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After The War
Apr 12, 2005

to all of my Architects
let me be traitor


All right, now, never, etc. It's about time I joined in.

In for this week.

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After The War
Apr 12, 2005

to all of my Architects
let me be traitor


The Champion
1,300 words

White, Tyrell
Born: 1980
Years Active: 1988-1991
Status: Missing, presumed retired
Ranking: Undefeated

Every sport, every game, every passion has its iconic martyrs, and ours is no exception. The story of Tyrell White, pencilfighting’s own Lou Gehrig, should be familiar to every young hopeful before he’s launched his first #2. In his rise and meteor fall, we can hope to see ourselves in a single glowing speck of debris before blinking out, a blur of yellow against the schoolyard asphalt of eternity before slamming against our own rigid, unforgiving opponent. The humble beginnings, those storied brown eyes taking in dozens , if not hundreds, of matches, and learning well that first and most sacred lesson: there are no ties, no settlements, no drawn games or compromises. Until wood and lead are finally splintered and split, there can no hesitation, no cessation. No pencil can emerge but from the broken shards of its nemesis, to believe otherwise would be lunchin’.

So, the facts generally known: the careful study throughout the second grade, the first victory in the afternoon before Election Day 1988, the unaware larger world needing to mark a changing era in its own ineffectual way, the legend spreading, the challenges multiplying, the obsession growing leading finally to recklessness, and finally, yes, the first suspension given for pencilfighting alone. But through it all, every impact sustained, every attack devastating, every opponent obliterated. These are the tales passed down from year to year, but I can assure the reader, exaggerated as they sound, they ain’t trfilin’. Everything is true. Not only do I stand witness, in my own small way, I helped make it happen.

My own story is unimportant, a fortunate mortal among legends, not only Tyrell White, but his mentors and worthy opponents. For years, I had been oblivious to the cruel beauty and violent art practiced around me, lost in whatever occupied me at the time. What drew me to that first match, I will never know. Making my way through a ring of onlookers, I saw in its epicenter someone my own age, small and wiry, staring down some mass of height and power, large even for a fifth grader. I know now that he was one of many veterans come to test this rising star, to put this young upstart in his place and restore the natural hierarchy. But at the time, I only saw a peer in danger, and its immediacy caused the sell around me to crumble. He needed a pencil, and I had one - a Christmas stocking favorite, glittering with silver hologram foil, perhaps my most prized possession. I handed it over without a thought. No words were exchanged, a glance, maybe the slightest nod, and suddenly it was no longer a tangible amalgam of wood and graphite, but the righteous arc of a thousand screaming rainbows slicing the air, finally meeting its enemy in sickening impact. Entranced, I watched the combatants’ roles switch without comprehending its meaning until I heard the crack of simple yellow wood against that shining beacon, ringing through my spine as if I myself had been struck. In that instant, I understood the meaning and significance of this dance, why it continued despite the irrevocable harm it brought writing implements and weekly evaluations. As if I had just opened my eyes, and realized that everything up to this moment had been a dream.

It would be a lie to say I befriended Tyrell White then. He never seemed to allow himself friends. No Nintendo camaraderie, no visits to the family apartment for Utz Cheese Curls and cartoons. But I would be by his side when a challenge was issued, observing the opponent’s armament and carefully its counterpoint. Before us, there was no question of selection – one simply used the first pencils to come to hand, the field leveled through random chance. It was, then, a new and powerful approach, but a skim through this volume will show that in intervening years it has become the norm, each combatant maintaining their arsenal, their quiver of meticulously selected weaponry. My own tiny contribution to our great art. The Dixon for strength, the Eagle for speed, and the legendary Empire Pedigree (affectionately nicknamed the “rubber ducky”) for shrewd flexibility. It was Tyrell, though, who wielded them with precision and grace, and it is he who is rightly remembered.

By the end of that first year together, there was not a single enthusiast we had not squared off against. When summer came and we parted, I wondered how he would find meaning in the long humid days away from the ring. I spent my time maintaining our arsenal, stockpiling favorites before August swarms would make careful selection impossible. Some nights, just before a storm and the air crackled, I would unzip my Transformers pencil bag and breathe deep the aroma of wood, graphite, paint, and potential. Soon.

But when September came I saw Tyrell again, he was different. Taller, maybe, but stretched thin. Something was gnawing at him. At first I thought he had simply missed his passion these past months, but the familiar eagerness had become a ravenous hunger, a need to be met regardless of risk. Those in power had become aware of the width and popularity of our activities, and directly forbade it. When the announcement was made, I saw, for an instant, the sardonic Gladiator’s smile cross Tyrell’s face, that of a man who held no misconception as to where he would meet his end. No longer waiting for challenges, he began issuing them with ruthless ferocity, lightning-fast fights that would end in a few devastating blows. None of the painstakingly chosen pencils I handed him were given back in fighting condition. The first time I heard him call an opponent a dirty bama, I knew things had gone horribly wrong.

By October, he’d be gone for days a time. The absences were never called into question, itself a bad sign – there was something going on best left unspoken. When he did return, his obsession seemed to have grown even as his body wasted. Fierce, ugly matches were fought, even against those young novices. One December, I saw his hands shaking, barely able to maintain the defense grip vital to disperse the blow of impact. For the first time, I questioned our winning streak and the legacy we had created. But we weren’t friends, not really. It was not my place to confront him.

When we came back from winter break, there was a war. Silly, imaginary battles against silly, imaginary Iraqis meant fewer bodies to form the vital circle of secrecy. And, at a long recess, the day the war ended, a teacher strode through the weakened protective wall and plucked out Tyrell White, clutching his Eberhard Faber so tight it finally snapped from the force of his thumb. Something else broke, then, his shoulders slumped as he allowed himself to be dragged away.

I saw it all from a distance. I wasn’t by his side for that final match. The very first weeklong suspension for pencilfighting was issued that day, but any official punishment was superfluous, a visible mark on a visible permanent record, utterly meaningless for anyone keeping count of the true score. Tyrell White never returned, not physically. His name was first spoken in hushed tones the day he was due to come back, somehow it was known he would be seen again only in legend

In my darker moments, I would love to picture him in victory, intact pencil held aloft for the throngs to see, pencilfighting’s greatest champion. But when I hear his name, I can only see the sick boy being hauled off the playground by the teacher I had informed. Lost, sick and broken, but record intact. Ranking: Undefeated.

After The War
Apr 12, 2005

to all of my Architects
let me be traitor


At what may be the worst time for our fledgling label and upcoming series of showcase events, lovely Band practice is cancelled this week. Which makes it the "best" time for a TD! In.

After The War
Apr 12, 2005

to all of my Architects
let me be traitor


I hang my head in shame. I am unable, in the time remaining, to make the characters interesting enough for me to care to write about. I may not have had band practice, but there was a convention planning meeting I had completely forgotten about. I mention this not only as a pathetic excuse, but also to announce that it appears I'll be heading up not only the Writing Track for Balticon but the entirety of 2016's literary programming. As such, I'm soliciting Goon Opinions - what kind of things would people like see covered? I'm rather proud of how my Writing Track programming was received this year, but am still itching to do better. I'll bring this all up again in the Fiction Writing thread as the time approaches, and will happily record and share whatever people want to hear.

For now, though, I'll post what I have to the Fiction Farm and, as penance, offer to do Crits for anyone and everyone who wants them.

EDIT - That meant PM me ideas. If there's enough interest, I'll start a dedicated thread.

After The War fucked around with this message at Aug 10, 2015 around 01:40

After The War
Apr 12, 2005

to all of my Architects
let me be traitor


This is a bad idea, since I'm gigging Friday and Saturday, but I'm doing a pomodoro this week and need to atone for the sin that was my poor doomed robo-pocalypse story.

So what's my sin this week?

After The War
Apr 12, 2005

to all of my Architects
let me be traitor


Dr. Kloctopussy posted:

Failing to yourself after a failure

Then away.

After The War
Apr 12, 2005

to all of my Architects
let me be traitor


Did I not get my prompt because I didn't quickly enough? I'm still learning your ways and customs.

After The War
Apr 12, 2005

to all of my Architects
let me be traitor


newtestleper posted:

No, just because the judges took a capricious, unearned, yet surprisingly vicious dislike to you.

That certainly saves a few steps!

newtestleper posted:

GREED

a particular food, in a particular time, in a particular place

And thank you for that!

After The War
Apr 12, 2005

to all of my Architects
let me be traitor


I'm taking Swarm's rule and... um... you'll have to endure the horror of survival! And I'll be laughing! Laughing from my grave ban!

After The War
Apr 12, 2005

to all of my Architects
let me be traitor


sebmojo posted:

GREED
After the War - a particular food, in a particular time, in a particular place
Swarm - they'll probably never notice what i took

Debt
1, 060 words

Right, so ready to settle in? Clean, deloused and defeated? Then welcome to my home. Our home. Oh, I know that look, it’s not so bad. You just sit down on the bunk, and I’ll tell you a story. We’re going to have a lot of time for stories, and we’ll say it’s kind of a tradition.

My first day, they threw me in this cell with a guy named Ed Stein, and he told stories too. He was in for robbery or larceny, one of those. Liked to make things his. And the stories were part of that. He’d talk about someone, and in that instant, their entire existence was in his control. They belonged to him. That was real important. And before long, you find yourself showing up in those stories. Just a little reminder that your own life was something he could snatch away in little bits.

Out in the world, he wasn’t a bigshot or a mover. In fact, in the litany of crimes he did and had done to him, you eventually got the impression he’d been kind of a small fry. One guy kept coming up, maybe it was his boss or maybe even his dad, but Ed just couldn’t get out from under him. Eventually, he gets tossed in here, and the guy dies soon after.

Funny thing was, this place is what made him start to take control in his life. He started to have his own routine, just to spite the place. Rearrange it to his will, just like the stories. Eat the same particular food in the same particular place in the cafeteria, at his same particular time every day. Walk a certain number of times around the exercise yard, things like that. Ritual.

He filched stuff, too. Sometimes I’d catch him stashing it. That he didn’t talk about. Nothing important, nothing that anyone but me would even notice, but strange. Like, bits of chalk. Old cigarette butts out of the exercise yard. Even toe tags out of the morgue. Like he was collecting little bits of other people’s lives. Sometimes he’d take them out, arrange them, move them around. If he saw me watching, he’d give me this look like he’d seriously mess me up if I interfered with that little world of his.

He brightened up one day, though. Grinned, even at me, like he’d finally managed something he wanted. Wouldn’t tell me a word about it, though, just brought up those same old stories about the dead boss of his. I leave it at that and he spared me the usual narrative dressing down that had become his daily reminder of who was in charge in this cell, in this life. For once, after lights out, I get to fall asleep to silence.

But sometime later, I do hear something. Mumbling or whispering. I freeze in my bunk, surveying the room, ready to spring in case Stein or anybody else is about to do for me. It’s one of those things you just find yourself doing in here, wait and see. But there’s nobody standing over me, or even moving at all. I sit up and see him sitting cross-legged on the floor, right over there, in fact. Eyes closed, talking under his breath. Everything else on the block dead quiet. Except... Except, and I only tell you this because you’re in here with me and you’re going to have to understand... somebody, somewhere was talking back to him.

Next day, I ask him what the hell that was. I’ve never been religious, but whatever went on the night before felt wrong. He just smiled and said “sometimes you’ve gotta go out of your way to make sure you have it all. Dyin’ doesn’t let someone off the hook. Just means no one comes knockin’. Not unless they know how. So if you do, they’re all yours.”

But once was never going to be enough for him. In the end, there are folks who, the more you take from them, the more they want. Put him in a cell, take away his name and purpose, and he just goes grabbing from everyone else. Before long, he was doing it every night. Me, him, and what sounded like a choir of dead voices in here. Anybody that had ever wronged him. Tried to cope the best I could, what else could I do? Tell anyone, that’s a one-way ticket to the psych ward. And let me tell you, that place makes death look like a real pleasant alternative.

But you know something? He was wrong. I don’t think you can’t just call up the dead and make them yours. They take their own fee, bit by bit. After the first few times, the balance shifted, the debt was due. But Stein, he just couldn’t stop. After a while, he just seemed to disappear. The long string of old stories dried up. Just about the only thing to keep him going were those little rituals. He’d drift to that same spot as always, eat that same food, make the same rounds in the yard. And still that same thing in here every night, like this time he’d win out. This time he’d beat the house and get it all back.

One morning I found him, right there, collapsed in the middle of his circle, barely breathing. I gathered up all his little trinkets, brushed the circle off the floor and hid it all in his little stash before I called the warden.

He didn’t last long in the hospital wing. Maybe that routine really was the only thing keeping him alive, and when he couldn’t do it, he just faded away. No one to subject to one final story.

Now why did I tell you all this? Just trying to scare the new kid? I can see you’re a little freaked out. But really, it was to get you ready. See, he was right about a few things. And me telling his story to you, that just makes him all mine. And here, here’s his old stash spot. All the little trinkets he used. So when you hear two voices in the cell tonight, you just remember that nobody can just take and take. Eventually, someone’s going to want to take back. And there’s a lot he owes me.

After The War
Apr 12, 2005

to all of my Architects
let me be traitor


In. Spin.

After The War
Apr 12, 2005

to all of my Architects
let me be traitor


newtestleper posted:

Judgeburps for Sins Week



Thanks, y'alls is awesome.

After The War
Apr 12, 2005

to all of my Architects
let me be traitor


I'm out because I'm a failure as a human being who can't budget his time or is having a depressive episode or something. Will post what I have to Fiction Farm and return with a someday.

After The War
Apr 12, 2005

to all of my Architects
let me be traitor


Roger Ebert once said "no winning Thunderdome entry is depressing, but every losing one is." Or something like that. So gimme one of them losers and we'll see where we can take some bad ideas.

for abject despair of incompletion during genre week.

After The War
Apr 12, 2005

to all of my Architects
let me be traitor


Loser: http://writocracy.com/thunderdome/?story=673 ("Breeze", Beezle Bug)

Mist (949 words)

Maria didn’t have to tell him when they had reached the ledge, he’d have recognized it from the number of steps alone. When she let go of his hand, the salt mist of early winter cut sharply into his moist palm. He inhaled, tasting the difference in air from the small room that had encompassed his existence ever since returning. He held it in as long as he could, but finally, inevitably, released it. “Take off the blindfold.” His voice was thin, shaking. “Please.”

“Kyle? Are you sure?” Maria asked. “Your mother told me that the doctor said-“
“I don’t care,” he managed. “I want… need to feel this.” After a sigh of resignation, he felt slender fingers working behind his ears, the knot loosening, then brightness and the pain of exposure. This, he thought, would be daylight from here on. He remembered that it would be cloudy this time of year, so there were still months ahead to prepare for the sun.

Below them, the surf crashed and gulls shared their plaintive cry. For the first time in his life, he imagined their fragile white bodies perched on the rocky shoals inches above the violent sea. She tried to take his hand again, but he pulled it away, clutching a tight fist against his mouth. He was acutely aware of his teeth biting into the knuckle. “I was sure I was going to die there,” he said when he was finally able to pull it away. “I never thought I’d get to stand here again. I never thought I’d get to see…” and the raw ironic munition of the word in his throat. “See you again.”

She put her arm around him, and this time he didn’t resist. “But you did. You made it back.”

“Plenty of us didn’t. It doesn’t really hit you until you’re home. When you’re there, you try to keep them in your mind how they were back home. Charlie Walker, you remember him? He and me, running over the fields, climbing trees together. That’s how I had to think of him when I was there. And then I’m standing here and I can see him the way he was, all tangled up in barbed wire, shot full of holes. Just staring like he could see some dark, terrible thing coming over the horizon.”

She pulled him closer. His pulse was pounding so hard he was sure she could feel it. “Richard Mason? Village cricket team? From the last time I saw him, he was forever bowling that perfect game he did that one summer. But I come back and all of a sudden he’s lying sick in the mud with trench fever, shaking and crying for his mother. Just before the gas shell hit and we all went for our masks. But no one could do a thing for him. And George…” but here he had to trail off. He had managed to avoid thinking about him all this time, but now, suddenly, the enormity of absence exploded within him. He could feel hot tears mingle with the spray of mist across his cheeks. George, year and a half younger. Waving goodbye at the dock. George, who would be called up himself not too much later. Who had died in the ruins of some obliterated French villa less than a month in county.

“It’s all right,” she said, but the words sounded rote, like a school prayer. “He was your brother, after all. He was so proud of you, when you joined up. We all were.” They stood there for a time. Finally, he broke the silence. “He would have been our best man.” She stiffened against him, and he was sure he heard her gasp. He hadn’t considered how much she must have been looking forward to the wedding, herself all this time. “The whole village would have turned out,” he said. “There won’t be many weddings now. So many of the boys are gone…” He felt something brush against his trouser leg. It must have been the blindfold falling softly to the ground. And now she was the one crying.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “But we still can-“

“George,” she sobbed. “He’s gone.”

“I know, it hurts me, too. I was his brother, you know.”

“No, you don’t understand. He and I were… close.” She sniffed. “I can’t believe I’m telling you now. Like this.” He could feel her loosen her grip, and he another image came, the one that had sustained him over there, kept him going, what he saw in the flash of white phosphorous: Maria, his Maria, sitting right here, at this overlook in the spring, in his arms. But now he was seeing it from somewhere else. Out in the sea, maybe, and it was his brother holding, caressing her. For the first time, he truly felt the damp chill of the sea breeze wash over him.

“I suppose,” he said eventually, mouth dry. “I suppose when someone is gone, one has to find comfort where one can. So I can understand, while I was away-“

“Kyle, oh Kyle, don’t you see?” She breathed deep. “You were the older son, so it had to be you, but… But George and I loved each other long before you left. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

A flatness covered him, flat as the gray shroud that hung, would forever hang, over his eyes. And yet somehow he held his arms out for her and she fell into them. It would never last, but here, in this moment, he could hold her tight, tight enough to hold out the mist and the ghosts of lives lost and lives that never were.

After The War
Apr 12, 2005

to all of my Architects
let me be traitor




In.

After The War
Apr 12, 2005

to all of my Architects
let me be traitor





Thanks for the crits. I don't know what got into me that week, aside from the moronic idea of sticking as close to the original lost-for-a-reason story as possible.

After The War
Apr 12, 2005

to all of my Architects
let me be traitor


Failure. I need to stop doing this.

After The War
Apr 12, 2005

to all of my Architects
let me be traitor


Ah, what the hell, I'm in. And for loving it up last time.

EDIT - Getting to be about time to change out av, anyway.

After The War
Apr 12, 2005

to all of my Architects
let me be traitor


Well, that's the end of me. At least I kept hammering on the drat thing up to the end.

Was still pretty terrible, though.

After The War
Apr 12, 2005

to all of my Architects
let me be traitor


Kaishai posted:

Finish it and post it. There's often a mercy window for bans. It's not indefinite, however, so hurry!

Bearing that in mind, and considering the worst that could happen is a ban anyway, here it is hot out of Word, awfully written and insufficiently proofed. Thanks for nudging me to give it a shot.

Necromanteion 937 words

I stretched my fingers across the keyboard, took a deep breath of the distinctive university computer lab air conditioning, and typed out “RUN”. George had said this would be something special. We’d both read about ELIZA and how people would hold long, deeply personal conversations with the program, pouring out their hearts in response to its simple, open questions. But all of that came from the user, the software simply rearranging their words and spitting them back out. They were really looking at themselves in a 40-column funhouse mirror. But CASSANDRA would be different, he said. Real interaction.

The teletype machine roared to life. “HELLO BEN,” it chattered across the page. It knew my name before I even started? I was always ready for one of George’s legendary pranks, but it wasn’t like him to make it so obvious. Maybe this was a double bluff, I thought. The punchline will happen later, might as well play along and see what it is.

“HOW DO YOU KNOW MY NAME?” I typed. It spat out, “IF I HAD MY WAY YOU WOULD HAVE BEEN NAMED MARCO. THAT NAME HAS A LOT OF HISTORY IN THE FAMILY. BUT YOUR FATHER INSISTED. SOMETHING LESS FOREIGN. THOUGHT IT WOULD BE BETTER FOR YOUR CAREER PROSPECTS.” I stared at the printer, reading the text over and over. Each time, the noisy room around me seemed a little farther off, until I was aware only of the text on the page and my pounding heart. George couldn’t have…

I jumped back when the printer started up again. “I WANTED TO BE PROUD OF YOU. BUT HOW COULD I WHEN YOU WOULDN’T EVEN TRY.” The print head returned to its home position for a moment, and then “YOUR MOTHER CALLED CRYING AFTER HER CONFERENCE WITH MRS WARNER. WE WERE SO DISAPPOINTED IN “

I bolted from the room while the printer was still clattering away. The memory of that night, lying awake listening as my mother sobbed, still haunted me. But I had never told anyone. Ever. When George found me, I was crouched in the hallway, shaking.

-

“I’ve checked it over and over,” George said when I was finally able to come back to the lab. It had been a long night of pacing my dorm, finally succumbing to sleep and missing a day’s worth of classes. I had no idea how much time he’d spent poring over the program. “I left these strings open for it to create its own output, but there’s no way it could have come up with all this,” and held up the printout from the day before. My jaw clenched and I backed away. “And it sounded just like your grandmother? Who’s dead?” He sounded simply curious at this unexpected result. “I wonder what would happen if I tried it?”

“Don’t! I… I don’t think this is right,” I managed. “Just think about it for a second-“ but he was already typing. In an instant, the teletype head was flying across the paper. “HELLO. I’M CASSANDRA. WHAT CAN I CALL YOU?” He looked over at me. “Okay. That’s… what it’s supposed to do.” He typed out “GEORGE” and the printer responded with “NICE TO MEET YOU, GEORGE. WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO TALK ABOUT?”

He threw up his hands, annoyed, while I exhaled in relief. “I don’t seem to be talking to any dead person,” he snapped. “Are you sure-“

“Have you lost anyone? Ever?" I spat. There might not be anyone for you to talk to.”

“Well, how am I supposed to…” He thought for a second, then snapped his fingers. “Wait, I’ve got it! Stay here, keep it running.” He bolted out the door, leaving the plastic office chair spinning in his wake. I stared at the terminal, at the minicomputer it was connected to, fighting the urge to rip the tape off its spool, tell George it had been misaligned or something. Finally, he came back. With him was another student, a few years older than us. Wasn’t here on the GI Bill? I thought for a second, then realized with horror what George was up to. But he was already introducing us.

“You remember Tom, right? I thought it would be great to have him help out.” He gestured toward the terminal and Tom sat down cautiously. “To make it start, type in RUN.” I could tell he was struggling not to grin at his own cleverness. Tom was unfamiliar with keyboard layout, but he managed to peck the command out. The printer started up.

“SO THERE YOU ARE, MALORNEY.” Somehow, the chatter sounded angry this time. Resentful. “BET YOU’D NEVER THOUGHT YOU’D HEAR FROM ME AGAIN.” Tom sat frozen in the chair, his face drained of color.

“AFTER YOU LEFT ME. LEFT ME TO DIE IN THE JUNGLE. AND I THOUGHT WE WERE FRIENDS. RIGHT UP TO THE LAST THING I SAW. YOUR BACK, WALKING AWAY AS I FELL.”

“Who is it?” George nudged. “You know who it is, don’t you?” He turned around and looked at me, finally unable to contain his excitement and pride. “This is incredible! The whole world will –“

“It will what?!” I shouted. “Don’t you see? This is nothing anyone should ever hear!”

“But imagine what we could –“

I pointed at the man seated at the terminal. “THAT’s what we could do. The dead don’t lie, George. They can’t. And the living aren’t built to handle the truth.” I walked over to the CPU unit, slammed the power off, and as my friend stared, pulled out the tape spool and stormed out of the room.

After The War
Apr 12, 2005

to all of my Architects
let me be traitor


crabrock posted:

After The War for turning in his story way too late, and only after some pressure. If it makes you feel better, your story was not going to win anything anyway (because it is bad (but not bad enough to DM or lose))

Better than I was hoping, or the story deserved. To say thanks, I'll do a line crit for the week's judges on anything they want. Same for Kaishai, for talking me into actually finishing that thing after I'd given up and was literally hunting for a new avatar.

After The War
Apr 12, 2005

to all of my Architects
let me be traitor


Thank you for critting!

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After The War
Apr 12, 2005

to all of my Architects
let me be traitor


Broenheim posted:

After the war - not reading because gently caress you, im done.


A good life choice.

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