the mocking faces which swarmed around me, and the indistinguishable noises which derided me. They were just jovial, but that was enough to annoy me. Every time I left a place, I'd think of the home I had left. I'd think of the question that had divided my marriage, “Why?” A question that still haunts me and my husband. “Why did he have to die?” I sat on a rock brewing some coffee and eating solid bread beside a fire. I was in no hurry to reach the next town. The closest thing to peace I felt while travelling came when I sat alone, surrounded by nature. The feeling never lasted long; as soon as I became aware of it, it fled. I lingered at my camp site, sipping coffee, and waited for that hazy feeling to come. “I'm happy to see you, stranger.” Someone I understood! It had been so long. I threw question after question at him, and his face darkened. He answered my questions, but increasingly more tersely. He kept stating how he felt, and eventually he told me he was angry. I asked him why. “How do you feel?” he snapped. I told him I was okay; he shook his head and walked away. I put down my coffee and started packing. Even when I shared a language with someone, I couldn't communicate with them. But I realised that I had missed trying. For the first time since I had left, I hurried. I arrived at the town earlier than I had expected. It was a vibrant place; it felt different from the other places I had been. As I walked down the street, all of the inhabitants declared their emotion as they bustled about the town. Those near to me said more words, usually negative, than those far from me. The people who didn't notice me looked happy for the most part, but those who did looked at me with a mixture of fear and anger I jumped into a building which offered food and drink. It wouldn't be long before I stumbled into a fight here. And I was hungry. “I'm happy, but tired,” the bartender said, smiling. I empathised with him and asked if I could order food. His smile slipped away. He grumbled that I could, but he was less happy now. I would eat the food and then leave. This place was infuriating. Not even a longing to talk was enough to keep me there. I had almost finished when a woman entered. The bartender said something, and she marched to bar. They argued. The bartender stormed off, and she walked towards me. I knew I was the cause of the argument. “I am glad you are here, but a little cautious,” she said. I told her she didn't have any reason to be cautious. I must have been scowling. She explained to me that they didn't have many visitors here. But she was excited to meet an outsider. “I'm sorry my brother wasn't more helpful,” she said. “Like most of us, he isn't used to people being so covert.” I raised my voice and told her that I was not covert. And that I was outraged. She became happier! I knew a fight had been a certainty here. “Sorry! Let me explain,” she said. The people of this town are emotionally overt, Amy told me, and so they state how they feel. Everyone did this. It wasn't as complicated as I might have thought. The more honest and open people were about their feelings, the simpler they were. They weren't allowed to melt and flow together. She was a teacher and so dealt with children who had to be taught not to become closed. Most people never had to deal with anyone who didn't state their feelings. Even one person could make everyone else feel more complex, compound emotions. That was why people were scared of me. I pleased Amy by telling her I was baffled and sceptical. She had gone out of her way to help me. She smiled and clapped her hands. She was ecstatic, she told me, and full of hope. I was intrigued, so I decided to stay a day or two. Amy warned me that the others would give me a chance so long as I tried, but if they though I was dishonest or holding things back, they would force me to leave. At first I had difficulty stating my feelings. Often I'd say how I was, fine but tired for example, and people would scrunch their faces and say they were offended or disappointed. They claimed that I was dishonest. That my face belied my words. I tried to be honest. I opted for weary, tired, or some variation of that theme. Without some vacuous claim to a positive feeling, the people responded better to me. The moments I felt pleasure, I found it easier to be accurate with my words. My effort was clear, and so the people of the town were mostly kind to me. Before I knew it, a week had passed. “It's best to be simple but honest,” Amy said to me. We sat together on a bench. We waited for the latest batch of children who were now deemed emotionally mature enough to leave the school compound. Tall walls and a dark gate obscured our vision of the school. “Some people are saying you should be sent away,” she said. “I think you're making great progress, but a few aren't as convinced.” I told her I that this made me sad, but I promised I'd try harder. The gate opened, and three children ran out towards us. They had graduated from her class. One more child left, shuffling. As he drew closer, and I could see him clearer. I stopped breathing; he looked so much like him. “Are you okay?” Amy asked me. “You need to tell us how you feel, Karen.” It couldn't be him. He was dead. Oh God, he was dead. Tears fell down my face. “Tell us, please!” Amy said. But no words felt right. The children beside us shied away from me, claiming fear. The boy who looked so much like the one I had lost stopped in front of us. “I'm sad. And scared,” he said. “I don't want to leave.” I trembled, and a wail escaped. Other adults came out to see what was happening. I hugged my knees, and cried. I didn't want to see him. The people grumbled, telling Amy I had to leave. She tried to coax the words out of me one last time. But I had nothing for her. She told me she was heartbroken. And at that word, rage filled me. “There are many more worthy causes for a broken heart than a few unspoken words!”
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Nov 30, 2015 03:30
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In.
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Dec 4, 2015 15:03
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Entenzahn posted:Until then, this is just a losing story. Yes, your prompt joke made me smile. Ha. Ha. Very clever. I hope it was worth it. A smile is always worth it. Thanks for the crit.
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Dec 6, 2015 23:10
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Rotten at the Core 879 words Jimmy enjoyed working the land. But he didn't enjoy eating its food. Potatoes, carrots, and cabbage, he hated. But he ate it all because he disliked hunger more. The one thing that he did enjoy though were apples. And they were in short supply. There was only one tree bearing them. Every day, when Jimmy came to that tree, he would take a short break and savour a bright red, juicy delight. He dreamed of his daily apple as he worked in the mornings, and he dreamed of the next day's apple as soon as he tossed the core away. One day Jimmy drove his truck down a path, thoughts only for his apple. In the distance, he saw the tree and salivated. He drove faster. There was a particularly appetising one on a low branch. He wouldn't even have to jump for it. He picked up his lunch box, sneered, and cantered towards the tree. “Good day, old tree!” Jimmy said. The tree grumbled back at him. Jimmy stretched up and plucked the apple. A smile strained his face. He sat down with his back resting against the tree. His smiled faded as he opened his lunch box. Dry meat and raw carrots. Jimmy wondered if his wife hated him. No, that wasn't that. It wasn't her fault, it was all they had. He devoured it all despite his distaste for it. He went to pick up his apple, his reason for getting up every morning. But before he could take a bite, a branch plucked it from his hand. “Get your own apples!” the tree said with a furrowed brow. “What are you doing?” Jimmy asked. “You've never complained before.” “Yes I have. You just didn't listen.” “Give it back. What can you do with an apple anyway?” “Give it to someone I like.” Jimmy jumped, but failed to grab it. The branch swung upwards every time he reached for it. He tried countless times, and each time he almost got the apple, the branch would move just enough to thwart him. “I'll get that apple, you grumpy old tree!” The tree laughed and taunted him. Jimmy returned to his truck and rummaged through his tools. He returned to the tree with a rake. “Ha! You need to use the remains of a tree to best a living one!” Jimmy knocked the branch with his rake. Its grip began to loosen. Jimmy's eyes widened. One more hit and the apple would fall. As he brought the rake behind his head, he heard a cloud of cawing overhead. He looked up and saw a murder of crows. One of the crows clutched his apple and took it to the highest part of tree. It was now out of reach of his rake. He gripped the rake until his knuckles ached. He went to knock a different apple out of the tree. But the rest of the murder grabbed all of the apples and deposited them high above him in the tree. The birds and the tree guffawed together. Jimmy threw his rake to the ground and clenched his fists. “I will eat an apple today, you dastardly beasts!” He marched back to his truck with his head drooped and back slumped. He returned to the tree with a ladder. The crows flew away, still laughing. He set the ladder against the trunk of the tree and climbed. As he made his way towards the ruddy gold he coveted, the tree slapped and scraped him. “Silly man,” it said. “You shouldn't be so high!” Jimmy heard scuttering beneath him. He looked down. A scurry of squirrels surrounded the base of his ladder. The tree laughed louder. The squirrels began pushing and pulling the ladder. “Hey! What are you doing?” Jimmy asked. The tree stopped laughing. “They are helping a friend deal with an ill-mannered thief!” The ladder swayed, and Jimmy whimpered. The ladder and Jimmy stopped moving for moment. They slowly continued to move away from the tree, and the squirrels rushed away. The ladder's descent accelerated, and Jimmy crashed to the ground. The tree's laughter brought tears to its wooden eyes. Jimmy rolled and groaned on the ground. Pain brought tears to his. “If only you'd asked, silly man!” Jimmy stood. He stomped back to his truck, grinding his teeth. He returned to the tree with an axe. “Hey, what are you going to do with that?” the tree asked. Jimmy said nothing. He swung his axe with all his might. “Ow! Stop that!” Jimmy swung and swung. Now the tree wailed in pain. “You can have all my apples, if you just stop!” But Jimmy ignored the tree. It took all afternoon for him to fell the tree. It was silent now. Jimmy bit into an apple and forgot about his ordeal. That evening, he sat beside his fire. He had eaten more apples in one day than he normally would eat in a week. He watched the fire as he dreamed about succulent apples. Bright flames licked the grumpy tree's face, its featured crumbled to soot. “Silly tree,” Jimmy said to himself. Beside his chair lay a basket of apples. He had more than he knew what to do with, but he was happy for now.
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Dec 7, 2015 00:54
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RedTonic posted:crits
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Dec 17, 2015 19:59
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I'd like to thank everyone for all your crits. I find it remarkable that so many take the time to read these stories and give meaningful feedback. This thread has really helped my writing, both fiction and non-fiction. So ta for that. I still doubt I'll write a story that someone will enjoy, but I'll keep trying. Thunderdome 2016teen: He "Muttered" ,, Angrily My Minds Are Blank
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Dec 29, 2015 01:24
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