Double or Nothing me.
|# ¿ Jan 23, 2018 17:16|
|# ¿ Jun 20, 2019 05:17|
In for Vampire
|# ¿ Jul 31, 2018 02:35|
I picked the first story I came to from the no crit list that wasn't a winner or loser. That story was Of Balls and Angels by A Classy Ghost (week 191- We Talk Good). I don't know the prompt nor will I look it up, but here's the crit anyways.
Of Balls and Angels
"Stop, let me out right now!" said Camillia. I know people get asstight about said bookisms, but I can't help but think that if a sentence ends in an exclamation point then it deserves something more than said. Totally preferential, but I think it does more to color a scene.
"Sorry ma'm but I ain't in a position to do that at the moment," the cabbie replied. "The little guy in my head, well, he started yellin' about speedin' up and not stoppin' as soon as you got in, and I gotta listen to what he says or else my balls'll explode, y'see?" Okay, this was probably and a dialect week. Also, this is probably a joke story, but if you poo poo it, I crit it.
"You're nuts! Stop the car and let me out!" Woman should be bashing out the window or choking the cabbie. She's too passive.
"Now I told you, I can't. Just sit tight and hopefully he'll calm down some and I can slow down. Right now he just really wants me t'go fast so that's what we'll do." He kept his eyes on the road, redundant not even glancing at her in the rear-view mirror.
Camillia's guts coiled like snakes. like it She stared at the back of his head while he spoke, trying to think of a way out of the situation. She wished her phone wasn't dead. There's so much you can do with a dead phone. She could bust up the window or the cabbie's head.
"When did this little guy start talking to you?" she asked, thinking it might buy her time. How would this possibly buy her time? Isn't the whole thing that the dude is driving fast? What time is being bought?
"Oh must've been 3, 4 years ago now, I reckon," said the cabbie, "I was drivin' my cab like usual and some guy rear-ended me and I bumped my head on the steerin' wheel and that's when I heard him, clear as day. He told me to go talk to that guy, had me rough him up a bit which I think was only fair all things considered, and ever since then he's been givin' me advice. You know how you can hear it in someone's voice if they're smilin'? He's always smilin'." I like the last bit here
Camillia's head spun, her vision narrowed, and for a moment she thought she was in a dream. Or a nightmare. The cabbie swerved hard to avoid an incoming car and she was thrown sideways onto the seat. She noticed a pen under the front seat. She reached for it and sat back up. k
"So you just do what it... he tells you because he's smiling?"
"Why not? I can tell it's genuine; it ain't one of those politician smiles, and someone who smiles at you for real, that's someone who cares. So I do what he tells me to, because I think he really does want the best for me. He might be an angel, really." On one hand, I think this is really stupid. On the other hand, I also get it. This probably means that this is an accurate and believable piece of characterization, IMO
"I don't believe in angels."
She drove the pen into his ear in one smooth motion. The cabbie's body slumped forward and his feet shifted off the pedals. The car managed to stay in a mostly straight line as it decelerated, until it came to a stop in the ditch. Camillia sat back and let out a long, shaky sigh.
The cabbie's balls exploded with enough force to send the car cartwheeling backwards a hundred yards. lol
Okay, so I get why this was never critted, and the writer is clearly taking the piss, but I think the cabbie was decently characterized while the woman wasn't. I'd like to know more about the scenario honestly, and I think there's more worth writing about the Great Gazoo cabbie. Cabbie dialect is probably really hard to do without being racist, but I'm not really a fan of the author's decisions here. No mention seems like an accurate judging for it.
|# ¿ Aug 6, 2018 01:22|
Things were dire. The stable of hand-picked medical talent that Anna Mangles had organized- all the best and brightest of her colleagues- had failed to offer any reasonable explanation for why her daughter’s brain was swelling, and even though Anna knew from her decades of practice that the conscripted professionals, her friends, were doing everything they could to save Beatrice, she couldn’t help but feel that they’d already given up. The hospital board had expressly forbade Anna from treating her daughter, a conflict of interest, they said, but Anna was just as clueless as the others, so when her options were presented as:
One: Watch Beatrice wither on the intubations running from her mouth and nostrils.
Two: Induce a coma, putting the girl on ice.
Anna chose the second; however, in her desperation, she also chose a third: prostrate herself upon an old doorstep and roll over like a bitch. Bury a hatchet twenty-three years bloody and face her older sister’s eternally beautiful, cold eyes and admit, “Emily, I need your help.”
The drive down highway five took eleven hours, just enough time for the ice in her medical cooler to begin sweating. It terminated at a black lacquered door with an oval shaped chasm where the ringer had been yanked from its frame. Under the notch, a faded sign read SUSPENSION WINERY- PLEASE KNOCK LOUDLY. She did, and soon Emily, all perfect and sanctimoniously smirked and nineteen forever came to answer.
“Anna,” she said. “You’re… here.”
“May I come in?” Anna asked.
“It’s been so long,” Emily began, “and you look so much-”
“Older?” Anna suggested.
“Refined,” she said. “You look good.”
Anna could feel her sister’s eyes routing the wrinkles of her face. “Well,” she said, “I’m certainly not twenty-seven. Not anymore.”
“I’m aware.” Emily said, “But what I’m not aware of is-”
“I’m in trouble.”
Emily let the moment breathe, turning her knife without doing or saying a thing. In those seconds, Anna felt as flimsy and transparent as tissue, and with the sun beaming against her bare shoulders, she was sure that she could burst into flame.
Emily waved her sister inside. “You know,” she said, “I’m older too.”
Anna followed into the small vineyard’s farmhouse. The decor was rustic and simple, and the space was filled with a homestead energy ripped from the pages of a Pottery Barn catalogue.
“Can I get you a drink?” Emily asked. “The brand’s taken a hit over the past few years, but I have a vintage from way back that won-”
“I trust you,” Anna said.
Emily removed a pair of plastic tumblers from a cabinet, filling them quarter-way.
“Aren’t these a little- you know?” Anna asked, “Especially when you have real glassware?” Anna tipped her cup towards an adjacent cabinet.
At the question, Emily’s blue eyes took on a dewy sheen that twinkled under the track lighting. She was always so easy to embarrass.
“I didn’t think I needed to impress family,” Emily said.
“And when did you start thinking that?” Anna asked. “The last I remember you would stop at nothing to remind everyone of how cute you are.”
“It was about the same time you cut me out of your life,” Emily said.
“That’s not,” Anna started.
The two sat in the cool serenity of the kitchen and Anna leaned in to her sister.
“Remember back before before mom died, when she was real sick?” Anna asked, “And I caught you feeding on her? And I screamed? And you said that it wasn’t like that- that she had cut herself?”
“And she was so worried about ruining the bedspread that I sucked on the cut like little kids do,” Emily added.
“I knew what was happening,” Anna said. “You started crying, and-”
“I was crying before you even came back. Mom’s blood just tasted so- the sick have a different taste about them,” Emily said. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard the story a before, but my question is this, do you remember what mom tasted like?”
“I don’t,” Emily said.
Anna cracked the lid of her cooler and explained everything to Emily. She told the short version of the last twenty-three years: medical school, an ill advised marriage, the separation, the sickness. For her part, Emily just listened.
“If I gave you Beatrice’s sample to taste,” she asked, “could you tell me what you think?”
“It doesn’t work like that,” Emily said. “A person doesn’t taste like cancer or heart disease. They taste like what they are.”
“But you knew about mom, you said so yourself.” Anna removed a stack of plastic cups from the cabinet. “I have lots of samples: cancer, heart disease, diabetes, pneumonia, some others that I took from the lab. I’m just looking for a lead.” Emily sighed.
“If you want the truest taste we should use the crystal.”
So Anna reached into the cabinet, collecting a handful of glass stems.
“One at a time,” Emily said. “They’re fragile.”
One by one, when Anna set a glass on the counter, a gentle tring filled the air like a tuning fork struck with the bone of a hummingbird. Each time, Emily winced as the sound floated the room, her hands clenching taut. By the time Anna had removed the cupboard’s stock, Emily was trembling.
Anna recorded notes while Emily sipped from the glasses. The cancer patient tasted of peanut and birdseed, the diabetes- of seawater. The influenza tasted like tallow and syrup, and reminded Emily of her mother’s blood from all those years back, while Beatrices’ sample tasted primarily of sulphur and bitter greens. Eventually, the cooler was empty and the table was filled with stained glasses.
“Bea’s is unlike any other,” Emily said. “The connections are so faint they might as well not exist at all.”
“Nothing?” Anna asked.
“So that’s it?” Anna asked, standing from the table and her notes. Her brow folded to a hard edge. “What’s the closest connection, Emily?”
“The flu, I guess, but it’s practically nothing- an aftertaste, a whisper.”
Anna jotted a few notes on her paper. “I guess,” she said, “it’s closer than where I was.”
“It’s a start.”
Anna collected her items and gestured to the glasses on the table. “Want me to wash them for you or do you just want to lick them clean?”
“I got it,” Emily said.
“I’d love to stay and catch up, but I should go. Unless you’d consider coming up with me for a few days? I could use the help, and if things get any worse with Beatrice maybe you could save her life.”
“You know,” Anna said, “turning her.”
“Absolutely not,” Emily said, “and the fact that you would even ask is disgusting.”
“She’s my daughter!”
“And you were my sister, once! And then I was bitten and you only cared about exploiting me! For fucks sake you asked me to turn you because you were worried about getting crows-feet in your twenties.”
“Was it so much for your sister to ask for the gift of youth and health? Is it too much to save your niece?”
“This isn’t healthy! I am not healthy, Anna!”
“Please, don’t act like you are saving either of us from some burden.”
“Get out!” Emily said as she bounced up from her seat, bumping the table in the act.
It was then that one of the glasses on the table began to roll like a collapsing top, spinning and twirling until it collided with another.”
The warbling sound filled the air and Emily’s knees buckled, sending her to the ground.
“Oh!” Anna mocked. “Do you need a hand?” Anna stepped towards Emily, proffering false assistance before tipping the table hard enough to send all the glasses tumbling into each other, filling the room with a cacophonous chiming.
As the vibrations echoed around the room, each passed through Emily like an electric shock. Anna watched as her sister writhed and then screamed, her skin vibrating as her cries took on the same warbling manner of the glass. A torrent of bloody expulsions erupted from her throat, filling the floorboards nooks, pooling, until Emily collapsed in her chum.
Anna, however, didn’t have time to check on her sister. After all, she had a sick child of her own, and she thought it best to leave before the smell of bile and blood turned her stomach.
Strength: Vampire can taste medical ailments
Weakness: Vampire can't stand the sound of bells
|# ¿ Aug 6, 2018 03:09|
I'll sign up and my story will be 666 words
|# ¿ Oct 3, 2018 22:40|