And also I have nothing but shame planned for the long weekend, so I'd better be IN with a flash and a
The Señor de las Limas is a 55 cm greenstone figure of a youth holding or presenting a "were-jaguar" baby. Profiles of four other supernaturals are incised on the adolescent's shoulders and knees. This motif occurs frequently in Olmec art, from the smallest of figurines to the huge table-top thrones such as La Venta Altar 5.What these sculptures symbolised to the Olmecs is not clear. Some researchers, focusing on the symbolic cave surrounding the figure on Altar 5 believe that these sculptures relate to myths of spiritual journeys or human origins.
|# ? Jun 1, 2018 06:20|
|# ? Jul 19, 2019 20:57|
|# ? Jun 1, 2018 08:48|
|# ? Jun 1, 2018 09:17|
My first time. I'm in. And flash, please.
|# ? Jun 2, 2018 05:28|
My first time. I'm in. And flash, please.
The Antikythera mechanism is an ancient Greek analogue computer and orrery used to predict astronomical positions and eclipses for calendar and astrological purposes decades in advance. It is a complex clockwork mechanism composed of at least 30 meshing bronze gears. Detailed imaging of the mechanism suggests that it had 37 gear wheels enabling it to follow the movements of the moon and the sun through the zodiac, to predict eclipses and even to model the irregular orbit of the moon, where the moon’s velocity is higher in its perigee than in its apogee. It could also track the four-year cycle of athletic games such as the ancient Olympic games.
|# ? Jun 2, 2018 06:51|
Sign-ups are over, which means I can dump these last few artifacts I was saving. Feel free to draw inspiration from any of them, or use them instead of your flash rule. I don't care. I want something enjoyable to read (it doesn't even have to be a story, idgaf) more than I want to specifically hear about the thing I gave you.
Also this is your only warning that entries close at 11 PM Pacific on Sunday night, which means 2 AM Eastern and 6 PM Monday NZST for you antipodeans out there.
Anyway, the remaining artifacts:
The Guennol Lioness is a 5,000-year-old Mesopotamian statue found near Baghdad, Iraq. This lioness-woman sculpture, an Elamite figure believed to have been created circa 3000–2800 B.C., would have been created at approximately the same time as the first known use of the wheel, the development of cuneiform writing, and the emergence of the first cities. Hybrid images evoked the Mesopotamian belief in attaining power over the physical world by combining the superior physical attributes of various species.
The Nazca Lines are a series of large ancient geoglyphs in the Nazca Desert, in southern Peru. The figures vary in complexity. Hundreds are simple lines and geometric shapes; more than 70 are zoomorphic designs of animals, such as birds, fish, llamas, jaguars, and monkeys, or human figures. Other designs include phytomorphic shapes, such as trees and flowers. The designs are shallow lines made in the ground by removing naturally occurring reddish pebbles and uncovering the whitish/grayish ground beneath. Contrary to the popular belief that the lines and figures can only be seen from an aircraft, they are visible from the surrounding foothills and other high places.
The Makapansgat pebble, or the pebble of many faces, (ca. 3,000,000 BP) is a 260-gram reddish-brown jasperite cobble with natural chipping and wear patterns that make it look like a crude rendition of a human face. The pebble is interesting in that it was found some distance from any possible natural source, associated with the bones of Australopithecus africanus in a cave in Makapansgat, South Africa. It remains unclear if the early hominid had seen this object really as a face, or had magical speculations towards this object, or just enjoyed the pebble.
Ennigaldi-Nanna's museum is thought to be the first museum by some historians, although this is speculative. It dates to circa 530 BCE. The curator was Princess Ennigaldi, the daughter of Nabonidus, the last king of the Neo-Babylonian Empire. When archaeologists excavated certain parts of the palace and temple complex at Ur, they found dozens of artifacts, neatly arranged side by side, whose ages varied by centuries. They determined that these were actually museum pieces - since they came with what was finally determined to be "museum labels", clay cylinder drums with labels in three different languages.
|# ? Jun 2, 2018 07:08|
Return (#: 1158)
In her dreams, the bulls, lions, and dragons ran through the streets of the Holy City devouring the innocent and guilty. Bricks of clay shattered into powder from charging hooves, tapestries burst into flame from scorching breath. Men and women in robes, children in sandals and tunics, slammed into the bloody ground by plate-sized paws and feasted upon.
She could see it from up high, her bony fingers wrapped around bars. She caught the eye of a lone dragon scouring the buildings for hidden bodies.
“Come to me!” She yelled at the stray.
It turned to her. It wore a scaly human face, something she wouldn’t have imagined on real dragons. It's visage a permanent grin of derision.
It hooked the bars with half-moon talons and tore them from the wall. Its teeth, heated by fire coursing inside veins, burned like hot iron as it clamped down on her body. Her pain was absolute. Strangely, she was laughing.
Coi awoke, sweat crawled down every inch of her, she couldn’t tell the droplets from the fleas that nested in every patch of hair on her body.
The cell was dim. It was still early morning. She gripped the cell door and panned the room for the guard.
He was standing, hand on his scimitar, chewing on a blade of grass.
“Knight.” She implored, “Has the prince send my message to the king? Have you any news on why I was arrested?”
The knight turned and hushed her. “Quiet soothsayer.”
“I’m sorry I barged into the palace but I needed to speak to the king immediately-”
“I said quiet!”
He pulled his weapon and slashed through the bars. Coi jumped back just in time to evade the blade.
Coi screamed, “What is wrong with you? What is wrong with this city? I’ve returned to madness! Why do you all hate me?”
The knight spat at the floor. “The prince has brought reason to people. He does not like your kind and the gods you serve. Those who claim to hear the voices of demons like Ishtar or Marduk are a danger to everyone and everything.”
He stared her down.
Coi cried. It’d been 20 years since she left the holy city. She’d come back to tell the king a dire portent. It was her duty as his friend but so much had changed. The statues that lined the courtyard of the palace were gone. The arches built by the king's father were covered in blankets to obscure them from sight. The king was ill, or so she had heard. Her dream became more and more defined every night she spent in the cell.
They were angry, the beings who gave man the right to build. They demanded of Coi to inform the king. To make him pay homage once again.
A week passed. Coi starved. Her mind went funny experiencing the vision every time she slept. Until the king heard her or the vision came to be, it would be the same nightmare every night. She heard the city bustling up above. The clap of hooves against stone. Shouts of fresh fish and seeds. Silken robes, too long for the wearer, dragging along pebbles in their wake, the overbearing smell of perfume and crumbled spices. She smelled meat cooking. It was ox flank. It smelled too thick and hearty to be anything else.
It was too much. She thought about what god would help her in this circumstance. What god would aid a seer who failed to bring her prophecy to the king?
There was one.
The guards changed shift, as he came in, he saw the limp form of Coi leaning against the wall. Still as a ragdoll.
“Is she dead?” The day guard asked the night guard.
“I don’t know. My time is over. I’m not going in there, she gives me the creeps.”
The day guard scoffed and opened the cell. He grabbed her shoulder and she grabbed his hand. She channeled Nergal, the god of disaster, a god no sane seer would take power from. Her eyes rotted into sockets, a foul wind whipped up inside the prison and her voice tripled in volume.
A distant voice said, “Bring me to the prison tower or I shall lay a curse on your offspring.”
He jerked free and ran, she fell backward. Coi fainted from the exhaustion of calling up Nergal.
Her dreams were as clear as ever. This time, however, she saw the event that directly preceded it.
The prince found a new god in his time abroad. He stood outside a cell hidden in the kingdom. The king was chained there, an all-seeing eye burned into his head by branding iron.
The prince said, “Repent and I shall restore you to your kingdom. I don’t want to inherit a land populated by false gods.”
He clutched his father's face through the bars. The king swayed on the chains and said, “Son. There are many gods. Why are yours real and ours false?”
The son replied as always, “There is one God. I saw him in the west. Yours are demons who lead us astray. Listen to reason.”
The father shook his head, “What happened to you?”
The son left his father. The dawn was rising as he emerged. The arch of Ishtar was the first thing he saw when he left the secret stairwell. The tapestry wrapped around it was oddly still. Not a wind blew to stir it. The prince noticed that the sound of guards on stone, and voices calling for coin outside had gone mute.
Something cracked far above the peak of the sky.
Coi woke up in a new cell. She didn’t sweat, she didn’t thirst, her hunger was gone. There were two new guards.
One of the guards sheepishly pushed a bowl of soup and a cup of wine into the cell.
“Seer Coi. We do not believe as the prince does. Please tell us what you have seen so that we may prepare for it.”
Coi stuck her fingers in the soup and pulled out rice and beans. She threw it on the ground in front of the pleading knight. It rotted into dirt before his eyes. He raised his head. The Seer was face-first against the bars, her eyes feral and leering, her face a horribly stretched spittle dripping grin of fangs.
A distant voice called from the gaping maw of the former Seer. “Coi is sleeping. There is only Nergal and soon you will all be mine.”
The crone turned and stared out into the city. The knights heard a crack of thunder above. The crone yelled,
“Come to me!”
Something hooked its talons over the bars and tore them from the bricks.
A dragon with a face mockingly like the Seer bit down on her shoulder and carried her away from the tower and the traitorous prince. The two knights watched her departure in grim realization.
A lone dragon flew high above the city. A wild laughter echoed off every wall and tower that was destined to be laid to waste.
|# ? Jun 3, 2018 19:25|
Flash Rule: Leaping Bull Fresco
I walked forward, but my footfalls on the straw pathway were lost amid the steady pounding of the drums. The far clans had gathered, and the midnight air vibrated with the chanting of a dozen shamans wailing in prayer and lamentation. Here and there within the clearing, small fires burned different colors as sacrificial offerings of herbs reached the spirits in billows of sweet or acrid clouds. To the side of the open space, however, burned a far greater pyre, one which I refused to look upon as I approached the mewling young bull that stood restrained in the center of the cacophony.
I ached inside, yet I'd always been told no one could ever see the tears of the chief's son. It rent my heart, the injustice of it all. Who were all these people? These outsiders didn't know him, some of them I'd never even heard of before. Why were they allowed to wallow loudly in false and temporary grief while I was told to keep silent? Why was I forced into this mockery of a rite when my father was not yet in ashes? Still, I held to my duties and stood mere feet away from the bound beast.
I breathed deeply, while the pungent smoke and the dense pine of the surrounding sacred forest flooded my lungs. The herbal mists from the flames had begun to twist my senses, and my body began to feel as numb as my soul. I watched as the world around me slowed, the auras of the mourners beginning to glow deeply as they moved through molasses. My confusion lingered as I began the ritual I'd had to practice since childhood, my body going through the macabre motions independent of my detached mind.
I jumped ahead, though my spirit stayed grounded clinging to memories of the past. The air rushing by was like when he'd lift and swing me through the air, my laughter filling our worn hut. The smoke whirling about was like when he taught me to build a fire after my first hunt, his healthy face full of pride and love. Finishing my leap, my hands wrapped around the polished horns of the sacrificial animal. Their texture was the same as his pipe I'd once stolen off the wall, then I cried as he'd yelled at me in disappointment. He was gone, he was gone.
I grasped them, then nearly lost my grip as I met eyes with the chained creature. It's eyes were no longer a bull's eyes. They were his. My father's. They were no longer frightened and twisted by years of pain. They were no longer glossy with disease and confusion. They were calm and clear as they'd once been. The eyes of the man who'd raised me through every facet of my being. I was no longer holding horns, but his calloused and firm hands, lifting me high into the air one last time.
I let go, and the world spun until the heavens spread out below me, swirling like a lake of glittering fish. I was weightless, and in that moment I was wading forward through the sky holding hands with him. The lake became a sea, became an ocean, became a waterfall of light, and I was very scared. I gripped him hard, refusing to leave without him. But as the current shifted me back toward the edge of the lake, I realized what this funeral was truly for. Who this journey was for. I loosened his hands. He took me into a great hug and softly kissed my head before gently pushing away. Then he turned toward the waterfall and swam toward it, his body changing into a glinting salmon before plunging over the bright falls into the the dark water, joining the myriad stars within its depths.
I landed quietly, despite the height of the vault. I was suddenly more calm, more at peace. My face shone with tears, flowing freely despite the spectacle and the attention. No one admonished me. I stayed there, crying for hours in that clearing full of memories and people, until I waited alone. Then with a deep breath I turned to look upon the funeral pyre. In the early light I could see that the smoke was drifting out toward the river, starting on it's journey toward the ocean and the edge of my world.
|# ? Jun 3, 2018 19:48|
Uranium Phoenix fucked around with this message at Dec 28, 2018 around 16:12
|# ? Jun 4, 2018 02:38|
Flash: Lyres of Ur
I am a god.
I spread myself like a blanket across the waves, drinking the brine, stretching out towards dueling horizons. The fish below beat a rhythmic pulse with each flip of their fins. The crabs and lobsters creak and crunch across the cloudy benthos while the slimy worms wend their watery way through the underslime beneath. I swallow it all, this deep watery orchestra, imbibe and imbue myself with its heavy melodies. I am a god, and the ocean, earth, and sky are my body, my home, my soul.
But we gods have needs, too. I can't resist her pull.
She sings to me from the temple on the shore. I shrink, swirling and contracting, drawing up from the deep and down from the sky. My expanse becomes a single point above the waves. I am pulled, drawn to her, dancing across the wave crests to the beach where she sits before the altar.
She is a Sumer beauty, midnight black hair framing coal eyes and coffee skin. I appear before her as a dolphin cresting the waves, playful, spinning and splashing in the foam. She laughs and claps her hands. This our game, her and I, and so I dive and twist the dolphin's form, pulling and plucking its tissues into new shapes and configurations until I step from the water in the form of a young, powerful man, with a robe made of ever-swimming fishes and hair and long beard of bright green kelp. Scales cover my body, sunlight shimmering across them in a hypnotic cacophony.
For the first time I notice my lover is not alone.
"This is Anhu, my brother," she says. "He asked me to call for you."
This pleases me. Like his sister, Anhu is beautiful. Lithe and muscular, a rash of black hair over smooth clay skin, he is clad modestly.
Not for long,
"He has brought you a gift. Something he made."
Anhu bows and opens a cloth-wrapped bundle to reveal a device of carved wood and string. It's a creation unlike anything I have seen before. I reach for it, then hesitate.
"What is it? What does it do?" I ask. I look closer. It's both crude and curious, wrapped with carvings and inlaid with jade and gemstones.
"I call it a lyre," Anhu says. "It has strings bound between sections of wood, stretched to different tensions. You pluck the strings and it makes music." He drags his hands across the strings, and it makes a jangling, discordant noise that pains my ears.
I laugh. "I'm sorry, but It's absurd," I turn back to my lover. "That noise is no more music than the clamoring voice you use to call me."
Her eyes lower. "That's why we have come to you. The lyre should produce beautiful melodies, like the pulse of the ocean and the songs of the birds, but it doesn't. We don't know why. We thought perhaps you could help?"
I sigh. "Music can never come from mortal contraptions of wood and string. Music is for the gods, not for you."
Her eyes flash with anger. "Why do you keep it from us?"
"You couldn't understand it. Beauty, art, music — these are for the gods. Mortal minds can't possibly begin to feel what we feel. I wish you could, but I'm afraid it's just impossible."
Her eyes flash. "You told me once that we were made in your image."
"You are, my lover. But—"
I step back. No mortal has ever deigned to address me with such indeference. But though I am a patient and forgiving god, I still have my needs. "My lover, you called and I came. Let us be done with this distraction and retire to the temple bed. And it would please me if your dear brother joined us." With a smooth and muscular motion I reach down, grab the lyre, and turn to cast it into the ocean.
Then I hear the singing.
From all around me, powerful mortal voices call, pulling to towards them. I spin, lyre in hand, confused.
Ten Sumer women advance from the temple, chanting, singing, calling. I am pulled to them, to their atonal cries, chanting my name in their dusty language, their sand-dry vocal cords rasping rough syllables and ugly melodies, calling me. I feel myself being pulled from my body, my god-essence shifting from the flesh I occupy, pulled out. Never before have I felt the power of so many voices at once, all summoning. Beckoning.
Then Anhur grasps the lyre that I still hold, and he begins to chant as well, and I feel myself being pulled down, down, down, into the lyre, into the carvings and etchings and into the strings of animal gut and into the black mahogany wood, and though I fight I cannot pull away. The flesh I'd inhabited falls back into the beach, empty, discarded.
We created mankind in our image, and yet we created them to serve us: these ideal can't coexist, and that was our folly.
The sun sets over the western horizon. Anhur watches the waves roll gently towards him. The priest-women of the temple are gone, and his sister retired to her bed long ago. The full moon casts white reflections across the dark ocean waters.
All is still.
Absently, he plucks the strings of the lyre. Sweet melodies pour forth, melding with the rhythm of the waves and cry of the birds above.
He smiles, closes his eyes, and dreams of new creations.
|# ? Jun 4, 2018 03:49|
Flash rule: the Baghdad Battery
Available on the archive
Antivehicular fucked around with this message at Jan 1, 2019 around 04:44
|# ? Jun 4, 2018 03:57|
Fox, Quick and Clever
Flash: Señor de las Limas
cptn_dr fucked around with this message at Dec 31, 2018 around 06:15
|# ? Jun 4, 2018 04:55|
Snow On The Shore
Flash rule: The Antikythera Mechanism
The boy climbed out onto the deck of the ship, scanning the overcast horizon before making his way to the prow, ducking under the low sails. Here he found the old man, as he had on many days before on their voyage across the sea, sat hunched over his box - absorbed in his work. So absorbed that he never seemed to notice the weather. The boy shrugged the cloak from his shoulders, wrapping it around the old man as he approached.
“Grandfather, do you truly not feel the chill? Or are you testing my vigilance?”
“Vigilance, my boy?” The old man cracked a smile. “Let’s say it’s that. Or both.”
The old man looked up at his grandson and shook his head.
“I know what you’re going to say - but no! It really can’t wait until we dock. I’ll only be staying a week and it’s not enough time - especially with this cloud.” The old man gave a vague gesture towards the sky.
“Can you try to explain your machine to me again? Why do you need the sun out?” The boy asked.
The old man bowed his head, turning over a tiny copper cog in his hand. Eventually he nodded and patted his lap - the boy dutifully sat. The old man began his explanation but to the boy his words quickly spiralled into an arcane gibberish as it had time and time before. Perhaps when he was older the boy would finally grasp how the tiny copper gears all fit together in the guts of the machine in the box. The old man still humoured the boy - his understanding didn’t really matter. For now they both knew that some company was better than none.
They were both so enagaged in the talk and work that neither of them noticed the dark smudge on the horizon coming into clearer and clearer focus. It wasn’t until several of the old man’s slaves stood around them, gesturing and gawping, that they both finally craned their necks up to see that they were arriving. The island of both their birth’s loomed out ahead - a pure white mass against the grey sea and sky.
“Wait, white?” The boy gawped at the island in unison with the slaves.
The old man shook his head and smiled - he had forgotten how young the boy still was.
“Snow, my boy. A tad unusual for the time of year, but we do get it on occasion on the islands. It’s not something to look so dumbly at. You’ll see; in a day or two it will melt away and it will be like it was never there.”
The boy heard the words but wasn’t really listening. To him, to see the hills and cliffs and rooftops of his home blanketed in white was a marvel. Even the beach was pure white. The only dark smudge where the snow had not settled was the old fort on the far end of the island. Most of the year the weather was mild or warm, they had rain and sleet and hail and there was an almighty chill in the winter, but he had never seen it snow like this.
Soon, the boat moored, and a little procession formed on the docks - the old man clutching his large wooden box - hung from a thick leather strap over his shoulder, the boy at his side, helping his grandfather and behind them, several slaves all carrying luggage. They shuffled out of the docks and up the winding path to the village - the route still familiar to the boy even with the fresh blanket of snow. The old man seemed to clutch at the boys arm almost as hard as he did his box - the pair trudging only as fast as the old man could go.
Halfway up the hill to their family’s villa, the old man stopped, dismissing the boy’s concerned look with a raised palm. He sat down on a crumbling low stone wall next to the path and sighed.
“I’m fine, just need a minute to rest.” The old man waved at the halted throng of slaves.
“You lot, go on! Up the hill, you know the way. Me and the boy will follow shortly.”
The slaves all nodded silently and resumed their trudge up the hill, snow crunching underfoot. The boy took a perch next to the old man.
“Grandfather? I know you haven’t seen mother and father in a long while but-” the old man cut across him:
“No, no, it’s not that.” He smiled wearily, “I’m just old my boy. These old legs, and this great lump,” he tapped the side of the box, “they weigh you down. Eventually. Nothing you can do about that.”
They sat there a while in silence before the old man turned to the boy.
“Thank you for coming with me. I know you don’t think so, but you’ve been a great help to me. I’m only sorry that I have to leave again so soon.”
They smiled at each other and the old man drew the boy into a sidelong one armed hug.
“Do you have to? You could delay a week and say there was a storm?” The boy pleaded. The old man shook his head in response.
“You know I can’t. This thing is not the work of one man. It needs to get to where it’s going.”
They hugged again before the old man stood, reaching for the boy’s arm. The boy quickly supported him and they made their way up the hill.
A week later, the boy wept on the dock as he watched his grandfather’s ship return to open water - fearful that the storm would claim it. Knowing it would. Despite the reassurances of his parents who held him, of the sailors who flitted to and fro - he still grieved for his grandfather. The clouds were too dark, the wind rising too high. They said the storm was going one way and the ship sailing the other. But looking out on the ship growing small in the distance, only the black of the roiling clouds seemed to surround it. The boy stood there long into the afternoon, long since his parents retired. As dusk settled he finally turned and followed them up the hill. He stopped at the low crumbling wall where he had sat before with his grandfather and thumbed a patch of snow along the stones that had not yet melted. The rest, the blanket of white, had all melted away as the old man had said it would - as if it were never there.
|# ? Jun 4, 2018 05:16|
flash rule: Nimrud lens
The Legend of Fire
flerp fucked around with this message at Sep 13, 2018 around 23:06
|# ? Jun 4, 2018 05:30|
A Hole in the Sky
Flash: Bi (Jade Disks)
Genlau pointed at the man leaning against the wooden wall. “Him?” he said. “Surely he’s too young.”
“His eyes are older than his face,” said the villager. “That is Mafai.”
Genlau considered. Some people were ageless, it was true. His own father, as his uncles told it, had been born an old man, his hair turning grey before his balls dropped. He tossed a coin, filed and pitted, to the man and gestured him away.
“Is it true?” he asked. “You are Mafai? The survivor?”
He lifted his head and Genlau saw his eyes. Old. Cold. “I am. You wish to see Quonqua?”
“How do you-” said Genlau.
“Men seek me for one of two reasons only,” said Mafai. “And you look the sort of man who could afford a better night companion. What do you want of Quonqua?”
“Jade,” said Genlau. Mafai's eyes grew narrower, and even colder. “Not to steal, that is.” Genlau stepped backward. “I am a carver by trade. I would see the old tools, glean their methods.”
“A worthy ambition,” said Mafai. “The journey is three hard days. Are you provisioned for such a trip?” Genlau nodded.
* * *
“What happened here?” asked Genlau. Quonqua lay before them, a jumble of rocks in the shape of a city wall, except that the wall would have run right into a lake.
“There is a hole in the sky,” said Mafai.
Genlau waited for Mafai to continue. He didn't. “ A hole in the sky?”
“The sky is the home of the gods, but it is also a shield. It stands between us and the chaos beyond. But there is a hole in the sky. Here. Above us. One day a piece of chaos fell through and...” Mafai waved his hand. “A warning. There will be many skeletons, once we cross the walls.”
“Still?” said Genlau. “I thought that you-”
“I could have spent my life burying the dead and still not be finished. Not doing it properly, and doing it badly would be worse than doing nothing. I chose another path.”
“As a prostitute,” said Genlau.
“ A trade like any other. Like carving Jade. It feeds no mouths, wins no battles, but it gives enough joy that some are willing to pay for it. It is said that to see a skeleton is to be haunted by that man’s spirit for all your years.”
“You seem okay, and how many have you seen?”
“I have grown accustomed to their company.”
* * *
The workshop, underground, had survived the fall of Quonqua. Genlau and Mafai shifted a heavy stone to reveal a staircase. Genlau had felt strange building a camp-fire in full light of day, but they needed torchlight below.
The air was thick in the old workshop before they added fresh smoke, with glittering dust and the musty funk of slowly rotting wood. Mafai pointed out the tools, the grinding drills that cut a hole in a slab of jade, the axle and surface to grind them round and smooth, the delicate brass tools for detail work. Genlau feigned interest.
We are under the hole in the sky he thought. Not even the gods are witness here. Genlau drew a bronze dagger and punched it between Mafai’s ribs in a single motion, the last survivor of Quonqua falling to the gem-dust covered ground, his torch falling to the ground ahead. Genlau surveyed the room. More jade than he could carry.
He set to gathering the most valuable pieces, then searched for other treasures. There were other polished stones, quartzes and amber and turquoise. He picked up a large smooth quartz to examine more closely. A sudden wind swept from behind him, blowing sparkling dust up through the workshop chimney, blowing out his torch. The other, on the floor, still burned. He turned toward it and caught glimpse of Mafai. In the reflected light, through the clear gem he thought he could see straight through the dead man's flesh, straight to the bones. He shook his head and leaned down for the other torch.
He felt bony hands around his throat. He struggled. The hands holding him jerked backward, and he felt nothing at all.
There is a hole in the sky. Once, Mafai consulted an oracle, to learn more about his condition. The gods, he learned, did not watch Quonqua's end. They marked all within dead. But Mafai did not die, and could not, as no new orders to move his soul along would ever be forthcoming.
Someday, he might grow tired of life, tired of love contracted and, rarely, freely given. Someday Quonqua would be forgotten, the skeletons ground by time’s axles and rough surface to dust. Someday he might even guide a man here who will not be overcome by greed. Until then, he would sell what he could of Genlau's possessions, spend the money on wasteful indulgence, and return to his familiar wall.
|# ? Jun 4, 2018 05:30|
Spirit They're Gone, Spirit They've Vanished
Flash: Nebra sky disc
Solitair fucked around with this message at Dec 31, 2018 around 17:31
|# ? Jun 4, 2018 05:47|
sebmojo fucked around with this message at Jan 1, 2019 around 23:29
|# ? Jun 4, 2018 05:54|
The Power of Raglatan
People were screaming and Ram couldn’t find Cynta. It had been many years since another tribe had been bold enough to raid their mountain home, and the villagers had become complacent. The ever-watchful Guardians had been decorated with garlands of flowers and other items of worship, as if they were nothing more than statues. Huge and thick-limbed, their bodies grotesque with misshapen muscles and hardened skin like bark, it was easy to forget the Guardians were, or had once been, people. The magic that wrought their unnatural strength also rendered them silent, with no need of food or rest, and robbed them of any recognition of their families and loved ones.
Black-robed men cut their way through the villagers, armed and unarmed alike. The raiders were seeking the source of the Guardians’ power, a secret kept deep within the mountain and guarded by the village for longer than their oldest tales could recall. They called it Raglatan, the cursed mountain. Ram understood why; he was old enough to have seen many such foolhardy raids, old enough to have seen dear friends sacrificed to maintain the ranks of the Guardians. It was the only thing he and Cynta had ever disagreed about. She said the power was a blessing, a gift from Raglatan that kept their tribe safe from the endless conflicts that ravaged those on the plains below. She believed the sacrifice was a necessary price.
Ram stumbled into the village’s market square. Three Guardians stood, red with blood. Around them dead raiders lay scattered and broken. At their feet, a fourth Guardian lay dead. Across the square Ram saw Cynta crouched, unharmed, behind an overturned wagon. One of the Guardians grabbed her, lifted her easily. Ram’s heart froze in his chest. No, he thought. Not her. Cynta’s long grey hair trailed over the Guardian’s blood-slick arms as it turned and strode, smooth and fast despite its bulk, into the mountain.
Ram’s arthritic knees burned as he ran through the tunnels that generations of villagers had carved into Raglatan’s side. Others were hiding in their cave-homes, or tending the injured. Ram ignored them. The path steepened as he descended into the heart of the mountain. Ahead, a group of men stood with bloodied swords, their faces covered with black fabric.
The closest raised his scimitar, ready to cut Ram down, when the floor bucked under their feet. Ram was knocked to the ground. Gasping for breath he watched as the flagstones began to writhe like scales on a snake’s back. The air filled with dust as the walls shook. The mountain pulled itself apart and the floor opened, swallowing the raiders. Ram dug his fingers desperately into the gaps between the flagstones but as the chasm widened the floor tilted and he found himself sliding, tumbling down over the rocks into the dark.
Ram coughed and gasped at the pain of broken ribs. He was lying on a narrow flagstone ledge in the remains of another tunnel. Beside him was nothing but black empty space. Ahead, a dim blue light shimmered on the rough stone walls. Ram crawled painfully towards it. The tunnel opened into a huge cavern. In the center was a natural stone pool, fed by drips from the stalactites above. The water glowed with soft light and the droplets hitting the surface rang like bells.
A dark shape floated in the water. Her body was misshapen, her aims and legs elongated and coiled with thick ropes of muscle. Yet her face, framed by the soft fan of her long grey hair, was unmistakably Cynta’s.
Ram limped forward. The sides of the pool were steep, and he moaned with pain as he lowered himself into the water. Chest-deep water, it was warm against his skin as he put his arms behind Cynta’s neck and lifted her face to his.
“Ram?” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.
“Yes, my love,” Ram said. Tears rolled down his cheeks and his broken ribs were like hot knives as he pulled Cynta towards the edge of the pool. But as he tried to lift her from the water she screamed with pain. Long black tendrils, like roots reaching up from the bottom of the pool, were fused with her fingers and toes. Letting her float again on the pool’s surface Ram pulled his knife from his belt.
“Ram, stop, it’s better this way,” she said. Ram shook his head, lips pressed tightly together to stop them trembling.
“I can’t lose you,” he said. “This power is a curse, we should let them have have it. Then we could leave this place, live our lives in peace.”
“My sweet Ram,” said Cynta. “For the weak, there is no such thing as peace.”
“But, I love you,” Ram said, his voice breaking into sobs.
“Better that it is us who are chosen, old as we are, than our children.” Cynta’s voice faded and her eyes closed.
From the darkness at the cavern’s edge a Guardian stepped forward. Ram heard its steps and turned. His knife glinted in the light from the water.
“I won’t let you have her,” Ram shouted. He grasped one of the roots that bound her hand and hacked at it. Cynta’s body heaved and she screamed again. “I won’t let you,” Ram said, his voice quiet this time. He pointed the knife at Cynta’s throat, outstretched arm trembling, but it was too late.
The Guardian pushed Ram down, holding him under the water until the last of his breath escaped in a cloud of bubbles and he inhaled water into his lungs. Raglatan’s laughter echoed in his head as warm fingers spread throughout his body. The pain from his ribs was gone. His fingers and toes cracked and stretched as the mountain reached up with its roots, weaving itself into him. His memories faded as new strength pulsed into his body. Ram was as old as time, as strong as rock and stone, and he would defend this place against any who meant it harm.
The sky glowed red as the villagers began the grim task of clearing the dead from their violated home. Two new Guardians took up posts at the village edge. Silent and watchful, they stood close together, side by side in the last light of the setting sun.
|# ? Jun 4, 2018 06:01|
Entries closed, oracle consulted.
|# ? Jun 4, 2018 07:53|
interprompt: start a story with The space captain fired the ray gun. 200 words max.
|# ? Jun 4, 2018 13:30|
The Interprompt Adventures of Mosebjo: 10
The space captain fired the ray gun. That wasn’t what he’d meant to do.
“Oh gently caress,” he said, as the bolt of energy seared a hole into the surface of the yellow-green plain that he was plummeting towards.
“C’mon baby,” he said to his shuddering ship, yanking desperately on the manual controls to get the ship’s nose up. Alone in a single person fighter, he’d known he was hosed as soon as he’d been separated from the fleet. The ship hit the steppe with a bone crunching thud and slid, leaving a trail of destruction through the tall grass, finally rocking to a halt in a dry creek bed.
He pulled himself painfully from the wreckage and lay gasping for breath. A thick-bearded face appeared above his, eyes narrowed.
“You scared my horse,” the man said.
“Do you have any water?” the space captain replied. His supplies had run out days ago.
“On my horse.” The man pointed to a black dot on a distant hillside.
“Oh. I’m James,” said James, holding out his hand. It was a terribly old-fashioned name. The kids on Station 87 used to tease him about it but James had secretly always been proud of being named for his grandfather.
The man took his hand and pulled him to his feet. “Mosebjo,” said Mosebjo. “Come.”
As Mosebjo strode away he began to sing; a deep, sonorous sound that echoed across the steppe in time with his footsteps.
Is he singing about a caterpillar? James thought, as he limped after him.
|# ? Jun 4, 2018 21:36|
Thunderdome CCCIV Results: Cavemen with Magic Wands
This week was the most middle-of-the-road week I've judged. It was so middle of the road, you guys made a smaller road in the middle of the first road and stayed in the middle of that road too. I had to invent new tiers of middle-ness to categorize your stories into, because words like "top" and "bottom" were a little too intense and exciting for these stories.
By merit of being vaguely more memorable than the surrounding stories, Solitair gets an honorable mention for Spirit They're Gone, Spirit They've Vanished. Also, the Jon Joe Memorial "Had A Plot" HM goes to cptn_dr's Fox, Quick and Clever.
The most middling of the middle stories this week were Jay W. Friks' Return, Chuf's Snow On The Shore, and Thranguy's A Hole in the Sky. But because everyone else this week barely wrote any better than they did, it wouldn't be fair to give someone the losertar unless I gave it to like eight people. So no loser this week, only DMs.
The win goes to Antivehicular's Sacred Vessels, for having such avant-garde ideas as "magic" and "wonder" in a fantasy week.
|# ? Jun 5, 2018 03:51|
Week CCCV: "They sell tacos... and Potato Olés!"
It's a song week! But first, you guys are getting storytime.
A few years ago, my partner and I went to see the Mountain Goats, one of our favorite bands. Midway through the set, frontman John Darnielle was telling a story about their early touring and commented that they were making less money as a touring act in those days than they would have working at a Taco John's. Cue an extremely drunk man near us yelling "WHAT'S TACO JOHN'S?!", and John Darnielle answering with the title of this week. A laugh was had, the moment passed, they played some songs, and all was well.
On the way home, I had to explain to my partner that the whole thing wasn't a weird joke: that Taco John's is a real Midwestern fast-food chain, and that they do, in fact, sell tater tots branded "Potato Olés." Benighted mid-Atlantic soul that he was, he had no goddamn idea that, in Middle America, tacos come with tater tots. This is a thing. I had to convince him that this was a thing.
For this week, I'm calling back to that night, both the musical portion and the "having to explain that Taco John's is real" portion. For the first part, this is a song week; your prompts will all be songs by the Mountain Goats. Pick one when you sign up, or I'll pick one for you, your choice. For the second part, I want stories about characters having to deal with different paradigms and common knowledge about the world. This can be as simple and silly as ignorance of local fast-food chains, or as complicated and serious as people confronting inborn prejudices or facing survival situations. The important thing is that some level of the conflict comes from people being unable to readily understand each other's "normal." Explore that for me. Finally, I'm setting a third ground rule here: magical realism is okay, but no dedicated SF/fantasy/horror this week. We've had a lot of genre weeks recently, and I'd like to see people flex their realistic writing muscles a bit.
Flash rules are available upon request, but they will probably be regional fast-food restaurants because it took all my willpower not to just make this Mountain Goats 'n' Regional Fast Food Week. Caveat emptor.
My standard song-week ground rules apply; please don't write fanfic of the song/the events described in the song, and please don't just write someone listening to the song. Standard TD rules also apply: no fanfiction, erotica, political screeds, quote tags, Google Docs, or other unarchivable crap.
Word Count: 1500
Signups Close: Friday, June 8, 11:59 PM Pacific
Submissions Close: Sunday, June 10, 11:59 PM Pacific
1. flerp, "Ezekiel 7 and the Permanent Efficacy of Grace"
2. steeltoedsneakers, "Your Belgian Things"
3. Thranguy, "Onions"
4. Spark That Bled, "Rotten Stinking Mouthpiece"
5. Captain_Person, "Spent Gladiator 2"
6. Sitting Here, "Estate Sale Sign"
7. sebmojo, "Sep 19 Triple X Love! Love!"
8. cptn_dr, "Going to Hungary"
9. tessdaterrible, "Harlem Roulette"
10. ibntumart, "Sax Rohmer #1"
11. Ironic Twist, "Maize Stalk Drinking Blood"
12. Djeser, "This Year"
13. QuoProQuid, "Fault Lines"
Antivehicular fucked around with this message at Jun 10, 2018 around 08:40
|# ? Jun 5, 2018 04:38|
Week 304 Crits: So average I can't think of a sarcastic title, this is what this week has brought me to
Jay W. Friks - Return
I was into this until about three quarters of the way through. It felt kind of like you might have been too--maybe you ran out of space to write the ending you wanted, or you didn't have a conclusion to the story when you started writing. (I know I've written TD stories that way.) I like the theme of a kingdom caught between old gods and new gods, but the way the ending comes up it just kind of...makes it not matter. At least that's how it read to me--now she's a vessel for this evil god, and she's going to go wreck the whole city. Or maybe she isn't and she's just loving off to wherever to let the city get wrecked? Either way, it kind of leaves the religious conflict behind when a dragon carries her off as she cackles.
sandnavyguy - Release
This was pretty decent. I'm going to end up saying that about a lot of stories, because a lot of them were pretty decent. I think having an internal narrative for this was a good choice (as opposed to a third-person narrative external to the character) and the part with the vision where he essentially says goodbye to his father is good, because it's both surreal yet concrete. (It's easy to make visions like that abstract to the point that it's difficult to understand.) This was close to the top of my list.
Uranium Phoenix - Harbinger
This was all right, but I think I ended up getting more distracted by the connections between the three stories (the evolving names and the names of the towns) than it helped. I don't know how I would have done that in a less...obvious way? Anyway, the idea of things getting more and more dire as this gets entrenched in culture is interesting, but it does feel much more heavily weighted toward the last scene, and it snaps a bit quickly to human sacrifice. I dunno, I liked the idea more than the execution here. There's a good story somewhere here, if it could be a bit more focused and more evocative.
Hawklad - Ocean Music
This is another "good but not quite the top" sort of deal. Maybe it had to do with the pacing? Again, this isn't a bad idea, humans lacking some essential gift and so taking it from the gods by force. I guess part of it is probably that the humans themselves don't have a lot of character by default--they're mostly defined by the fact that they want music but can't have it. It's hard to say what could be improved here, because like a lot of stories this week, it's not bad, it's just a bit flat. (But still, among the better ones this week.)
Antivehicular - Sacred Vessels
This story had two main things going for it that brought it ahead of the others. The first was its narrative voice. It's not anything particularly flashy, but in a week that was pretty heavy on omniscient mythic exposition, having something that's explicitly a story being told immediately set it apart. (And you get to characterize the person telling the story and their culture through the way they tell it, which is like, hey, that's Writing, you did Writing.) The second is the fantastic element to it. A lot of stories didn't really deliver that this week, but a sacred scroll stored in someone's body and growing into a hymn is just the sort of thing I was hoping for this week. (The third thing going for this story is the way that you get across the sense of a subjugated people with their own identity, and the strange way Ashta's holiness somehow carries over from the Mountain-Carvers to her own people's religion.)
cptn_dr - Fox, Quick and Clever
As I alluded to in my post, Jon Joe was the one who liked your story, so you'll have to see his crits for what it was that caught his eye. For me, this was a pretty decently told story about a spirit quest. It felt pretty standard for the entries this week--I think maybe it seemed less compelling to me because I've read similar stories about encountering spirit animals, so I kind of had an 'oh, it's this' reaction to it. Aside from that, I think one thing that might have ramped things up a bit is, like, okay, the fox doesn't give gifts, they only make trades. So he should have heard of people coming back missing something, right? Then there could be some tension between whether he wants to prove he's been marked by Fox or whether he wants to chicken out and just come back with a weird rock, or something.
Chuf - Snow On The Shore
This really isn't a bad first Thunderdome entry. Its biggest sin is that it's a little light on stuff happening--I write summaries of each story when I judge to help me remember which was which, and I think this one was like "grandson sails home with grandfather, grandfather then has to leave, but there's a storm coming." I never really got a sense of why the thing the grandfather was building was so important, or why it was so important that he not wait for the storm to pass. I feel like there's plenty of space up near the beginning/middle to cut down on things, and room to create more of an emotional arc about the grandfather's need to go and why the grandson likes him so much--as it is, I mostly know he likes him because they talk while they're on the boat, and he possibly doesn't get to see him super often. That sort of stuff (trying to find the important moments to focus on, trying to figure out how to fit everything in a small space) is stuff that's pretty normal to struggle with, so don't get discouraged by the DM.
flerp - The Legend of Fire
Oh cool, Prometheus. For real though, this is a decent telling of a variant of the gift of fire myth, and I do appreciate the fact that it's portrayed not as a good thing for humanity--it kills people and ruins the earth when they use it, and it ends up driving off the gods who watch over Earth. The mythological voice is executed fine here, but I think it kind of distances the reader from the actions, makes them seem more archetypical. This was pretty firmly in the middle of the week--there's nothing that wrong with it, but it doesn't do a whole lot to set itself apart.
Thranguy - A Hole in the Sky
I was willing to chalk this one up to the soggy middle, but Jon Joe had a particular distaste for the moral aspect of the story. As a story itself, it is pretty bare--a character gets killed for trying to steal from the ruins, turns out no one has resisted the greed. There's hints of something interesting here--the 'hole in the sky' I kind of wish took a bigger role or was explored more, because I think, from what I get out of the story, that I like this sense of a space that's entirely without divine oversight, where people can get stuck unable to die, or where it's fine to murder someone because the gods have stopped watching.
Solitair - Spirit They're Gone, Spirit They've Vanished
The fact that this is written about specific characters, who hesitate and second-guess themselves and change their minds, lifted it above other stories this week, and I wound up liking the idea of someone stuck in this transition period as people are moving into villages and starting to write things down. I thought that the idea of someone having a head full of all these spirits that then get poured into a menhir is an interesting fantastic take on transmission from oral history to written history.
sebmojo - Elehu
I kept waiting as I was reading this for some turn--I wasn't sure what it would be, whether it'd be some description of beautiful ruins or a chase scene as they're pursued by those 'devils' or what, but by the time I got to the end, I was still waiting for it to do something different. The archaeologists get an omen in their dreams, do some archaeologying, and then in the end, their omen comes true and they're trapped and going to be eaten, or something. The prose is fine, but it kind of moves along at a constant steady pace and then flops down and says "right, that's it," and ends the story.
Yoruichi - Power of Raglatan
Another pretty middle-of-the-road story in a middle-of-the-road week. I think the structure kind of flops over its own exposition in the beginning there--you start off with a very urgent sentence, then switch over to explaining backstory for the rest of the paragraph. You probably would have been better served trying to weave it together with the action more. Like say that the Guardians are fighting off these black-robed men while garlands of flowers and embroidered robes slough off their shoulders like dust, or something. After three paragraphs of exposition, then your story starts, and it's decent, though there's bits that should absolutely have been seeded earlier. Like Ram's dislike of the guardians and his thought that they should leave the mountain. That would have been good near the top, when Ram's still running through the village, and has a moment to reflect that like, this wouldn't have to happen if they left the mountain alone, et cetera. (That way, he's not just upset about Cynta being taken because he doesn't want it happening to someone he knows, he's upset because he hates the entire idea of them. By the end I get the sense that it's the latter case, but I don't find out he hates the guardians until after he's lying with her in the pool.)
|# ? Jun 5, 2018 05:07|
in give me a song
|# ? Jun 5, 2018 07:27|
In. I'd like a song too please.
|# ? Jun 5, 2018 07:49|
In, song me.
|# ? Jun 5, 2018 07:50|
I'm in, gimme a song.
|# ? Jun 5, 2018 11:08|
in give me a song
Ezekiel 7 and the Permanent Efficacy of Grace
In. I'd like a song too please.
Your Belgian Things
In, song me.
I'm in, gimme a song.
Rotten Stinking Mouthpiece
|# ? Jun 5, 2018 20:05|
In and for failing the last two times. I'll toxx next time too.
Gimme a song please.
|# ? Jun 5, 2018 20:51|
In and give me the best song u got
|# ? Jun 5, 2018 21:39|
In and for failing the last two times. I'll toxx next time too.
Spent Gladiator 2
In and give me the best song u got
Estate Sale Sign
|# ? Jun 6, 2018 01:11|
Yep, gizza song
|# ? Jun 6, 2018 07:45|
I'm travelling this weekend, but since John Darnielle still hasn't written "Going to Auckland", I'll get you to pick a song for me.
|# ? Jun 6, 2018 08:49|
I'm not in but can we all just appreciate for a moment that this video is blocked in Belgium
|# ? Jun 6, 2018 23:36|
Yep, gizza song
Sept 19 Triple X Love! Love!
Enjoy Auckland! Next time, maybe try going to Hungary?
|# ? Jun 7, 2018 00:22|
I'm in. First time. Please pick me a song.
|# ? Jun 7, 2018 16:24|
I'm in. First time. Please pick me a song.
Welcome! Enjoy Harlem Roulette.
|# ? Jun 8, 2018 00:10|
I've put off doing this for too loving long. I'm in and could use a song.
|# ? Jun 8, 2018 00:46|
|# ? Jul 19, 2019 20:57|
I've put off doing this for too loving long. I'm in and could use a song.
|# ? Jun 8, 2018 00:53|