Bring on the slush.
|# ¿ Jan 24, 2017 14:39|
|# ¿ Mar 23, 2019 04:26|
I will not be submitting, as it turns out words make hard when your jaw is infected by bacteria unknown and incidentally you are heavily hosed on opiates which are nowhere near as good at pain relief as Trainspotting makes out
I will enter and submit on time next week
I will also do two line-by-lines on request for submissions from this week, first come first served
|# ¿ Jan 29, 2017 18:04|
I'll take one. I'll do one of yours if you want.
I'll take it, and would also be willing to do one of yours.
My crits have been claimed. Expect them sometime after the codeine wears off. No need to crit back - I haven't written anything in a while.
|# ¿ Jan 29, 2017 19:13|
|# ¿ Jan 31, 2017 19:25|
The Truth in Our Stars
“Come home,” the first message says. Of course it's you. I know the code that comes through clear, if staccato, in the pulsar's pirouette, bathing my ship in hyper-focused neutrons. Morse. You thought it 'elegant', once; now, though, who knows what you think?
I see that message a lot. It's so very you. Straight to the point, as dramatically as possible. But you diluted the effect. You tried making the signal stronger. Longer. Different pulsars. Everything. I'm not impressed. You only get to break physics once, dear: after that, you're just showboating. Besides, others made it out.
Beneath me, the engines tick-tick-roar as they come up to charge. I wrench down the lever and I get the hell out of there. I'm still ahead of the chase. The Conduit beckons. One more jump, and you can keep this drat galaxy. I told you what I thought about your mind upload bullshit then, and if you catch up with your drones I've got one final nuke for my last word. You were always a lover of codes and patterns: interpret that.
I drop into the final system before the Conduit, right into your waiting message. “Come home,” the pulsar burbles, like you didn't break down ours for parts. I wish I was insignificant to you, like everyone else was. My only home lies beyond the Conduit: there, with the other survivors, I can finally build a life free of you.
I sit there, floating in space beneath a pulsar's pleading, and wonder what that will be like. No more running. Just an entire galaxy without you in it. It sounds like paradise, but first I have to pass through the eye of a needle. I pull the jump one last time, and I leave you for dust. Right?
The Conduit system revolves before my screen, and you've beaten me there. The portal is ringed in your ships, slaved to your will, defying relativity in your reach. I realise, as you planned, that there were no survivors. Are you happy now? If there's one human thing left in the silicon you call a mind, it'll be that smug grin. I can see it now, curling, sneering. How will you mock me in your new world, with no face?
“Come home,” says the pulsar, then it twists, changes, and the Morse shifts. I peer at the growing screed of words on my terminal. Your empathy circuits must be doing overtime. Reminiscing. Apologising. Cajoling. Each one ends, a coda, with “come home.”
My eyes drift over the field of stars, seeking out our point of origin. But it is gone. Our whole cluster, blotted from the sky. Guess you completed the Dyson spheres you were so excited about.
I point my ship straight at the Conduit. Your ships swirl in a formation too complex for my eyes to follow. I prime the nuke, set the timer, and push the engines to max. I flip open the microphone, and I laugh. Go to hell! My parents never liked you, you know. They always said you'd amount to nothing. Beep bee-eep beep, motherfucker.
|# ¿ Feb 6, 2017 03:51|
In with because if it doesn't involve spaceships I'm pretty much stuck
|# ¿ Feb 7, 2017 18:46|
The Moon in Capricorn
The dame is a Virgo. I can tell these things, see. Call it a seventh sense. She sits in my office, crying. It's an old story. Her son is missing.
I shuffle some papers and put on my special thinking face. He's an Ares. Ain't no magic in knowing that: boy was due for the draft. My gut says he's gone to ground in Mexico, but my gut doesn't pay the bills around here and ten bucks a day plus expenses can.
“Was he keen for the draft, Mrs. Anderson?” I exhale, and smoke pours out. The charms in the cigar turn it to water, but it sure makes the right impression.
She looks at me like I'm mud on a lost shoe. “My boy ain't no shitlicker, detective. Bartholemeius is an Ares and a patriot proud to send them Japs to hell, just like his old man.”
“And where's Mr. Anderson at?”
“The war, fella. You served, Mr. Jones?”
“I'm Libra. I'm busy keeping the balance.”
“They do got a Libra Volunteer Corps, y'know.”
“And on balance, I didn't volunteer.”
She sighs. “Barty'd never cut and run. Wanted to be officer corps.”
I make a note. “He packing magic, then?”
“A little. Enough. Been practising at the Kabbalah Club downtown since he was sixteen.”
“That's a rough joint. He got friends there?”
She shrugs. “You can never tell with boys his age.”
“I'll drop by.” I stub out the stogie and stand up. “I'll be in touch when I've got something.”
“Find him,” she says. “He's wanted to stick it to them drat death-worshippers for years.” I'll bet.
After I usher her out my office, I sit back down and put a call through to my old friend Sergeant Miller. She's a golem, and a drat good cop.
“Yo, Rocky. You heard anything about the missing Anderson kid?”
“I have not stop. An Ares stop?”
(A drat good cop, if you can get past her magic word being 'telegram'.)
“Yeah. How's you guess?”
“Spate of Ares disappearances stop.”
“Huh. Apparently this one spent a lot of time down the Kabbalah. Let me know if you hear anything, hey?”
“Of course stop. Always happy to help stop. Still owe you from last time stop.”
“Bring the monkey paw.”
“Like hell I will.”
“Also, fella stop. Black Rose been seen in area stop. You... take care stop.”
“Magic-free muckraker like me don't get her attention anyhow. Cheers, Sergeant.” Like this week's costumed vigilante is anything other than competition. I grab the Weldingsson instead and walk out into the city.
The Kabbalah Club is on the corner of Thirty-First and Maine. Downtown is mighty quiet these days, what with all the troublemakers dodging hexes in Guam. Without Ares muscle, the big Pisces swim a lot slower. The street is almost silent, like it's holding its breath. I reach into a pocket gummed with fluff and paper and pull out a photograph. Bartholomeius Anderson Jr. A pretty clean name for this dirty town. I take one last gasp of clean-ish air and step through the swinging doors of the Kabbalah Club.
The stench of sweat and curdled magic drips like wet paint. I walk past boys in the ring throwing spells they plucked out a catalogue as coaches call their shots. Mostly Ares kids burning time 'til their number gets called, fulla spunk and not much else. I stroll over to the desk.
“You run this place?”
The old man looks up from his paper. His face is already bright red from the effort. “Who's asking?”
I flash him my licence and the picture. “Today, I'm Missing Persons. This kid trained here?”
He looks me dead in the eye. “Never seen him in my life.”
“If that's how you want to play it, fella. I'll just start asking people 'til I find him, I guess. Or any of the other kids gone missing lately.” It's then that I feel a meaty paw land on my shoulder.
The old man grins. “You magical, detective? What element are you? Fire? Water? Earth?”
I grimace. “Street.”
The hand squeezes, and it feels like my arm's going to pop out the socket. “Wise guy like you,” he says, “ought to stick to what he can handle.” His magically strong goon heaves me over his shoulder like a sack of old potatoes.
You never get used to getting thrown out a place. If you're lucky, you get to go out the door. Today I hit the ground with a glittering crunch of glass. I curse, but it's just a word. The big guy climbs through the broken window. He raises a fist turned clear and rippling. Water. I roll back, dripping wet, and stand.
“Muckraker,” he says. His whole body is transformed now. The street lights refract through him, casting shimmering patterns on the walls. “I'm going to drown you.”
“In talk, maybe.”
He charges, soaking the ground as he comes. He pulls back an arm and I hit him with the Weldingsson & Co. Subdermal Electrical Applicator (Do Not Use If Wet). The volts rush through him and that's that. He slumps, his body already losing its shape. I pocket the fried Weldingsson. This is going on my expenses.
His water sinks into the pavement. I'm told it hurts like the devil to ooze back out of concrete. His clothes lie in a pile, dripping. I slip a hand through the pockets and come up with a little notebook. Smart fella went and had it waterproofed. I slip it into a pocket and beat it.
When I get back to the office, the Black Rose is already there. How do I know it's her? Goddamned vigilantes. Who else wears a mask with a black rose on it? The whole point of wearing a mask is so fellas don't know who you are.
I pull my revolver. “I don't know what you're packing,” I say, “but it'll be some real hefty magic stops a Smith & Wesson at five paces. If you had that, you wouldn't be bothering mooks like me.”
She opens her mouth as if to speak, then shakes her head. In the twinkle of an eye, the Black Rose pufts out of existence. Real hefty magic, that. I need this case sorted before any more costumed nutjobs want to help.
I find a telegram on my desk. It's from Miller.
ANDERSON BARTHOLOMEIUS NOT IN RECORDS STOP NO INFORMATION STOP MISSING PERSONS CASE CLOSED STOP ADVISE NEW CASE STOP
Golems must love telegrams. We all talk like them there. But I can read the subtext. She's been warned off. Now she's warning me off. Her concern is always cute, but I don't make ten bucks a day plus expenses for playing it safe.
I flip open the Kabbalah thug's book. Mostly, it's numbers. Real crime is all in the numbers, and this fella's boss has got plenty of 'em. Goods stored... goods tested, rejected... goods moved? The whole thing culminates in one address. It's a dockyard warehouse. It's always a dockyard warehouse.
I crouch beneath the desk and unlock my emergency safe. I leave the cash. Instead I pick out the six silver bullets I had custom made, and that drat monkey paw, one digit still unfurled. They'll be expecting me. When you don't know a hex from a pentagram, you gotta use what you got.
Warehouses all blur together after a while. You see enough, and you stop caring whether the prickling feeling beneath your skin is fear, prophecy, or ticks. They're all bad news. The air around here is rancid with it. The magic swirls on the wind like something rotten. It all smells that way; Iwo Jima must smell like a charnel house by now.
I load my revolver with the six silver bullets and spin the chambers closed. I'd pray, but I'm carrying nothing blessable. It's just a warehouse on the seafront. I take a breath. Hell of a way to make ten bucks a day plus expenses.
It's the screaming that tells me I'm too late. The six fellas with shotguns only confirm it. They're Ares. I can tell these things, see. Their boss is an Ares too, in a suit sharp enough to shave with. I think I know the face.
“You're too late,” he says.
“That's a matter of perspective, Mr. Anderson,” I say. “Looks to me like you got caught red-handed. Multiple kidnappings.”
He waves an arm across the warehouse. I didn't mean it literally. But all the pentagrams and screaming suggest his hands are pretty drat red. “If only that were the least of our crimes,” he says.
“I preferred it when people denied everything. Going to sacrifice me too?”
He sighs. “You're no Ares, and you have no magic. You wouldn't understand,” he says. “You haven't served, I can tell. You weren't there. But here, with this, we finally have the weapon to end all war-”
I don't much care for speeches. I go for the revolver, but then the ceiling caves in.
It's the Black Rose, because of course it is. All these magic types flock together. She floats above us, Air. I do a double-take. “Mil-”
“NOT NOW STOP.”
Anderson raises a hand. “Excuse me, my dear, are we supposed to stop or to not?”
She raises a fist crackling with electricity. “YOU ARE ABOUT TO FIND OUT STOP.”
He turns to his men. “Fire!” I duck, and it all kicks off.
I can feel the screams through the floor. It is shifting. More voices join it, jostling for space, until it's a roar of ten thousand voices. Anderson's son is one of them, I guess. I crawl on all fours behind a crate, lost in the chaos.
I don't know how Officer Miller managed to hide her magic, but boy is she good. She waves a hand and a wall comes crashing down on a few shooters. She dodges gunfire and hexes like they're moving through soup.
But the screaming is still rising. The floor collapses and I grab onto a drainpipe. The pit is deep. Inside, something hungers. It breathes, low and rumbling, and a gale sweeps up from the depths and slams me into the wall.
The vigilante is down, wrapped around a pole. Real crime ain't like in the comics. Anderson's still standing, clinging to a patch of remaining floor. “First, Tokyo!” he shouts over the wind. “Then it'll all be over!”
I look down into its impossible maw. Big enough to swallow a truck, lined with teeth, ever pulsing. I wonder if the kid knew what his old man had in store for him. Wonder if that's what he wanted. Them drat death-worshippers were going to get it now, alright, yes siree.
I wonder. Will they quit? Or will they tell us to go to hell, too?
I take a hand off the pipe and the air lifts me like a flag in January. I fumble through my pockets until I find it. The drat monkey paw. When I first got it, it had one careful owner and barely any tragedies. Now there's only one wish left.
I curse. Hell of a way to make ten bucks a day plus expenses. “Stop this,” I whisper, and I pull the last finger closed. The building itself screams, metal twisting to breaking, and what's left of it falls down in fragments, streams of rubble colliding and combining, until the whole drat thing is dust and I'm running and the screams are getting fainter, as if choking, and it sounds like nothing so much as a million men bleeding out from gunshot wounds all at once, spluttering and alone.
I leave Officer Miller, or whatever she calls herself, to do the cleanup job. My work's done. I step out onto the shoreline, light a cigarette, and take a breath of salt and smoke. I turn on my heel and walk away down the dunes. I'll pay my price someday, we all know that. But so long as it doesn't cost more than ten bucks a day plus expenses, I'll make out fine.
|# ¿ Feb 13, 2017 07:16|
Does anyone have thoughts on good qualities of judging
|# ¿ Feb 13, 2017 08:50|
There are more bad things than good things.
For example, currently there is a lot of not judgment
|# ¿ Feb 13, 2017 17:32|
Of course I'm loving in.
|# ¿ Feb 14, 2017 11:55|
"You know what?" Formica said, still wet. "I'm tired of you walking all over me."
"Wipe it out," I said. "All the work I've done, putting a roof over our heads-"
"Don't you dare mention her in this house!"
She slips me. I come crashing down, and, just for a moment, my lips brush her. I roll onto my back and I finally say it.
"I want a difloorce."
|# ¿ May 22, 2017 15:16|
IN A WORLD WHERE PEOPLE CAN'T FOLLOW THE SIMPLEST OF INSTRUCTIONS
(e: I'm taking no land)
|# ¿ May 23, 2017 16:06|
Obliterati fucked around with this message at Dec 7, 2017 around 15:01
|# ¿ May 28, 2017 22:01|
the truly punk response to this is to not post the prompt
gently caress YOU YOU'RE NOT MY DAD
|# ¿ May 29, 2017 11:14|
Thunderdome CCLII: Your Cardboard Protagonist Was Here
This is some graffiti from the ceiling of Maeshowe, a Late Stone Age tomb in Orkney. Said ceiling is like four metres high. It's written in Old Norse, dating it to at least two thousand years later, and if you go get a ladder, a torch, and several years of specialist education you can read the words “Tholfir Kolbeinsson carved these runes high up”. Some things never change, and if you don't find that inherently hilarious, 'Domers, I don't know what to tell you.
I want stories of humanity's heritage defaced, characters in places you'd really think they wouldn't be, and at least one example of graffiti so help me God. Past, present, future: don't care.
Wordcount is 1500, but brave 'Domers can get an extra 500 if they sign up for a a flash rule which will be generated from words your ancestors scrawled on protected monuments. Do what you like with it.
No fanfic, erotica, etc.
Signups close: Saturday 9am BST (UTC +0100)
Submissions close: Monday 9am BST (UTC +0100)
- Entenzahn (“I wonder, O wall, that you have not yet collapsed, so many writers’ clichés do you bear.”)
- Twwezer Reprise (“Apollinaris, the doctor of the emperor Titus, shat well here.”)
- Fuubi ("Good luck on your resurrection.")
- Fleta McGurn (“These runes were carved by the man most skilled in runes in the western ocean”)
- flerp (“The one who screws a fire burns his penis.”)
- crabrock (“NOTICE: This wall is solely for use by students and does not necessarily portray the views of the University.”)
- QuoProQuid (“I, Daminius, did not want (to do it)”)#
- SurreptitiousMuffin ("You might as well try to dry a floor by throwing water on it, as try to end this war by fighting.")
- Jay W. Friks
Obliterati fucked around with this message at Jun 3, 2017 around 10:25
|# ¿ May 29, 2017 11:14|
“I wonder, O wall, that you have not yet collapsed, so many writers’ clichés do you bear.”
Latin: In several places around Pompeii
In with flash.
“Apollinaris, the doctor of the emperor Titus, shat well here.”
Latin: outside a house in Herculaneum, Roman Empire
Yeah in and flash please.
"Good luck on your resurrection."
Ancient Greek: a Jewish tomb in Beit She'arim, modern Israel
American English: Babylon, Iraq
Obliterati fucked around with this message at May 29, 2017 around 15:05
|# ¿ May 29, 2017 14:55|
In, , flash but don't anyone dare conflate my glorious Greek and Egyptian ancestors with those...animals from Skyrim. jk mostly Welsh lol
“These runes were carved by the man most skilled in runes in the western ocean”
Old Norse: Maeshowe, Orkney
“The one who screws a fire burns his penis.”
Latin: Public bathroom, Pompeii
in, flash, and to get 1 redemption before i write this story.
“NOTICE: This wall is solely for use by students and does not necessarily portray the views of the University.”
English: University of Pretoria 'graffiti wall' (2008)
|# ¿ May 29, 2017 21:15|
sure, okay. im in
“I, Daminius, did not want (to do it)”
Latin: inscription on Hadrian's Wall
|# ¿ Jun 3, 2017 02:26|
In. Flash me big boy.
"You might as well try to dry a floor by throwing water on it, as try to end this war by fighting."
English: Richard Lewis Barry, conscientious objector prison at Richmond Castle, England, 1917
|# ¿ Jun 3, 2017 10:22|
Signups are closed. Get scrawlin', 'Domers.
|# ¿ Jun 3, 2017 10:23|
Submissions are closed.
|# ¿ Jun 5, 2017 09:10|
Judgement Week CCLII
I asked you to desecrate humanity's cultural legacy, and boy did you deliver. In a way. There was a lot of 'eh, this is okay' this week: now for the exceptions.
First we remember the fallen, whose words never made it to posterity: those without walls to write on, chalk to write with, or literacy. The Letter X by Jay W. Friks was apparently removed and reposted, which ancient TD lore, etched onto vellum in the blood of two hundred and fifty-one losers, tells us is Wrong. This merits a DQ. Count yourself lucky. I wanted you to lose.
There were a few bad stories this week, and they were all about people doing things that happened to involve words. Some also failed to include graffiti in their stories, which was Bad. Scrawling 'I WOZ ERE' on a priceless marble column (no names? No dates? What, do you hate posterity?), we have a DM for Those Statued Men with Acid Rain Habits by Tweezer Reprise, who would have died from exhaustion attempting to inscribe all this ponderous prose on a wall.
There were a few good stories this week, and they, writers all, took the graffiti theme and worked it until it bled. Writing filthy jokes in toilet cubicles, HMs go to The Coward by SurreptitiousMuffin, whose humanising tale of a deserter doesn't gently caress around, and Eagle, and Shark by Sebmojo who, despite having apparently referenced Flight of the Conchords or some poo poo, told a dumb funny story about Cold War dickwaving that deserved a mention.
Our winner this week told us a bonkers story of reality collapsing in on itself. That poo poo is crack to me. Sitting Here, the Blood Throne calls again.
Smearing the walls with their own poo poo (and worse, it reads 'Just Do It') the loss goes to Graffiti Bros by Entenzahn, which reads exactly like what I'd write if I woke up at four in the morning to make the deadline. I'd say it was held together by dream logic, but is it really held together at all?
Obliterati fucked around with this message at Jun 6, 2017 around 17:47
|# ¿ Jun 6, 2017 17:39|
Obliterati's CCLII Judgecrits
Those Statued Men with Acid Rain Habits
Oh hey you said the name of the thing in the thing
This story only gets interesting with the fifth paragraph. Before that we get four big blocks of backstory; things 'he would tell us' but the omniscient narrator is just going to handle for him (oh poo poo is the narrator God I thought not). If 'he would' tell us something, either he should do it himself or no-one should. He didn't tell us these things because they're not the story, and we don't care. Only in paragraph five do we learn this is a story about a guy who is going to burn an ancient text, and I wish we'd started there. You don't need a single word before “Dialifen was sure that this was one of the last times...” towards the end of paragraph four.
I see what you're going for with 'translator decides to augment the source material' because well they're all at it, but this is flash fiction and you don't have space for four huge, ponderous quotes. Historically, a lot of these 'edits' were accomplished with the delicate introduction or removal of the word 'not', as opposed to wholescale re-edits (the psychological gymnastics involved in justifying this stuff to yourself are a sadly missed opportunity).
Also, I don't like Diafen/Dialifen (yes, I noticed) at all. He's just a jerk. He doesn't have a rationalisation beyond ego, and I'm not invested in his success or failure. I'm not saying I need to like the guy, I just need to care.
Start a Fire, Even if it’s for Yourself
Not all that much happens here, to be honest. Your protag reasserts his youth or whatever, sure, but we spent the whole first half hearing about it rather than your protag doing much. His (malaise? Depression?) is just kinda asserted, and it feels more like your protag needed a reason to scrawl on walls than his situation causing him to do so.
I do like the premise of this one. It's a scenario all too common in World War One, where a bunch of lads plan to meet up afterwards but are all dead, or might as well be.
Ultimately, though, not all that much happens in this story. The main chunk of it is the description of four deaths: I'd cut this to two, at most three, and use the words for more story. I'd be interested to know what was cut in this story.
As such I guess this is a story that leans on description and setting in things like that, which is fine. The language is strong, and the image of scoring out names one by one is handled technically well. I'm not entirely sure why he chooses what he does, though, or whether he really was going to do it after all.
Also, there are typos, and this fills me with rage.
The Big Dipper
I really like the way you've blended your two narratives here. Couple of minor issues on that: I know you're trying to make Lucas/Lyle's names similar, but they're almost too similar: it took me a second pass to actually register the difference. Secondly, if you do this, you probably don't need the *** breaks, and can make the transition even slicker.
The sections in the past are, I think, better overall. There's better dialogue. Lyle's humour isn't anything special, but it gives him stuff to be saying: the kids, however, are pretty cardboard, and Alex ends up having to carry those scenes on her own, which is a bit much for any one character.
The Letter X
Welcome to the trade-off between 'exotic names' and 'unreadable names'! Using special Norse/Old English lettering is super cool and all, but do you know how to pronounce these? I'm a qualified archaeologist and I don't. Latinise these letters unless you want your audience to remember your characters as 'that guy with the diphthong' or 'the third guy with no fukken vowels in his name jfc. I get what you're trying to do? But these names are unpronounceable, unreadable; every single mention breaks what rhythm you've got as we rake through consonants trying to remember who's who, the joke dies fast, and my interest dies shortly after. I had this for the loss, and you're drat lucky you were DQ'd.
Also, even if an alphabet could be 'overtly verbose' (verbose literally refers to words) it wouldn't be the Roman alphabet, which has fewer than twenty-six letters.
Again, this is a cracking premise, and is exactly the kind of mad poo poo I was hoping for when I threw you this curveball of a flash rule. Tourist war surfers travelling between conflicts via graffiti? I approve.
This being said, I feel like a lot of stuff just happens. The gradual escalation of the wars is of course clear, and we can certainly see where this plot is going, but I've got a very limited sense of the protag's motivations for being here in the first place. Is he inadvertently trapped in a cycle of wars? Did he do this voluntarily? I get he has a son to be going back to, but it's just an offhand mention.
The judges agree: write a three-part novel series.
In a lot of ways the premise here reminded me of A Dry, Quiet War by Paul Daniel: it takes a similar premise of time-travelling soldiers but drags down the level of the story by setting itself 'after' the war from the protag's perpsective. Also, it does mad poo poo with time.
I don't quite know how to take this one. I like the attempt to mix the boisterous and the dark elements of Norse culture ('lol graffiti' turning into 'ancient curse' is certainly very Norse). I do have a hard time formulating much else, though.
The best bit of this is Inge rolling her eyes. Is Astrid's scaring attempt supposed to fall flat? Because the line about the fish is ridiculous. The allcaps is a bit much too, especially when someone's comparing someone else to a fish corpse.
The Wall of Rejected Classes
Unlike the other judges, I actually liked the breaking form with images. Other judges think this cheating: I think it Vonnegut. Cut one of the posters, though. Six images is pushing it too far.
The story does also catch this 'university vibe' where weird stuff you don't care about is happening everywhere, and that there's a lot you haven't learned to notice. Ceiling graffiti has an absurd justification which I really like, but it needs to either be in a slightly more absurd story or give the secondary character more time to speak and outline his personality.
In the end, this story feels like a fragment of a larger whole: sure, it's self-contained, but it reads like an opening. It's a slice, not the whole cake.
Minor thing: I like how you managed to imply the protagonists' sexuality without him or the narrator explicitly stating it and instead just having him not rush to correct the second character.
Obviously it's a challenge to convey the emotions and desires of a wholly alien entity, but what I feel the story was going for, the idea that they are mutually alone until they meet, could serve to be a little reinforced for our alien chum. What does it want? I felt a light parallel between the carvings on the glass and the alien's carvings on the ground, but I feel this needed a little more to really seal the connection, as it were.
Some judges wondered if this story was in the spirit of the prompt, given that every single message is presumably destroyed/lost. Personally for me that's a strong way to play the prompt: there's a bittersweetness in the ending here, where the colonists' words, fragile on glass, are lost but the remaining human, also their legacy, is still alive. That works.
It's definitely a writers' story, this one. Inscriptions that literally are a universe? People writing their own histories? This grabs the prompt by the throat and squeezes, which I enjoy immensely. I do feel like we start a bit slowly here – there's room to be cut in your first two paragraphs. Let's get to the characters, terror and world-rewriting.
The actual transition from Mogadishu into the belly of the beast is pretty jarring, so kudos on that, but I'm not sure we needed so much running away in fear. After all, your protagonist is right: “running headlong into dark infinity wasn’t any less terrifying than whatever had been shuffling around behind her”. Either she needs to run more, and have stuff happen as she runs, or run less.
Minor thing: when she first approaches the object, she begins looking at it, then suddenly is looking elsewhere to avoid the headache. Feels abrupt.
This is a story that leaves me wondering what happens next, which is a good sign. My first thought was “Did nuns practice illumination?” I certainly hope so!
Your protagonist's motivations are nice and clear. The paragraphs that establish his growing (carpal tunnel? Arthritis? I don't care, I know enough) feel very organic: the scene doesn't feel forced as we're obviously expecting him to be illuminating in the story.
I certainly liked this story. The question is “does this story have substance?”. I feel like there's the slightest thing missing in his choice at the end: sure, he's losing his own abilities, and it makes sense for him to tutor this prodigy child, but I feel like the character needs the slightest step in development inbetween those two. As it stands, a legitimate reading of the story could see his actions as entirely selfish, as an attempt to relive his ability to draw through someone else, and yet it feels like they should be a little more than that.
Eagle, and Shark
I shouldn't be laughing at the sentence 'Space justice.', yet here I am, pissing myself. When I asked for humanity's heritage defaced, you didn't half-rear end it, did you?
This story, to me, reads like a send-up of all those mid-eighties SF novels with American and Russian moonbases (i.e. 50% of Ben Bova's work) and the steady creeping terror of the Cold War spreading there, except somebody decided to draw a dick on the Eagle Lander. Idealistic American? Check. Older Soviet, with pro-cooperation tendencies whose extent we aren't sure of? Check. Goddamn Russkie bureaucrat, sent up recently from Earth, taking a harder line on the Yankee? Check!
I was expecting the culprit to be an American, in the classic 'sometimes the greatest enemy is ourselves' trope all those stories loved hitting, so bizarrely I was actually surprised to learn who did it.
What I love about this story is the juxtaposition of the severe and the puerile. It's what I wanted when I set up Graffiti Week and this delivered. I'd have maybe liked a scene where it's actually inscribed: you could go through all the hard SF nonsense of putting on suits and calibrating filters etc. and just sneak up on us the fact that it's a dick pic.
Admittedly, you couldn't arrest that guy without setting off full nuclear exchange, so I hope in the sequel you throw some asteroids at Earth or something.
Graffiti Bros: Graffic Adventures with Julius Caesar
Well, I asked you for cliches, and boy did I fukken get them. Good job!
Sadly this is less juxtaposition of the severe and the puerile and more just daft. It's just a succession of silly things happening with the thinnest veneer of a plot thrown over it to hide the rot. I'm even more disappointed because your opener is mildly funny: it's just it opens on whatever the hell the rest of this story is.
The one thing that could have saved this would have been a funny fight scene and you skipped it you son of a bitch
|# ¿ Jun 6, 2017 17:40|
This is unironically exactly what I was looking for, thanks!
|# ¿ Jun 9, 2017 02:23|
|# ¿ Jun 12, 2017 14:37|
In. Dog plz
|# ¿ Jun 13, 2017 07:52|
In. Picture, please.
|# ¿ Jul 28, 2017 23:52|
Fleming. Flash plz
|# ¿ Oct 3, 2017 09:58|
Obliterati fucked around with this message at Dec 7, 2017 around 15:01
|# ¿ Oct 9, 2017 04:28|
Nobody cares why you failed
|# ¿ Oct 9, 2017 11:58|
Thunderdome Week CCLXXI: Reality Doesn't Care What You Think
Humans are an intrinsically vain species. One of your less endearing traits is how, just as soon as you figure out some slapdash approximation of how reality functions, you immediately name it after yourselves. Hell, as one of you already pointed out, you don't even name them after their first discoverers half the time! Well, you know what? You're made almost entirely of meat and man is the Universe itching to remind you.
When you sign up, you will receive one scientific or sociological theory named after a person. In your story, that theory worked: then suddenly, inexplicably, stops applying. How? And then what? That's up to you, 'Domers, but note that I will be gravely displeased by copouts and greatly pleased by completely mad yet somehow still coherent copins.
e: AN EXAMPLE, DO NOT USE
Obliterati's Theory of Lightspeed says that light moves at fifty-five miles an hour in vacuum. THEN SUDDENLY it moves at ten/fifty-seven million/doesn't move at all/moves only when within half a mile of any member of the Manic Street Preachers. Oh, woe! Your story is about that.
Kardashev Type III Civilisations:
Signups close: Friday 13th, 2359 UTC
Submissions close: Monday 16th, 0900 UTC
Crabrock - Dunbar's Number
QuoProQuid - Chandrasekhar Limit
Thranguy - Pareto Principle
Derp - Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle
Deltasquid - Betteridge's Law of Headlines
Spectres of Autism - Pythagora's Theorem
Yoruichi - Kranzberg's First Law of Technology
Tyrannosaurus - The Hubble Constant
Dr. Kloctopussy - Toblet's First Law of Geography
Sitting Here - Orgel's Second Rule
Simbyotic - Benford's Law
Magnificent7 - The Oort Cloud
Sham bam bamina! - Miller's Law
Sebmojo - Tarski's Undefinability Theorem
Captain_Indigo - Sturgeon's Law
ThirdEmperor - The Drake Equation
bigperm - The Novikov Self-Consistency Principle
a new study bible! - Newton's Third Law
Fuubi - Campbell's Law
The Sean - John Gabriel's Greater Internet Fuckwad Theory
Dreaming of Roses - The Pygmalion Effect
Kaiju15 - The Higgs Boson
Hawklad - Alzheimer's Disease
Jan - The Coriolis Effect
Fumblemouse - Munchausen Syndrome ( FLASH RULE: https://youtu.be/OXypyrutq_M )
flerp- Maxwell's Equations
Xelkelvos - Capgras Delusion
Sparksbloom - Dunning-Kruger Effect
curlingiron - Archimede's Principle
Maigius - The Armstrong Limit
have blue - Kepler's Laws of Planetary Motion
Lampsacus - The Copernican Principle
Entenzahn - The Schwarzchild Radius
BabyRyoga - St. Elmo's Fire
AllNewJonasSalk - The Mandelbrot Set
e: food for thought from the theory of quantum decay, that asserts that physical laws and constants are localised and sustained by quantum effects:
Coleman & deLucca 1980 posted:
The possibility that we are living in a false vacuum has never been a cheering one to contemplate. Vacuum decay is the ultimate ecological catastrophe; in the new vacuum there are new constants of nature; after vacuum decay, not only is life as we know it impossible, so is chemistry as we know it. However, one could always draw stoic comfort from the possibility that perhaps in the course of time the new vacuum would sustain, if not life as we know it, at least some structures capable of knowing joy.
Obliterati fucked around with this message at Oct 13, 2017 around 23:52
|# ¿ Oct 9, 2017 19:12|
Dunbar's Number asserts there is a hard upper limit to the number of humans you can form stable relationships with.
The Chandrasekhar limit defines the maximum mass a star can consist of without being doomed to catastrophic gravitational collapse.
The Pareto Principle is the formal name of the 80/20 rule.
ho boy this sounds fun deal me in
Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle asserts that it is by definition impossible to perfectly observe any subatomic particle.
This sounds great, I'm in
Betteridge's Law of Headlines posits that any newspaper headline posed as a question can be answered correctly with the word 'no'.
|# ¿ Oct 9, 2017 19:24|
Pythagora's Theorem models right-angled triangles.
Kranzberg's First Law of Technology states that 'technology is neither good nor bad; nor is it neutral'.
Oh god yes I'm in
The Hubble Constant provides an exact value for the rate of the expansion of the Universe.
Yeah ok in
Toblet's First Law of Geography assumes that "everything is related to everything else, but near things are more related than distant things".
|# ¿ Oct 9, 2017 20:10|
good poo poo im in
Orgel's Second Rule theorises that 'evolution is cleverer than you are'.
|# ¿ Oct 9, 2017 20:18|
Benford's Law observes that, in most collections of data, numerical values are far more likely to begin with a 1 than a 9.
Oh and I have no loving clue about this prompt but I am in.
The Oort Cloud is a hypothetical ring of asteroids, beginning approximately 50,000 AU from the Sun.
I'm willing to co-judge if that would be agreeable to you, Obliterati.
Yes it would!
Copping in to atone.
Miller's Law says that the average human's working memory extends to seven distinct objects.
Tarski's Undefinability Theorem attempts to prove that the truth of any given mathematical methodology cannot be proven mathematically.
Sturgeon's Law opines "ninety percent of everything is crap".
The Drake Equation is a probability-based argument for the existence and frequency of extraterrestrial sentient life.
In like Flynn theory of increasing intelligence.
The Novikov Self-Consistency Principle states that, whilst time travel may theoretically be possible, any event which would create a paradox has, by definition, a probability of zero.
|# ¿ Oct 9, 2017 21:24|
I'll give it a try
Newton's Third Law states that every action has an equal and opposite reaction.
OK, I'm in!
Campbell's Law postulates that the act of using a metric to define political policy immediately corrupts its value as a tool of analysis.
I'm still In.
John Gabriel's Greater Internet Fuckwad Theory models human online behaviour in the form Normal Person + Anonymity + Audience = Total Fuckwad .
The Pygmalion Effect is the relationship where higher expectations lead to increased performance.
I'm in and I'll for shaming Belgium last week.
The Higgs Boson is the last particle of the Standard Model to be discovered and is responsible for the generation of mass.
Alzheimer's Disease is a chronic degenerative condition of the brain.
that prompt is too amazing to pass on.
The Coriolis Effect is a manifestation of inertia in a rotating reference frame.
Incy wincy spider
Munchausen Syndrome is a mental health disorder that manifests as knowingly false claims of physical ailment.
but why are you posting when it doesnt say in or isnt a crit/story
Maxwell's Equations form the basis of electromagnetism.
gently caress it, I'm In.
Capgras Delusion is the belief that an individual close to the sufferer has been replaced by a perfect impostor.
The Dunning-Kruger Effect is a cognitive bias where people without competence in a topic overestimate their knowledge of abilities.
|# ¿ Oct 10, 2017 18:14|
Okay, I have Friday off and I haven't witten anything in way too long. Let's go in with a
Archimede's Principle is the foundation of fluid mechanics and the origin of that whole 'Eureka' business.
This prompt is cool. IN
The Armstrong Limit is the altitude above the Earth where air pressure is so low that human blood boils at 37C: human body temperature.
|# ¿ Oct 11, 2017 15:57|
In gimme gimme
Kepler's Laws of Planetary Motion reliably predict the movement of the planets.
The Copernican Principle, building from the fact that the Earth is not the centre of the Solar System, concludes that the Solar System (and, by extension, humanity) has no privileged place in the Universe.
Do you need another judge Obliterati?
|# ¿ Oct 12, 2017 15:58|
The Schwarzchild Radius is the sphere around an object where, if the object's mass is entirely within the sphere, the object's gravitational force is stronger than the speed of light.
|# ¿ Oct 12, 2017 16:07|
|# ¿ Mar 23, 2019 04:26|
I did one of these once a long time ago. In again to surpass mediocrity
St. Elmo's Fire is a meteorological phenomenon noticed by ancient sailors.
I'm bored at work
I can only assume that you're being so wrong because you want a FLASH RULE
Obliterati fucked around with this message at Oct 13, 2017 around 18:11
|# ¿ Oct 13, 2017 09:23|