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 Thunderome 267 Results!Thanks to everyone who submitted stories this week! They were (mostly) a pleasure to read, full of horror, mommy issues, general grossness, drug use, and even a dash of anal penetration - there were definitely creepy moments in just about all of them. There were many strong contenders for HM's this week. I'll flesh out details later in my judgecrits. There are no DMs this week - I liked enough about just about every story (or another judge did) to save them from the scrap heap save for one: Exmond I'm afraid you earned the dreaded Loss this week for your confusing and jumbled mess of a story. On the bright side, I had no problem with your punctuation or dialogue tags! HMs go out to derp for some great writing and imagery, Benny Profane for some sickening body horror, and Tyrannosaurus for writing an enjoyable - though not very horrifying - yarn. So our Winner for this week is SurreptitiousMuffin for a risky but well-imagined look inside the head of a very troubled protagonist. Congrats Muffin! The throne is yours.
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Sep 19, 2017 18:53
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My JudgeCrits for Week 267 Ma! He’s Making Eyes At Me (Burkion) I thought your use of the child’s voice was pretty good in this one, with the repetition of certain phrases and the general simplistic and optimistic outlook on her lovely life. Hit the prompt squarely, even including the title in the dialogue. The twist is predictably gross and uncomfortable, as the album cover foreshadows. Some of the phrasing was a bit clunky, but the prose churned the story along and I never got bored with it. The challenge for you writing this was the child’s perspective, as it doesn’t allow for much character development or insight into what’s really happening during the audition. But Lilly’s perspective is suitably chilling and her abandonment by her mother, while not surprising (foreshadowed as it was by her big sis going missing), was handled pretty well and suitably creepily. I was unsure about the ending – the guy obviously bought her for her lung power, did that have something to do with his oxygen machine? Was she going to replace that somehow? If that was made more explicit it may have ramped up the horror further. Edit: after seeing your post in the other thread, now it makes more sense. Not sure how I missed that. Middle-high Love on the Rocks (derp) The imagery of the ice drew me in and I loved that it was paid off so nicely in the end. You do a great job of ramping up the crazy throughout the story, but it’s earned – digging through her shattered emotions and overreactions really sell the trauma that she’s experiencing. The prose is evocative and tight, and as the story reaches its climax it effectively portrays the confusion and angst and anger, and then the calm that Teresa feels when she reconnects (so to speak) with her lover. The cannibalism is probably not totally necessary but adds a certain ick factor that I didn’t hate. Not much to critique overall, except I also noticed the name repetition that Tyrannosaurus did; at least it was an easy, two-syllable name so it didn’t seem overly clunky. Very close to being the winner. High Why did the bee hum? (Exmond) Surrealism is a tricky beast. It needs to be grounded enough in reality for the reader to understand what is happening, and use what is different and unexpected to point a finger back at something about the human condition. Good surrealism done right illuminates the mundane with the fresh light of weirdness. Unfortunately, this story doesn’t really do this. The voice of the bees is preachy and off-putting, lecturing without really telling our protagonist anything of real value. The snapshots we see of Richard’s life seem disjointed and don’t revolve around a coherent narrative. I’d suggest thinking about what your story is trying to say: is it the stated moral of the last line (about family)? Then start with that and work outward, because nothing previous in the story really hinted at that theme. But the biggest problem for me with this story is Why Bees? I don’t see how they are the moral superiors and narrators of human lives that they seem to be in this story – what has given them this right? Why should we listen to what they have to say? Loss Hands and knees (Okua) This was nicely evocative and the emotional distress is vividly written. I liked the emotional punch of the kid who has hosed up and all he can think about is his mother’s disapproval, but is it enough to hang an entire story on? Why does he have this obsession with his mother? What is hosed up about his brain that he can’t live alone? Not much happens in this story other than the kid crawling around on the floor and then his Mother shows up and doesn’t stab him. I see you were going for a psychological horror here but I am left wanting more about his history with Mother, why is she such a central figure in his life? Why does he crave her judgment and approval? Why is he so regretful about the choices he has made? Given a bit more meat on those bones I think I would have liked it more. Middle The Frogs Remain (Thranguy) I thought this story was decent. I did have some problems with it. When they first arrive at the biker camp I felt the protag was much, much too blasé. There’s blood everywhere, his brother pulls his gf out of the trunk, and he just sort of stands there, reminiscing. Then conveniently Charlotte gets out of her binds and escapes (albeit briefly). Then she’s pissed at him about Tommy, an event which occurred in the distant past. I don’t really get her motivation – she was trying to infiltrate the family, but why? Wouldn’t just killing them right off the bat make more sense? The frogs drinking blood and taking over dead folks and turning them into frog-zombies is pretty cool, although it’s pretty random how it unfolds. I wish more time had been spent on this, rather then the conflict between the protag and his brother and all the family history. Where did these frogs come from? What is their purpose? Also I have to admit I didn’t understand that line early on about how there weren’t any women anymore, are they all controlled by the frogs? Maybe I missed something deeper here. Finally, the open-ended conclusion to the story felt like a bit of a cop-out to me. Maybe I’ll make it, maybe I won’t doesn’t really satisfy. Middle Hell Mary (Friks) Great title. Weird random capitalization issues. Proofread your poo poo. Keep dialogue and dialogue tags together in the same paragraph, you keep starting new paragraphs when you shouldn’t. I liked the protagonist and I liked the creeping psychological horror that unfolds as he delves into her psyche regarding her revelation. The way that Mary subsumes her and the next morning how he asks how she’s doing is chilling. I would have HM’d this but for the proofreading and dialogue tag issues. The idea of the flesh existing for pure carnal desire, and how that turns into the horror of “Hell Mary” as the receptacle from that desire is well described and truly horrifying. I could have HM’d this but the proofreading problems ruined it for me. Middle The Lamb Feast (Captain Indigo) Really, you had me at “rough grunts of anal penetration” but I stayed for the feast. Overall this isn’t bad, and the prompt was squarely hit with the family. Unfortunately, the two guys were just observers of the bacchanalia, casting aspersions and judgment from afar. This would have been a stronger story if it were from the point of view of a member of the family, watching their brothers/sisters/parents shed their holy patina and go full beastial mode. My other complaint is the incredible speed they went from holy to unholy. Seemed like all it took was a bit of booze and the toilets overflowing and then bang Grannie’s got her ankles in the air. Obviously they are repressed and this is how they let it all out but that could have been foreshadowed better earlier in the story. Maybe a lustful leer or somebody sneaking booze would have shown the reader that under the holier-than-thou exterior lurks something more sinister. Middle Pigheaded (Tyran) This was a really fun story to read. I loved the idea of the hapless ghost, trying his best but unable to haunt this woman but she just blames everything on her cats. The dialogue is punchy and realistic. His relationship with his brother is interesting---all his brother wants to do is get him to accept his apology, but due to his ‘pigheadedness’ he won’t, and that becomes his undoing. You used contrasting phrases back to back (eg ‘He looked like the dude from Jag’ He didn’t”) which reminded me of the Arrested Development narrator gag but I think you only did it 2 or 3 times so it wasn’t overdone. Overall the protag gets his come-uppance and the story is immensely satisfying. Great writing, just not quite as much actual horror to push it into the win column for me. High The Chalk Line (Mocking Quantum) Decent. The thicket that traps souls in it is pretty cool. Some capitalization problems, although they seemed intentional but not sure the reasoning behind it. It was awfully convenient for the plot that Sammy had no idea about the thicket, even though it had killed his dad. I might care more about Sammy had I actually met him, instead he is totally absent from the story. Same with old-Neil, from before. As a central figure in the story fleshing him out a bit more would add some depth to this. A lot of time is spent describing the chase, the stuff used to make the line, the one tree he rests on, slowing down the advancement of the plot. When he encounters his uncle the story picks up a bit and gets more interesting. I found the ending unsatisfying: Jo is told that by following the path he could show Sammy the way out, but then he himself just gets subsumed and becomes not-Neal? What ever becomes of Sammy? Given that the search for Sammy was the whole first 1000 words a bit more resolution (even if its not a rescue per se) would’ve improved the story. Overall middle. Middle Sonata (Muffin) Risky but I like it. The prose gives me the sensation of being inside of something, an intensely personal viewpoint that paints a picture of the world from the inside out. The descriptions of the emotions as this individual adds more people to himself is suitably disquieting, but the fact that his motivation is not just pure evil – he’s just trying to understand himself, really – adds to the depth of this protag’s worldview. Tying it back to his mother at the end provides effective closure to the story. Not much else I can say, crit-wise because I really liked this. Winner All Things Are Now Empty (QuoProQuid) This one is quite well written; the prose is clear, descriptions effective, and the plot moves forward nicely. I tried to do the back-and-forth time shift in my last entry so I know can be challenging to pull off. Some of your transitions are great, like when you jump from the sickening horror as she realizes her face is shredded right to “Surprise – Merry Christmas!” It’s jarring and effective. Your graphic description of the aftereffects of the car crash are great – gory, horrifying, visceral. Every time you switched to the past, however, I wished we we back in the present. Not sure if that means the past story just didn’t grab me, or if the juxtaposition is just too much for my brain to handle in one story. Perhaps the family drama just doesn’t have the emotional impact compared to the scene in the car, although I could tell you tried to ramp it up to match. I liked the way you ended both stories with the same theme, ironic as it was, as things certainly didn’t turn out okay. I guess in the end my real complaint is that I’m having a hard time identifying the overall theme or point of this one. Middle-high Eden’s Island (Fourplay) There’s a lot of little things in this one that are very characteristic of newer writers. I think the biggest advice I would give is to really think about each character a little deeper. What do they want? What’s their motivation? What is keeping them from getting what they want? Most of your characters feel like cardboard cutouts with very little agency. The stilted dialogue doesn’t help. Read it out loud and see how it sounds to your ear. If it doesn’t sound like how humans actually talk, take an axe to it and chop away all the extra words. You could hang a good horror story on the bones of what you’ve got so far, it would be a good exercise to take the crits you’ve received and revise this one. Looking at your own work with a critical eye will improve your writing a ton. Middle-Low Index Case (Benny P) Gross. Writing is good. Plagueflies infecting humans is a decent idea, nothing really new here however. Protag is more of an observer of unfolding events, I didn’t like how passive he was. When he finally gets something to do (after the sheriff orders him out the back of the house, things finally happen to him directly rather than him. More of that early would have helped this story. Get rid of the sheriff, or have the protag be the sheriff, so he’s actually doing something. Feels like the extra character is masking the impact this story could have had. The descriptions sell the body horror and the final calamity as the hallway collapses beneath him very well, it’s gross and uncomfortable to read, and it saves this one from the middle pile. Middle-High Discoloration (UP) Big character/expository dump at the beginning that doesn’t drive the story (and doesn’t seem to really relate to what happens in the rest of the story, plot-wise). The writing is pedestrian and describes the events without really delving deeper into them. Probably because much of the action is viewed through a screen, I felt like there was a distance between the characters and the action up until the end. But really I don’t care about any of these characters and I’m glad the bugfungus killed them. How did the bug get there in the first place? Who sent it? Why did someone target their ship? Without motive the crime seems just sort of random. I never really felt scared or worried as I read this piece, as it was just a mediocre description of the events as they unfolded without any particular voice, character development/complexity, a weak setting, and some gratuitous gory bits thrown in. Middle-Low
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Sep 22, 2017 21:54
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Congrats Mr. Friks! p r o m p t
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Sep 26, 2017 04:33
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Oct 7, 2017 01:20
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The Long War 1062 words It was a Monday, 1831. The old wooden gate at the foot of the garden hung limply from its hinges. I would always meet the boy there, to give him spare loaves and scraps from the monastery. He was poor and desperate. His threadbare clothes and pale, sunken eyes told me so. I would murmur a quiet benediction and he would whisper thanks and scuttle away down the hillside. I don't think he even knew my face. Then the revolution came and he stopped coming to the gate. When the echoes of cannon fire faded and the clouds of potash and soot drifted away, I went to the village to find him. It was a fool's errand—I didn't even know his name. A day of fruitless searching and I concluded he was dead, either from starvation or from conscription into the Princes Army. I walked the path back to the monastery when I chanced upon a merchant and his cart. "Brother," he called. "I have something special for you." Perhaps it was fatigue and sadness written upon my face, but for just a few pieces of bread I procured a large satchel of hops of an unknown variety. They smelled of mystery, pine resin, and dark anise. "Put them in your next brew, brother," he said. His exotic accent matched his dark features and long black hair. "I promise it will fill you with the Spirit." If he said anything else I remember not, for the next thing I recall is passing back through the old wooden gate to the monastery. The next day as my heart ached and I prayed for the boy I brewed, dedicating the beer to his memory. I added the hops to the kettle as the merchant had instructed and watched them swirl and disappear into the black depths of boiling wort. And what a brew it was! Upon my first taste I knew it was the best beer I have ever made. Deep fruit and floral spice on the tongue, frothy and dark as it quenched the throat. The merchant had not lied, it was blissful and I felt the strength of my faith redoubled upon every quaff. The aches and pains that came with midlife were erased, and even the limp I've carried from a horse injury in my youth seemed to ease. Excited, I offered it to the brothers of the abbey. They universally condemned my creation. "Disgusting!" said one. "As bitter as sheep's vomit!" said another. "Pour it in the trough for the cows," another exclaimed. I didn't understand. My elixir was the finest creation to ever come from the brewhouse, a taste of heavenly grace, yet they found it repulsive. Confused and even a little sad, I took the remaining bottles to my chamber and stashed them away. But I didn't forget about them. Every year on the anniversary of the last day I saw the boy, I drink one precious bottle. To his memory. I have done this for the past eighty-four years. I cannot say what exact preservative quality this beer contains, but many brothers have come and gone since then, and I have remained. I have not much aged, but every year I count more lines on my face in the reflection of the copper mash tuns and and washbasin in my chambers. I have tried many times to replicate the brew, but without the merchant's exotic hops it has been for naught. Earlier, I would even travel down the path, looking for the merchant with the dark skin and wild hair, but always returned through the wooden gate empty-handed. Now I spend the eternal days alone in my chamber laboratory, dissecting brains and examining dreams, looking for answers to questions I don't even know how to ask. My hypotheses and ideas are ill-formed, suppositions and premises unsupported by any scientific or spiritual evidence. I have distanced myself from God, as terrible and unjust as that is for one who has followed the Strict Observance as long as I. But I know it to be true. Scientific inquiry has been no better. It has failed me as well. I am lost. A pariah, blessed with long life but cursed with unformed purpose and unanswered questions. It is a Monday, 1917. My brothers keep me at a distance. Their song echoes through the cold corridors of the ancient building as the sun rises over the eastern hedge. I want to sing, but I won't. I hear the brothers drop breakfast at my door, and I wait for their footsteps to recede before I emerge. Despite my cloistering I am aware of The Great War raging across the continent. The German army occupies much of the countryside beyond the monastery walls. Stories of pillage and rape reach my ears, and plumes of smoke again threaten to blot out the sun. After breakfast I see from my window a group approach the foot of the garden. Belgians, by their uniforms, and my brothers unlatch the rickety gate and allow them inside. One is borne on a stretcher, white bandages soaked though with blood of dried crimson. He looks familiar. Over the next day I hear the whispers throughout the abbey. The soldier is mortally wounded and will not survive the night. No medicine seems to help and he moans and whispers as he fades into darkness. Tonight is the anniversary, though, and it is a special one. I reach down below the floorboards and pull up the bottle of elixir. Dust and clay coat the glass, almost a century old, and it resists a bit as I pull it from the simple wood box. It is the last. I spin the bottle in my gnarled hands, and reach for the key to open it, but I hesitate. What has this extra life given me? What clarity of purpose has my extended years granted? Compared to the promise of a young life renewed? Donning my ceremonial robe, I take the bottle downstairs to the infirmary. The soldier is there, wrapped in wool blankets, and his breath is shallow. His lungs are hollow and as raspy as olive branches dragging on stone. He looks look up at me. His pale, sunken eyes see me for the first time. They widen in recognition. I meet his gaze, pull the key, and open the beer.
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Oct 9, 2017 04:50
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Obliterati posted:INTERPROMPT Its a Trappist 21 words "sebmojo stole my idea and then wrote a dumb story that was still much better than mine," exclaimed hawklad, admiral ackbarishly.
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Oct 9, 2017 17:53
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I'm in.
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Oct 10, 2017 01:43
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Lucy 854 words its the pills. the pills are dry and dull and stick in my throat and then they are gone. she is gone too, but I don't know where. my feet are big, clumsy, not attached, they make a loud noise on the stairs as I come down and there she is, below me, sitting on the couch looking at a letter. i should check the mail, i think, but that's outside and i don't see the door. maybe i should look for it but but then her hand is on my shoulder, "come and sit with me," she says, and leads me down to the couch. light comes in the window and the shaft is filled with dust. i jerk my arm away from the light. music is coming from the tv and it sounds like country and western, twangy and squashed and from a great distance, and then and then i'm in the backyard and mother is there, too, she's throwing a ball at me and i catch it in my new mitt, shiny leather with its rich smell, and the sun is shining and beaming and my mother is also beaming, bright and pure not like the pills that stick in my throat dry and bitter and and she is talking and showing me a book with photographs of faded faces and i am drifting along to the gentle rhythm of the pages, flip, flip, flip, the smell of cellophane and ashes, flip, flip, her words murmur softly and then i see a face i know. its the face from the bathroom, the one i see before she covers the window with a blanket because i shout and scream "get out get out get out" at it but the face would just shout those words right back at me. flip and that face is gone, replaced with others and i start to drift again then i see the woman in the dress and my heart clenches my heart clenches and i can't breathe. it's her. a name bubbles up from inside me, from my chest not my head, i can feel my tongue curl around the shape of it. air hisses from my lungs, but my throat clenches like choking on the bitter dusty pills and then the thought is gone and i can't chase it because it is gone, like trying to find a drop of water in a flowing river that rushes past me washes over me and then and then I'm beside the river, fishing pole in hand, and he is there. I smell the whiskey and coffee on his breath as my father reaches around me and shows me how to hold it, how to flick my wrist and send the lure spinning out over the crystal water and i've got a fish in my hand, so beautiful, and he hands me a sharp rock and shows me where to bash its head. i draw a line between the eyes and just behind i strike the fish and it flexes hard but its not dead so i hit it again, again, again until its muscles stop. i hear him laugh but i cry as the eggs spill from the belly i didn't know she had babies how could i have known and i cry harder and then then she spoons the broth into my mouth as the pages flip, flip, murmuring in my ear but i no i will not. no i grab the thought of that fish and hold it and i fight just as hard as that goddamned fish fought. i fight. i know it will win, it will slip back into the water and disappear like they always do and here comes another spoonful so i open my mouth and feel the river washing over me and carrying me away but then i remember i remember her name is Lucy. Lucy. I look up from the pages of the photo album and I look at her. Lucy. She's focused on the pages, talking about her long-dead Uncle Raymond (the drunk one), and she hasn't noticed my gaze. The spastic twitches of my body settle and she looks up at me. Her voice falters. In her eyes I see not a river but a pool, calm and still and inviting. The memories flood in and I can't breathe as emotions wash over me. My world is rebuilt with sadness and joy and hurt and laughter and pain and wonder and all I can do is laugh. Is this the one last trick of this loving disease, to give back to me everything it has stolen, just before the end? For a moment I am terrified, that this is all a trick? but Lucy? Lucy is here. Her hair is not red anymore but a soft silver and her hand shakes as she holds the spoonful of broth, She is here for me. She always has been. She's my wife. Her eyes meet mine, and I smile because I know. I have her back. I have it all back, and I will never let it go. Never. Prompt - Alzheimer's Disease
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Oct 16, 2017 06:35
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In, flash me!
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Oct 17, 2017 02:53
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I'll  myself this merry-go-round
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Oct 20, 2017 03:06
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Break the Gears 1230 words I swing my blade into the exposed neck of the gryphon. Its claws have locked onto my steed, and together we tumble through the ochre sky. The foul beast shrieks in pain as blood soaks its feathers. It's rider is off balance, reaching for his reigns, and despite the slick blood on the pommel I secure my grip and run my sword through his chest. Together my enemy and his steed plunge to the battlefield below. I don't give him another thought—he's the opponent. He deserves death. Pulling my reigns with my free hand, I spin my hippogryph around and look down on the mounted soldiers that circle the Tower, the thunder of their hooves echoing upwards towards the carnage in the sky. Too early to tell which side is winning. There's killing yet to be done. An explosion below and I twist the reigns hard to the left. A cloud of hot lead plinks off my armor. My steed howls miserably—she has been hit, too. I tuck her into a dive and we plummet towards the giraffe-soldier below. He's furiously reloading his blunderbuss for another shot but my at the last second I pull back on the reigns and hippogryph's hind legs connect hard. As he flies from his saddle his giraffe unleashes an acidic bite that pierces my steed's hindquarters. She bucks hard and throws me into the air then I hit the ground with a bone crunching impact. Stunned, I roll over and see the giraffe-soldier stagger toward me, blunderbuss pointed at my chest, face twisted into a hateful snarl. I wait for the gun to spit fire and lead and pain but in a flash the giraffe-soldier is hurled sideways before the thundering charge of a riderless unicorn. The wild beast brings its enormous hooves down again and again until the solder is nothing but a sickening mass of flesh and armor and blood. Then it gallops away. I stagger to my feet. This isn't my first Carousel. I've seen worse. Been in tighter spots and survived. My body bears the scars and metal plates to prove it. Thundering hooves shake the ground and winged beasts shriek through the sky. The air smells of blood and fur and poo poo and the tungsten plate in my skull aches. My last Carousel ended badly; if my side hadn't emerged victorious I would have been left behind, brain extracted and devoured by the Beast in the Tower. But instead they stitched me back together with cheap catgut sutures and metal plating. Ready to go again. The merchant-kings have their petty squabbles to decide, after all. The Carousel must keep turning. Then everything fuzzes out, my head spinning as intense disorientation washes over me. The world blinks, and I'm pulled, and the ground rushes up to meet me. The back of my eyeballs squeeze, then I'm back on the battlefield and a huge white beast is plunging from the sky towards me, wings furled, rider tucked low on its back. I fall backwards, my hands scrabbling for purchase, for anything to defend myself with. I feel the cold metal of a discarded shield. Desperately I pull it over my face before the hooves of the great pegasus collapse my chest and burst my skull but before it strikes I shift, and I am pulled sideways, the connection lost again, and I feel my mind released from a mighty grip and I blink I blink and I'm on the Carousel. The Wurlitzer tinkles a merry melody as the ancient gears spin, the chipped and battered statues of horses and hippogryphs and other beasts bobbing up and down on creaking poles. Chained men with vacant eyes stagger around, bloody knives and sticks and clubs in hand, hacking, staggering, slashing. Murderers and killers. Men like me. The Carousel walls have been pulled back to reveal bleachers stuffed full of lords and ladies and merchant-kings and their concubines, stuffing their pale faces with bread and beer, all fancy dresses and waistcoats, clapping and laughing, covering their giggles as we hack and stab and slash at each other on the blood-slicked platform. I squeeze my eyes shut against the mind-tendrils reaching out to me. Searching. Wanting. The beast calls me back. Its keening thought-voice screeches and swirls, desperate to find me and pull me back into the charade. But for some reason it can't. Something blocks it. Then I remember the words of the old surgeon when he replaced my broken skull with the tungsten plate. Three words, whispered in my ear. I didn't understand what he meant. But now I do. Break the gears. A cheer erupts from the crowd as a soldier drives a wooden stake though another's skull. He leaps onto a chipped and broken wooden ostrich and lets out a whoop, his face twisted in fury and triumph. The cheers of the lords and ladies quickly turn to raucous laughter at the sight of him waving his blood-soaked stick in the air. Break the gears. Crawling low I work my way to the center of the Carousel. I feel the waves of psychic energy intensify but they slide off the side of the tungsten plate, unable to find purchase. I don't have much time. It had me before, and now that I've broken free I don't know how long I have. I must find it. And kill it. I reach a door in the center, marked by a crude and faded painting of a jester. I feel a heavy presence on the other side. A chain seals the bar on the door. I reach down and grab my own chains and iron ball and drive them into the latch. The Carousel shudders and I hear shouts from the laughing and jeering crowd. Again I heave the heavy ball into the latch, and with a crunch the mechanism explodes in shards of wood and metal. The momentum spins me around and I face the crowd, numb and unsteady. Several of the merchant-kings are standing now, shouting and pointing at me. Unsealed, the door behind bursts open and the horror is upon me. I'm driven forward by a mass of whirling dark tentacles that wash over me in a sickening flood of black energy. My mind erupts and splits beneath the onslaught, tearing my psyche into broken shards of thought and image and emotion and pain. And then it passes over me and flows across the Carousel and washes up the bleachers like a horrible black tide. Tendrils split and subdivide and flow over the crowd, piercing mouths and eyes and ears, penetrating into the minds of the assembled lords and ladies and merchant-kings, and it feeds. There's a soft gurgling as the mind flayer consumes their brains and drinks dry the liquors of their meninges. The black mass pulses as it gorges, quenching a hunger it has known for long centuries of servitude. Soon the tendrils retract, leaving empty, mindless husks in the bleachers, frozen in a horrified rictus. The mind flayer, sufficiently fed, shifts, and disappears though the ether to its own infernal dimension. With the last of my strength I crawl onto a statue of a lion and hold my chains aloft. The other slaves gather around as the Carousel grinds to a halt and a last, discordant note rings from the organ. The gears have been broken. flashrule: psychic carousel
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Oct 23, 2017 03:51
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Okay I'm iN too.
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Oct 25, 2017 04:57
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I can judge if you're still lookin'
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Oct 29, 2017 17:58
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Oct 31, 2017 15:05
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my judge crits part 1 A Transgression The initiation of a young swan scout into an order of assassins. The rule, much like fight club, is that it’s a secret, punishable by death. I’m afraid this story just isn’t very good. Took me two reads to understand what was going on, and then it’s just too thin and watery. The dialogue tags make it unclear who is talking and it reads stilted and clunky. I get no satisfaction from the junior scout killing the old guy to become a ‘senior scout’ the whole thing seems without a clear point, and the writing is unbearably smug. At least stuff happens so I’ll give it that. Overall - low Favors I get the impression these guys are vampires or similar; now one of them is “retired” and the other comes calling because he wants help getting back some people that have been taken from him. Unfortunately this story never goes anywhere. It’s just Giovanni trying to convince Brennan to help him, which he at first refuses, and then changes his mind. A backstory between the two of them is hinted at, and some future action is assumed, but you chose to set your story in the at a very boring moment. If these guys are so interesting that I need to read a story about them, SHOW ME. The writing is fine, there’s just nothing memorable within. Overall: low Paper Dreams. Good imagery right off the bat, and it is sustained through the story. The bleak landscape of the dream-papers is well described and the physical description of climbing is well done. The fact that it’s all illusory, that the dreams are unattainable (at least the two presented in the story) yet we come back night after night to keep attempting the same climb, is poignant. Really liked this story, candidate for win or HM. Overall: high Girls Night In I don’t care about any of the characters in this story. Having three ladies exchange dialogue is confusing and makes the conversation hard to follow--a better choice would have been two main characters. During the flower/chocolate discussion it’s clear that there’s some sort of romantic tension between them, but then it’s not clear why I should care? And the chief/bad guy/date scenario is unfulfilled also. They’re trying to get the dirt on the chief getting payed off or something...but it’s not explained what’s going on or why anyone cares except for their unnamed boss. The ladies keep looking at each other like there’s something going on but it’s never revealed. What’s really going on at the Red Lobster also isn’t revealed, so the story just ends without any satisfactory resolution Overall: Low The Pains of Hurting Me I’m torn on this one. On one hand, it has a good heart and explores the emotional pain of being transgendered honestly and with integrity. The pain John suffers is explored pretty well through the little vignettes, and I’m appreciative of his mom as a sympathetic figure in a town full or bigotry and intolerance. But therein lies the problem: the backdrop of White Hollow is so stereotypical “Southern” it’s just too much. You lay it on thicker than Granpappy’s grits, between the dialect, the Waffle House, the grits and twice-baked potatoes, and I don’t think it really serves the story. It’s just too stereotypically villainous for my tastes, like a cardboard cutout of southern intolerance. But a nice story and it painted a poignant emotional picture overall. Overall: Mid-high A Good Dog Didn’t love this one, didn't hate it either. The story is about this guys abandonment of Ivy in her time of need. Do we really need all the bear action? I suppose your intention was that having his life threatened and the dog sticking up for him was allegorical to his having fled from his own duty to his girlfriend, but it didn’t really land for me. Your choice to have him ‘realize’ he’s the one shouting and fighting the bear was clumsy and dulled the impact of his change of heart. That sequence is indicative of the larger “things happen to our protagonist” rather than him making active choices throughout the story. The action in the first paragraph needs better blocking. It wasn’t clear until later that Spot had been injured, and I don’t know if you’ve ever been in a life/death chase like that but I doubt time would seem to slow down. I think you have an okay idea here, I just didn’t care for the execution. Overall: Mid-low ⅖ stars, my dog is still dead This was good. Emotionally resonant, clear, and the boy’s motivation is simple and touching. The title is stupid. The kid’s relationship with his mother could have been better explored, as it seems like that is the emotional touchstone of the ending. Overall I liked this one quite a lot. Overall: Mid-high The Labyrinth Not sure about this one. The writing and imagery is good, it has a nice pace to it, and I’m on board with the chase and her clever way of evading the bull. But she is going after this key ostensibly to help Maria regain use of her legs, but at the end she swallows it? Presumably that gives her the benefit of no misfortune, not her friend? So her betrayal seems to come out of nowhere and I don’t get the motivation behind it (other than selfishness). Maybe if I understood more about her character and what drives her this final choice would be more satisfying. Overall: middle Solstice Fire The writing here is solid, and I appreciate the world-building that went into this one. Using the tiger’s POV is effective as the story unfolds, and gives the story a unique and interesting perspective. It is limited, however, in really fleshing out what is going on in this Temple, why they mutilate the Oracles and the significance of the rituals. I suppose it’s a good sign that I am curious about it, as your setting is intriguing. Overall pretty good, not great. Overall - middle Owl (Mariel) I really liked this one. Once I wrapped my brain around the terms ‘Mariel’ and “zenny’ and understood what they were, it clicked into place. This future dystopia is painted in bleak and vivid images, and your use of language is sparsely effective. The ultimate futility of this ‘friendship’ is poignant. Overall: high Benny and Rothko This story needs an editor. Pare it down to what is essential. When you throw in everything but the kitchen sink the impact gets muddled. There’s some good imagery but it all seems a bit of a jumble, the story lacks a coherent throughline for the reader to grasp and understand what’s going on. I had a hard time staying focused under the barrage of weirdness. Overall: low korean|american Maybe I’m dumb but I can’t help but get confused. The story definitely starts with three characters in the bathroom. There’s the 1st person POV character, her sister Ji-eun, and then a third character lighting up a fattie called alternately Our Girl and Athena--or so I thought. But then Our Girl and Athena are different characters? Multiple personalities? Why does she have such control over the others? Part of me thinks it’s some sort of metaphor perhaps and I’m just not understanding something larger going on here. Still confused after a second read, moving on. Also not understanding the point of this, nothing really happens here at all other than the exploration of some asian stereotypes. Overall: middle-low Edit: other judges loved it so maybe I need to go back and read a third time! As a side note, I find writing detailed crits of other people's work extremely difficult, but I figure even a lovely crit is better than no crit. I know I've learned a ton from even brief impressions people have of my work. Rest of crits will follow once I flesh them out a bit more.
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Nov 1, 2017 18:26
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Prompt: Cookies n' Cream The Girl With Orchids in Her Hair 1191 words I am sitting under a Cha'kah tree, throwing rocks at the water when she appears. Flat-faced with green and white orchid-woven hair. Water, dew-like on her skin, shimmering in the fading daylight. She is smooth like the rocks that line the edge of the water. Like the rock in my hand. I set it down, gently. She smiles at me, and then is gone. I walk back to the village. I see her in the Yaoche' trees, in the blades of agave, in the gathering clouds. She follows me, the girl with orchids in her hair. I'm still young and unproven. When I am older I will join the hunting parties. Until then I gather roots and cocoa pods for my mother, who grinds them into paste and fires them into pocket breads to feed the hunters. The roots. I'd left them at the lake. I turn, and she's on the deer-path. A quick, shy smile, then gone, blinking away into the palms. I lope back to the water. My hair falls in my face like wet clay. Sinew and gristle propel my limbs across the ground. I keep low. Dusk is setting in. The animals of the forest stir around me. A crunch of grass on the path behind me. I turn. It isn't her—it's a jaguar, head low, haunches high. Ready to strike. I put my arms over my face to block its ripping jaws and razor teeth. But it doesn't pounce. I hear a giggle from behind me. I peek out and the jaguar bounds away into the forest. When I turn she's gone, leaving a faint but sweet perfume in the air. Over many days and weeks I beat the path to the lake bare. I call out to her. "Come back!" I say. "I want to see you again!" But she never answers. I smell her perfume on the breeze. I visit her in my dreams. I become a hunter, then a warrior. Years later, my nephew is captured and taken for sacrifice by another village. We form a war party to rescue him, but we are met along the path by a hail of arrows and spears. A heavy shaft pierces my shoulder, spinning me around, then an arrow to my thigh drops me to the ground. I lie under a Cha'kah tree, listening to the whoops and hollers and cries of agony from around me. They fade until all I can hear is my blood tricking into the dirt. Sweet, exotic perfume fills my nostrils and she is there. She has become a woman. The orchids in her hair have born fruit: long, pendulous pods that intertwine through elaborate braids, as green as her eyes, as green as the palms and agave and Kapok trees. She smiles, caresses my temple, and my pain disappears. I rise and use her strength to lead my war party to victory, her song of laughter echoing through the great forest around us as we hunt and kill and cut trophies from our enemies. I never take a wife. Instead I walk the path, searching for her. Years later, rumors spread that ghost-people have arrived from over the Great Water on giant wooden ships.. Arguments erupt as to whether they are gods or demons. Soon news comes from other villages: they plunder treasure, they maim women, they rape children. They hunt us like animals. With that knowledge I know the ghost-people are not gods or demons at all,. They are men. I am old. My skin is leather and my bones are brittle. I will be no use in the coming war. Now I bake the pocket breads for the warriors who defend our village, using my mother's clay pots and ancient knowledge. My love still visits me in my dreams. She, too, is old. Her eyes are dark and the green pods in her hair have dried into long, wrinkled fruits the color of old blood. But her perfume is still rich and smoky and intoxicating. She is my world, my beautiful, my one true love. But only in dreams. One night I awake to shouts and cries. The ghost-men have come for our village. They carry sticks that spit fire and many warriors drop, their bodies bursting open under the onslaught. They are few and we are many, but as I watch our warriors fall to their savage weapons I know it is hopeless. My nephew lets out a great cry to the gods, and the last of our warriors surge forward. The ghost-men are driven back for a moment. They hide behind the great, sacred Kapok and Yaoche' trees that ring our village, and reload their magic weapons for their final assault. Dead and dying warriors lie all around me. We haven't enough men left to defend the village. We'll all soon be dead. Then I smell her perfume on the air. The trees erupt in flame. The darkness of night is erased as fire climbs to the sky, licking the moon and stars above. The ghost-men are engulfed. Their screams quickly melt away under the fury of the flames, and then are gone forever. The fire smolders the rest of the night as we tend the wounded and bury the dead. I watch it, looking for a sign. Looking for her. It burns brightest down the path to the lake, so I follow it, my old bones creaking. The fire beckons me onward. All around is ash and smoke and burnt stumps of once-sacred trees. Heat and soot burn my nostrils. I suspect I will never smell her perfume again. Still I push on. The fire recedes. Rising from ashes ahead of me I see a smudge of green. My heart leaps. A few ragged steps bring me to the great Cha'kah tree by the lake. Its red bark is now covered by long green vines that have sprung from the ground and intertwine, wrapping around each other like a lover's embrace. From between it's mass of broad green leaves delicate white and yellow orchids emerge, radiant in the rising sunlight. I look around in amazement: all the trees that ring the lake are covered in the same beautiful vines, the same fragrant orchids. Their exquisite sweet and smoky perfume overcomes me. I collapse in front of the great Cha'kah tree and my tears mix with the dirt. And the flowers transform. Delicate white petals peel back and green seed pods emerge, their intoxicating fragrance redoubled, pushing away the soot and smoke and ash. I pluck one and hold it close. It dries into a black cylinder as delicate and wrinkled as my own hand. Her final gift. I think of the wars I have fought and the animals I have hunted. I think of the sacred trees and flowers and all the roots I gathered in my youth. I think of my clay pots and pocket breads, flavored with cocoa and chilies and honey. I think of my one true love and the gifts she has given me. I think of the girl with orchids in her hair, and I smile.
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Nov 6, 2017 04:28
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