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Apr 2, 2019 19:53
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Walking the Dog 841 words “It just isn't right,” said Vincent. “Two men of our caliber being assigned such a trivial task.” I wasn't inclined to disagree. We were at war, Minerva's crew against Azarat, and Vincent and I were Minerva's strongest assets, two people with the one in a hundred thousand immunity to magic and the even rarer basic competence at following orders and likewise. “And on top of that, Zed,” he went on, “On top of all that she wants us to follow the god-damned scooper laws and clean up after the thing. We don't follow laws. When was the last time you paid a parking ticket, Zed?” “It has been some while,” I said, a bit smugly. I won the coin toss. I held the leash. Vincent held the scoop and bag. We left Minerva's civilian house, and fifty pounds of Dutch Sheepdog what answered to the name of Poppy followed after. Minerva was at the safe house, which was where we were headed. Her boy was in Europe, in the truce zone, but the dog couldn't look after itself forever,alone in that house. And since we were crossing town anyway, we got the order. Time to walk the dog. We didn't want to hoof it, of course. We were going to take the van most of the way. But half way to the driveway, Poppy balked. Sat down, dug in heels, and would not be moved one more inch. I tugged the leash. Poppy held his ground. Vincent shuffled bag and scoop to the same hand and brought out the keys. That's when Poppy moved. He sprung forward, past me, pulling the leash out of my hand. Poppy ran around the van and jumped on Vincent, knocking him over into the snow. The keys flew under the van and Poppy started licking Vincent’s increasingly unpleasant face. “Just remember how much the boss's kid loves that dog,” I said. “Just get the damned keys, Zed,” he said. I got down on the ground to reach for them. “We ain't going to use the van after all,” I said. I pointed. A metal box, with a slowly blinking red light. If it had been on remote control we'd have been dead already. Ignition trigger, with the guy long gone, had to be. Vincent sighed. “What's the matter?” I said. “Not up for a nice long walk?” Vincent scowled. “I'm in shape,” he said. “I work out. You know that.” “So then what?” I asked. “A lot of open spaces. A lot of blind corners.” “A lot of witnesses,” I added. “Not everywhere. I worry, is all.” “You complain.” “I do?” asked Vincent. “You carp, you kvetch, you carry on. You do everything but whine you do.” I said. Poppy gave a short whine, as if he recognized the word. Vincent held up his hand. “You feel that?” he said. As he said it, I did. Magic. Azarat sent wand boys,and they were training them right at us. Now when I said immune to magic, it's not complete. Getting hit by a death curse hurts like a hornet sting. You want to avoid that if you can. I ducked away at the last minute, and the bolt hit the pavement beside me. Disintegration spell. Vincent tried to swerve away, too, but Poppy zigged as he zagged and body checked him. The bolt hit him in the back and he yowled. I looked up and back and saw the swarms of crows and pigeons descend on the wand-snipers on the roofs. It was good to see Minerva's allies at work, let us know the lich-master hadn't already won. Then I looked at the sizzling hole in the pavement, just enough asphalt vaporized that I could see the metal wall of the gas main pipe under where Vincent stood. We picked up the pace. We knew short-cuts, alleys that saved blocks. We took the risk and lost, big time. Right in our way was Azarat's enforcer, a nine foot tall bone golem with arms like bone chainsaws, razor sharp gleaming shark-teeth rotating in a loop from hand to elbow. Immune don't cover getting carved up like a turkey. We had guns, and took a few shots, but guns don't do much against solid spell-hardened bone. I thought we were goners, but then Poppy leapt right at the golem, teeth bare and growling. That ball of fur landed right on the golem's chest and pulled the bones out with his teeth, too fast for those whirring hands to come down. The rune-etched master bone came out and the golem collapsed into a pile of ribs and teeth and skulls. Poppy carried the runed tibia for a few blocks, then deposited it in a sewer drain. When we reached the safe house Minerva thanked someone for getting someone else safely too her. She was trying to sooth our pride, and I think it worked on Vincent, but I could tell what was what. The dog was the only one of us who got a biscuit.
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Apr 8, 2019 06:43
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In, flash.
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Apr 9, 2019 21:06
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Anomalous Blowout posted:
All Closed With a Word 1013 words There's a new monolith at the rest stop on the two three seven mile marker on I-55, gleaming black, absorbing and reflecting the dawn sunlight in turns with subtle changes in the angle. Claire can't help but study it, even though it isn't what she came for. Her notebook comes out, jotting down dimensions and positions. She takes pictures, hoping her phone will last long enough to reach a pocket of signal. She's alone out here. The truckers all left before the sun. Another batch will trickle in over the dark hours after midnight. She consults her map. It's almost a dark art, navigating by old roadmaps and demolition reports, paper with faded ink worn down to white at the numerous creases. No other choice, though. The GPS doesn't work for poo poo out here in the interior. She does the math. The nearest one is a Springfield, and it's too far by a day. With good forage she'd be fine, but she's seen the yellowed grass, heard barely any birdcall. The forage would not be good. She still has hope for the stop as she walks toward the hostel, hope for a bicycle to rent or buy. There are none, no people either, just locks that answer to her debit card and the empty dining room. The automat has a face, a homey animatronic waitress that insists on talking to her. Claire doesn't like talking to machines. She presses buttons instead. The mechanized woman says “Thank you, and come again sometime.” Its head tilts to the left, like a collar muscle just gave out and snapped. Claire takes the steaming meal back to her room. She eats, sleeps, and dreams. She dreams of enemies, meeting violent ends. It's all she has dreamt on this journey, she suspects all anyone dreams of here anymore. Nobody talks about dreams. She never knew before how many enemies she had. Exes, of course, and rivals. Her parents, which came as a surprise. All falling to the satisfactory stroke of a straight-razor. She sees her sister, and inside, below her dream self, as audience rather than actor, feels dismay. Then she sees that Janice is the one holding the blooded blade. Janice turns to her, eyes bulging and unblinking, doll-like. Her head tilts to the side, just like the diner mannequin, and she says something, but Janice cannot recall the words on waking. She walks back to the rest area, now in quiet darkness and insect-song, to negotiate passage. It's almost always sex, on the surface. Money doesn't mean enough, and the truckers are loath to admit they need friendship, intimacy, any buffer against the loneliness of the roads. So they negotiate sex, even with someone they have no attraction for whatsoever. It would have made a fine Anthropology paper, if that had been her field. She finds a willing partner, a young man, Valentine, call-me-Val. He claims to be on his first ride, making his first arrangement after a solitary first leg from Chicago. She isn't completely sure it isn't a line, but he seems pleasant and safe, and she trusts her instincts on such matters. They travel south. The radio comes on unbidden, monolith voices broadcasting directly to the speakers, and the accusing arguments from a man of some unclear religion are too much to tolerate. They talk over him, loudly and quickly, leaving no pause for the rants about decadence and betrayal to fit. She hears his story and believes it. He hears hers and does not understand. “I want to see it, to study it. How people lived.” “Why?”,Val asks. She has no answer. The preacher gets in a few words on the subject of the gates of Hell. “With a single word they opened to let the Lord and the righteous dead pass through to the shadow of the silver City, and with-” Val starts talking about music, and they shut the frequency-modulated interloper out of their conversation. They talk about old novels and plays, about the cities, about the rails, where the currency of travel is violence rather than sex, fights for dominance or wagers or the sheer joy of it, fights to the scar, and how it's not for either of them, even if they both see a perverse romanticism to it, a longing to submerge into a primal, animal nature. Claire's words, but Val nods knowingly. When they cross the old state line into Texas the broadcast finally changes, to a numbers station, a woman with a thick South American accent reading random numbers in English. It’s unobtrusive enough that they’re able to be silent together, a rare kind of intimacy on the road. Then, just past the Dallas ruins, they notice the numbers aren't random any more, but counting down. “Seven hundred and eighty-seven, Seven hundred and eighty-six.” Val stops the truck, pulls over to a gravel shoulder next to a grassy field, green and slick. If anything, the numbers get louder with the engine off. He's got an unnerved urgency about him, and Claire thinks everything he said might be true, and more. She knows what he wants, and now, in the evening twilight while the numbers slowly count down, seems as good a time as any. He makes love like a virgin, like a man used to a rougher grasp, enthusiastic but single-minded, long-lasting beyond the virtue of it. At ten the numbers stop descending, resuming randomness. They both giggle, tension broken, and find a more natural rhythm. Then the countdown resumes where it had left off, synchronized will his final strokes. The numbers girl repeats 'zero’ a few dozen times before resuming her random count. Val lets Claire off at a rest stop a hundred miles out of Houston. There's another hostel there, another creepy robotic waitress, but this time also a bicycle for sale. Claire eats, makes her payment, and dreams of violent ends for unhelpful assistant professors. As she rides past the rest stop on the way to Crockett she sees a new monolith, casting its black shadow onto the highway.
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Apr 15, 2019 06:26
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In, flash
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Apr 16, 2019 05:46
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The Price of a Blade See archives Thranguy fucked around with this message at 05:40 on Dec 30, 2019 |
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Apr 21, 2019 22:43
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Interprompt: Running on fumes Some number of words.
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Apr 22, 2019 13:37
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Stand by...
Thranguy fucked around with this message at 00:31 on Apr 24, 2019 |
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Apr 24, 2019 00:06
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Thunderdome Week 351: Rat-a-tat-tat, Thunderdome This is a music week. But it's not exactly the normal variety of music week. Instead of focusing on a particular artist or genre, you're going to take your inspiration from American Song-Poem Music. https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Song_poem The musical equivalent of the vanity press, the various Song-Poem studios connected amateur songwriters and professional studio musicians to produce, well, some of my favorite examples of outsider art. And a surprising amount of it has survived. The original Song-Poem Music archive at http://www.songpoemmusic.com is mostly dead, its mp3 collection lost to link rot, but I have found an accessable set of collections http://blog.wfmu.org/freeform/2009/08/songpoem-archived-music-volume-7-train-of-destiny.html http://blog.wfmu.org/freeform/2009/02/songpoem-archived-music-volume-1.html http://blog.wfmu.org/freeform/2005/07/american_song_p.html http://blog.wfmu.org/freeform/2009/12/heres-gene-marshall-a-songpoem-album-mp3s.html http://blog.wfmu.org/freeform/2012/12/a-christmas-song-poem-corny-copia.html http://blog.wfmu.org/freeform/2008/06/a-few-song-po-1.html http://blog.wfmu.org/freeform/2009/06/songpoem-archived-music-volume-5-life-is-a-flame.html http://blog.wfmu.org/freeform/2013/03/a-song-poem-easter-from-halmark-records-mp3s.html http://blog.wfmu.org/freeform/2009/05/songpoem-archived-music-volume-4-during-evening.html http://blog.wfmu.org/freeform/2009/04/songpoem-archived-music-volume-3-the-hill.html http://blog.wfmu.org/freeform/2009/...band-lover.html and there are also YouTube playlists of a much smaller subset still, will post some of those later. Go out and find one, put the name and a link that will get me to some playable version of your song in your sign up post. Or you can ask for me to give you one, but if you do you get 250 fewer words. Base word count is 1500. Anyone who toxxes gets 250 extra words. As is ever the case in song weeks, don't be literal, don't tell the story of the song or have someone listen to it as they do stuff. Break it apart and find some nuggets to smelt into a story. No poetry, fanfic, erotica, rants, emoji, Google docs, spreadsheets, etc. Sign ups close 11:59 PM Friday Pacific time Submissions close 11:59 PM Sunday Pacific time. Judges: Thranguy Crimea Lippincott Entrants: flerp- Listen, Mr. Hat QuoProQuid- I Lost My Girl to an Argentinian Cowboy Hawklad- The Atom Dynomic Dance Mr. Steak- Green Fingernails Twist- Blue Atoms Antivehicular- Rain on the Roof Crabrock- The Amazing Helicopters Anatomi- Sputnik Hit the Moon Fleta McGurn- Ballad of Patty Hearst Nikaer Drekin- The Duck Egg Walk Simply Simon- He Is the Ressurection and Life Kaishai- Octopus Woman Please Let Me Go Thranguy fucked around with this message at 07:56 on Apr 27, 2019 |
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Apr 24, 2019 00:38
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flerp posted:in https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AtFRP9xDakA Listen , Mr. Hat.
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Apr 24, 2019 01:00
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QuoProQuid posted:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QZWF2UPGsGY I lost my girl to an Argentinian cowboy.
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Apr 24, 2019 01:01
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Mr. Steak posted:im confused as gently caress so assign me one please https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L0s_mYzQ-HM Green Fingernails
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Apr 24, 2019 01:04
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crabrock posted:In plz give The Amazing Helicopters, #6 on the below link. https://blog.wfmu.org/freeform/2009...band-lover.html
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Apr 24, 2019 07:25
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anatomi posted:In. Gimme something. Anything. http://blogfiles.wfmu.org/LR/spam06/03_-_Chuck_Jones_and_The_Links_-_Sputnik_Hit_The_Moon.mp3 Sputnik Hit The Moon
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Apr 24, 2019 09:11
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Song-poem playlist, starting with the one that named the week https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL_NoKY8Djxi4VUJWDtzAln4OdTEIkfq9i
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Apr 25, 2019 04:26
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Signups are closed. Write some words.
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Apr 27, 2019 07:54
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Entries are closed.
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Apr 29, 2019 08:25
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Judgment A deeply divided panel reports in. Two of us liked and one deeply disliked both our HMs, QuidProQuo's Monsters and Nikaer Drekin's One Odd Duck. We collectively found a lot to dislike, but not concurrently, except in the case of our loser, flerp's America's Pastime. Similarly, the one story we all sort of liked ends up with the win: Fleta McGurn's Tanya. Welcome back to the blood throne!
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Apr 30, 2019 03:34
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Addendum: we all did agree that Crabrock earned both an HM and a DM for his...thing, which cancelled out.
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Apr 30, 2019 03:35
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crabrock posted:what is this milquetoast poo poo? gently caress u, brawl me Bring it 
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Apr 30, 2019 06:40
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Song-Poem Note-Crits I Was in a Coma Twice Second person, bold. Fairly good. There's a huge narrative gap in the middle; why is this near-death survivor so revered? Hm. I was going to make a similar comment about the idea of the president being unaccompanied by bodyguards and such, but, well, by that point the story's reality is entirely heightened, in dream logic rather than real logic, to where a reading in which this is all a dying or comatose dreamscape is more plausible and more interesting. Good technique, never spelling that out but letting implausible detail accumulate. Pretty good in general,7/10. Assuming that reading was remotely intended. (We reject Barthes and all of his works here.) America's Pastime More second person. This is more of a character study than a story. And one of an unpleasant if pitiable character. Decently written but pointless, with a protagonist who doesn't do anything or change, has already had his moments of despair. I'm not sure a good fatalist story is possible. I am sure this isn't it. 4/10 Monsters This was really good for the first half. A solid evocation of dread. I'm not sure the flash forward does enough in support of that mood to justify it bring there, and the ending could be made stronger. Make him anything other than the most obvious option. A cult recruiter. A werewolf. The devil. A helicoptersnake. Anything but a generic sex murderer. Still. Very nice. 8/10 One Odd Duck Did I ask for sad people feeling sorry for themselves week? Anyhow, this starts out as that, a bit less affecting than some of the others this week, and then takes a turn for the bizarre. I can't stand behind this as an ending. As a mid- or early- story shift, maybe. But I also don't see how to continue it, either. Shifting the point of view away from the character doesn't help, we should be in closer if he's doing something this strange. We spend so much time deep inside point of view when he's boring, so it's unfair to pull away the second he starts being interesring. 3/10 Tendrils Solid opener. Solid prose, in general. I just wish there was a little more story to it, a little more substance or agency to the protagonist. Or, since this sort of plays as half an urban legend, (like the week itself, lacking the ironic twist) a little more solid a resolution. Still, 7/10 Tanya Another strong one. The tense slips around a bit, and there are some odd word choices, and the final dialog is a bit too direct, too stilted for what is going on, but still. 8/10 Sometimes too late The exposition-to-plot balance here is way off, leading to a muddle where neither the world building nor the characters can generate much interest, alone or together. 4/10 The Lonely Girl Okay, another weird little maybe-allegory thing that ends before it really starts. But generally inoffensive, 5/10 You didn't see this coming Well, that was correct. Glad I didn't read the stories in reverse order. #whirlybirdsarentreal This was fun. The first twist came at the right place. The second, well, was annoyingly and amusingly meta at once. Almost wanted to invent a new category here, it sort of defies rating. 6+8i/10
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Apr 30, 2019 07:04
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In with Blue City Geoje
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Apr 30, 2019 20:07
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Ribbon See archive Thranguy fucked around with this message at 21:37 on Jan 1, 2020 |
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May 6, 2019 06:24
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Thunderdome CCCLIV: Sonder Sonder (n): The realization that everyone has a story This neologism comes to us by way of John Koenig’s The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows, which is our subject for the week. Pick one of the (non-introduction) videos from This playlist, and write something inspired by or evoking the emotion described. Do not be too literal or duplicative of the video, though. (We’re sticking to just the ones with videos for this week, not the ones only defined in the dictionary website) The first person to select each word gets 1500 words. The second gets 1400, the third 1300, and so on. This reduction only applies to cases where people are duplicating a word, to be clear All the no’s: poetry, erotica, fanfic, raw screeds and primal screams, spreadsheets,gdoc links in general SIgnups close Friday (California Time) 11:59 PM Entries close Sunday (California Time) 11:59 PM Judges: Thranguy Sebmojo Noah Prompts and Entrants: Sonder: The realization that everyone has a story Antivehicular Vemödalen: The Fear That Everything Has Already Been Done Crimea Avenoir: The Desire To See Memories In Advance Onism: The Awareness of How Little of the World You'll Experience Simply Simon Anemoia: Nostalgia For A Time You’ve Never Known Salgal80 Olēka: The Awareness of How Few Days Are Memorable Saucy_Rodent Opia: The Ambiguous Intensity of Eye Contact Nodus Tollens: When Your Life Doesn't Fit into a Story M. Propagandalf Ambedo: A Moment You Experience For Its Own Sake Doctor Zero Yù Yī : The Desire to Feel Intensely Again flerp Socha: The Hidden Vulnerability of Others Sitting Here Kenopsia: The Eeriness of Places Left Behind Lemonie Astrophe: The Feeling of Being Stuck on Earth Anomolous Amalgam Zenosyne: The Sense That Time Keeps Going Faster Klexos: The Art of Dwelling on the Past Koinophobia: The Fear that You've Lived an Ordinary Life Alazia: The Fear That You’re No Longer Able to Change Mr. Steak Ballagàrraidh: The Awareness That You Are Not at Home in the Wilderness Canasta Nasty Dès Vu: The Awareness That This Will Become A Memory Kaishai Lutalica: The Part of Your Identity That Doesn't Fit Into Categories Fleta McGurn Lachesism: Longing for the Clarity of Disaster Lippincott Kudoclasm: When Lifelong Dreams Are Brought Down to Earth Nethilia Moment of Tangency: A Glimpse of What Might Have Been kurona_bright Morii: The Desire to Capture a Fleeting Experience Ironic Twist Silience: The Brilliant Artistry Hidden All Around You Pâro: The Feeling That Everything You Do Is Somehow Wrong hi to Thranguy fucked around with this message at 04:11 on May 11, 2019 |
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May 7, 2019 17:29
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Just in case anyone was confused and hasn't seen the clarification edited into the prompt post, the word count reductions are only for people duplicating words. So everyone so far has the full 1500, and the next person in doesn't have to tell their whole story in their title...
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May 9, 2019 14:08
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Thranguy/Crabrock brawl story Angela Moon and the Goblin's Quest 1196 words Just like most kids on her street, Angela had a window in her bedroom looking out on the yards and street below, on sprinklers watering summer lawns and older boys and men raking autumn leaves and shoveling winter snow. Unlike those other kids, Angela had another window. It was in her closet, low to the ground, beneath the bottom shelf. It should have looked out over the side yards and the Millers' fence. It didn't. It looked out elsewhere, somewhere it was always snowing. The left side of Angela's closet was for clothes, the practical black jeans and shirts she preferred and the light pastel dresses she did not. The right side was full of her treasures. She had a shelf full of mystery books, Drews and Bobbseys, with not a single Hardy intruding. Another was full of taxidermied birds and squirrels, posed in a wary truce. The last held her biggest prize: a huge jar filled with glass eyes. The eyes had belonged to her grandfather. He died when Angela was five, aware of death only as a thing that had happened to Franklin's family's old basset hound, and when her uncles and aunts and cousins descended on the old house to lay claims on his property, the eyes were mistaken for marbles and given to her, there being no other kids of a marble-appropriate age present. She instantly realized the mistake, and kept quiet, despite wondering how such a collection came into grandfather's life. The window was too small for a ten-year old girl to fit through. It was just the right side to shove a loudly crying baby through, but after consideration she decided her little brother's crimes were not sufficient to justify such extreme punishment. Besides, the thing was stuck, and she could not budge it. Angela slept in her closet, some nights. When it was thundery outside, even though she hadn't been afraid of lightning for a long time. She would drag blanket and pillows across the room and close herself in. She thought she must worry her parents so when she did, and even tried to set an alarm extra early to make it back into the bed, but even when she didn't wake up until she was late for breakfast nobody made much of a fuss. There was a dreadful rumor through the house that she snored, and loudly. She did not believe it. One night she was sleeping in her closet, not because of the weather but because her Uncle Rowan was visiting. She did not like Uncle Rowan, did not like the way he looked at her though she was still a few years too young to understand why. She was sleeping soundly when a strange rattling woke her up. Her feet were cold. She turned to her clock and saw it was three in the morning. She heard the noise again, rubbed gunk from her eyes, and saw a goblin, rummaging through her jar of glass eyes. "Hey," she said, in a loud whisper, "That's mine." "She wakes," said the goblin. "Griffler is confused, bewildered, betrayed. She should not wake. Stop her!" The bird and squirrel generals bounced up at the order, then moved toward her. They moved without articulation, floating down and poking at her ineffectually with their heads. Angela stood up, brushed past them, and grabbed the jar. "What do you even want with them?" she said. "Not for Griffler," said the goblin. It was green and eight inches tall, wearing overalls and a Sunday church hat that threatened to fall off each time he shook his head, which he did constantly. "For the Land. For the Queen. Without the Manticore's Eye, all will be trammelled, soldiered and smouldered." "That's no excuse for being rude," said Angela. "Did it occur to you to just ask for it nicely?" Griffler opened his mouth full of teeth, all different, but did not speak for a long minute. The bird and squirrel generals stopped bumping Angela's feet. "Will you help Griffler? Please?" Angela nodded. They searched the jar together, looking for the one Griffler described. "Violet and violence against ivory and envy." They looked at every eye in the jar but did not find it. Angela sighed. "Of course. That one." He told Griffler that they had to wait until morning, and when he and the generals complained of boredom she gave them mysteries to read. They studied them, Griffler's held upside-down, all night. In the morning Angela packed all three in her black backpack and went next door, to see Simon. Simon had traded her seven coins from his family vacation in Singapore, all different, for one of the eyes, four months ago. She didn't know what it would take to get it back. "Can't," said Simon before negotiations could start. "Don't have it." Angela stared at him. Simon was a quiet boy, but like many quiet boys vulnerable to a good long stare. "You see, when my cousin Brice was visiting he told me we could bury it and grow us an eyeball tree. So we did, out in the shed. Watered it even for a week after Brice left before I realized he'd taken it." "Where?" said Angela. "What? Oh, he lives in Florida. Fort St. Lucie." "Too far, too far," said Griffler, poking his head out from the backpack. Simon stared at it for a moment, then nodded. "Did you ever try to dig it up?" asked Angela. Simon shook his head. "I haven't even been out there since I realized-" Angela was already in motion. Simon followed,into the back yard, into the shed with the busted lock. They opened the door, and stepped inside. Inside was a crystal tree, branches jutting out at irregular angles. At the center, at her height, was the eye, resting in a knot-hole. Coiled around the base of the tree was a crystal snake. It slowly unwound. Griffler jumped out of the backpack, pushing against Angela's head to launch. The generals moved quickly to flank the snake. The snake hissed and snapped. They circled each other. Angela waited until they were on the opposite side, then lunged for the eye. She grabbed it. The snake abandoned squirrel and bird and sprung at her. It slithered up her arm and shoulder, right to her ear. It whispered things in her ear that she could neither remember nor fully forget. Simon shouted at her. She didn't hear. Griffler shouted too. The generals poked her knees. Then the snake told a lie. Angela knew it was a lie, and knew everything else had been true, and both shook her. It was a very pleasant lie. She was awake. She grabbed the snake at the middle and threw it at the crystal tree. Both shattered into crystal dust. She took Griffler home and watched him carry the Manticore's eye back to the land. In time she forgot her adventure, or decided it was a dream. Until her twentieth birthday, when she woke beside a nearly-over boyfriend and a satchel full of stolen money, remembering everything the snake had said, knowing how to go through the too-small closet window.
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May 11, 2019 06:30
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Signups closed. Write good words, all.
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May 11, 2019 07:03
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Submissions closed.
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May 13, 2019 07:07
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Judgment of Obscure Sorrows There was a rumor running through the chat that this was a good week. But rumors aren't always true, are they? Let's say instead that it was a challenging week. Unfortunately, too many failed to meet the challenge, either by not writing at all or by boring the judges with a bunch of 'let me tell you about my (protagonist's) job/hobby/commute/magic system' blather. The bad: Dishonorable Mentions for M. Propagandalf's Non-Playable Character , Salgal80's Bloodlines, and Canasta_Nasty's In Between , with the loss going to Anomolous Amalgam's The Rebinding of That Which Was On the brighter side we did have some good, if imperfect stories. Honorable Mentions go to flerp's For No One, Antivehicular's Radical Empathy , Sitting Here's One As the Sky, and Kaishai's Choose and Remember, possibly the strongest story but disqualified from victory due to the extra 50% word count. Which leaves the winner: Saucy_Rodent, with 5101 S Wentworth Ave, Chicago, IL 60609 Welcome to the blood throne!
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May 14, 2019 07:56
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In, flash me
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May 16, 2019 02:09
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Don't Turn Your Head 470 words Don't even dart your eyes. You can see them when they're on the edge of your vision. Right now, on your left, Frannie West sharpens her cleaver. On your right Carlos Prince spins the barrel of his revolver. Eyes straight ahead. Eyes on me. If you look at them they'll vanish. If you look at them they can get into your head, into your dreams. Oh. I see. It's too late already. Which one is it? No, let me guess. It's got to be Dorothy, little Dottie Prince and her knitting needles. You've seen what she can do, with the needles and with the yarn. Now once she's in your head, there's only a few ways it can go. See, the ghosts around here, they sold their souls to the devil for a promise that man's law wouldn't touch them for anything they did. Frannie killed her husband and Carlos' wife, they say she cooked and served them to half the town, but the jury came back not guilty in an hour. Carlos robbed banks, then invested in his own. Dottie did for her brothers and her own best friend. And before they died each one of them lost their souls in bets with a gambling man. For a while they thought they were cheating him. When they died they thought for a hot second they'd cheated the devil, but the devil came after his due, and now they need souls, souls for the vigorish on the debt they can't pay. So I'm afraid you've got two choices. Let little Dottie tell you all about her baby brothers every night until you end yourself and send your soul off to hell. Or you can sin your way loose. If your soul already belongs to the devil she can't do a thing with it. Now don't be thinking you can get by with a little blaspheming or fornicating or anything petty like that. Gotta be a big sin, friend. It's got to be murder. Don't like the look of those options? I don't blame you. And since I like you, I'm going to make you an offer. A little game of chance. I am a gambling man, you see. A simple toss of the dice, your mark against mine. Your soul against Dottie's. You win and we send her to the hell she bargained for years ago. You lose, and your soul belongs to me, and you do me a few favors, some now and some after you're dead. Nothing too bad. Nothing that'll get you hellbound. So you win either way. Pick up the dice. Feel them in your hand, the smooth ivory, the sharp indentations of the pips. Bounce them in your hand, feeling for the balance. Blow on them for luck if you must. Then roll.
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May 19, 2019 22:39
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May 21, 2019 07:55
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Obscure Sorrows Judgethings Saucy_Rodent, 5202 S Wentworth Okay, yes. This is very good stuff here. The gimmick leads you to a couple of garden path sentences that could be avoided. "gently caress around" is a garden path risk anywhere, but even more so with this particular voice. but a very good start, hm/win candidate likely. Crimea, Moon Report This one is cute and to the point. I don't think it does quite enough; too many blanks are just pronouns, especially the "himself/herself/itself" one that makes solo explorers part of the pattern. That's an improbable thing already, don't draw extra attention to it... At any rate, I think you could have allowed yourself a bit more variation and still had the main point work. Doctor Zero, Moment by Moment Editing issue, early ("broads smiles"). And not quite enough to distinguish the characters by now. This one is a bit too literal, a bit too explaining the feeling than evoking it. I sort of think externalizing the emotion into the monk harms the story, that it would work better as an entirely internal sensation, or if the monk still exists, having him part ways with the narrator early and only his words remaining to influence things. Probably middle. Lemonie, Windows Brands are capitalized, not doing that for "Caravan" confuses the meaning here. This may be at the bottom if quality overall holds up. It's more about this person's psychic powers and mental challenges than a universal human emotion. It doesn't help that Susie, unseen, is a cliche from central casting with a horribly stilted only line. The refusal to resolve anything doesn't help it either. Simply Simon, Infinite Harmonies This works far better than it should. The character is an unlikeable brat from the start, the turn of his randomly gaining quantum superpowers comes out of nowhere, using them to construct musical utopiae seems wasteful (and wishing for a world where Jackson was never caught seems distasteful at best; one where he was truly innocent could never be one where he was the same artist.) But it does sort of work, despite all. Canasta Nasty, In Between Mostly I'm bored by this one. In a normal week that might mean the middle, but this may be a contender for the bottom. Too much explanation of backstory, not enough interesting done with any of it, not really evoking the sentiment. Just someone explaining their job. Lippincott, Seat Belts Stasis? Should be status or state, maybe? Solid opening, though a bit slow. Well written, but I can't quite buy him being a nurse and having that level of commute-time ennui; that one in that profession could find a near miss on the road the most exciting thing in memory I mean, maybe he's a nurse on a low excitement specialty or something, but he has emergency training and skills, so... Also his lack of guilt is striking and distancing. This mass casualty event is not entirely his fault, but enough contribution is there to make him come across as a bit sociopathic by not feeling it, and it's not like he's a doctor... Middle I think. Flerp, For No One Second sentence doesn't work in second person without a mirror. Eventually we learn that this is first person with second person direct addressing. That's a tricky POV that should be set up quickly. So "hard for me to see" would have done better I think. Solid overall, although I think it misses the prompt a little bit. High middle. Salgal80, Bloodlines Opener could use a comma or two. Don't like the second sentence at all, and the whole paragraph is a bit limp as a start. The lowish stories and story parts this week are hitting a pattern: let me tell you about my (protagonist's) job/commute/hobby for hundreds of words. While very little is happening. Prompt level: low, a better fit for Sonder really. Antivehicular, Radical Empathy Strong opening, very much my poo poo here, let's see where it goes. Stays strong, although the ending isn't really set up well enough, not enough to establish this as a cyberpunkish world where corporations can override the police on straightforward murder charges. Not sure if the permanence of the treatment fits in right either. Still, high. Anomolous Amalgam, The Rebinding of that which was Functional opening, sets expectations fairly well. Then three paragraphs of let me tell you about my magic system, ug. With poor grammar on top of muddled technobabble. Ug ug. Then an in character let me tell you about my other magic system. My loss candidate so far and unlikely to change. Prompt Ness: okay, not great. M. Propagandalf, Non-Playable Character The mismatch between voice and content is jarring as heck here. For someone who claims to be uninteresting he comes across like Dracula, like a Victorian era aristocrat or something. Who can certainly be boring, but not in the way you're trying to paint this guy. And then he unironically quotes Morrissey. Adding curses to a voice this late is always jarring. It might work as deliberate, as him getting so upset that he abandons the pretend of the earlier voice, but no, he's back to talking about Latin a few lines later. Low, dm maybe. Nethilia, Pamela's Diary Good kid voice, okay mission statement if a little on the nose. Strong work. Blatantly emotionally manipulative, but it works. The ending too. Would have been easy to go for a nihilistic end or a more unbelievably uplifting one, but it threads the needle. I liked this better than my cojudges, had it as my initial win pick, but that's because I can be a sucker for the right kind of emotional maniplation sometimes. Ironic Twist, Shed Red Thread Very strong opening. But this is a light snack, a clever little variant vampire story, when other entries offer a more satisfying meal. Middle. Kaishai, Choose, and Remember Long, is it worth it? Interesting opening, sets up a number of things at once. And the piece is, overall, good. It a well constructed story for that length, in ways that make it unfair to compare with those. I'm not sure a 1500 word version of this is even possible. 2000 maybe, but cutting further than that would lose what makes it work. Sitting Here, One as the Sky Okay opening. This is almost the same story as Twist's at core, although I think. And a bit like Kaishai's. All three map the prompt onto an alien, a superhuman or monster of some sort. Although the monster here does the least good job at being a metaphor for the sentiment of the three. Strong prose, but not enough substance to rise over the middle on my list.
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May 23, 2019 19:23
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Call No Man Happy 532 words "The problem," she said, "Is my husband." I nodded. "Sleeping around?" That was the usual. "No. Yes. Maybe." Her big green eyes went left and right, her head just a little bit up, then down. "I don't know." She made a bent little smile. "Isn't that what you do? Find out?" It was what it said on the door. 'Mark West. Answers made clear, problems removed.' "What makes you think-" "He's happy, okay?" she said. "I need you to find out how he can be happy." She laid it out for me, twenty sad years together. She had not so much as touched him for more than ten. Just empty looks and silence at home, pushing boring numbers and words around at work. No friends, either. "But he smiles. Not even the way I smile, sharp and short with the thought of him dead." I don't get much work from nice people. I told her what she'd have to pay. She pushed a check across the desk. "I'll be out of town for the rest of the week." The next morning I got to work. Followed him from home to work. He drove a tiny yellow car with windows covered in dirt. Easy to keep track of. Followed him after work. He went right home. Watched him through the window through the night. Nothing. Two more days like that. Then on the third he drives out to a bank machine, not his bank. I made a few calls. Bank people are easy, ready to please if you know how to ask, who to let them think you are. He had money there. Lots of money. I told her when she came back. "They say money can't buy it, but some of the time, and with this much..." I said. "You found my answer," she said. "Now, what can you do about my problem?" "You could bring a suit," I said. She shook her head and a lot more shook will it. "I have another way in mind. I can pay, and..." Her eyes made another offer. I'm not a good looking guy, spend my nights alone or with women without many other choices. And I, too, could turn money into a few happy days. I took her up on both. As we went at it, on my fresh cleared desk, I saw something in her eyes, a longing for me. For who I was. For what I was. I don't get much work from nice people. But I sleep just fine at night. He was easy to get at. A gun in the back and he did what I told him. We went to an empty night street and I shot him down. It was the kind of place that told the police a story that they would stick with all the way through. I cleaned the gun and tossed it with onto the ground. The gun had a story, too, that would fit right in with what the police already knew. I sleep just fine. I pick my jobs with care. Nobody gets that kind of money under the table and still has clean hands. I sleep just fine.
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May 27, 2019 06:09
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May 28, 2019 14:56
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The Final Performance of King Lear on Earth, Illuminated by the Light from an Expanding Sun 1000 words "It's started," said the Martian, squinting through his polarized telescope. Father nodded. He knew, seconds earlier. How long? I asked over private bandwidth. He didn't answer, but cocked an eye toward Captain Hod. "How long?" I said aloud. "Say six days," he said. "Time enough." Hod nodded and did his funny little salute, right hand thumping chest thrice. "Mars endures." He turned to leave. "You will attend the show, of course," said Father. "You still mean to perform?" said Hod. "Will you be ready?" Father scoffed. He was Ray Quise, the greatest actor of the last million years. He scoffed a professional scoff that left no doubt in any mind. Hod returned to his camp. "Come, Mira," Father said to me. "There is considerable work remaining." .* * *. "Why Lear?" I'd asked at the start of the project, when the science put the end a short few centuries hence, as we designed our Globe theater and our London. "Over what? If we did The Birds the audience would need to chip in classical Greek. Have you spent time thinking in Attic lately?" I shook your head. "You can't think about anything modern without translating it to a world of gods and spirits. Better English, Mira." "And why Lear? Ending with Prospero is more traditional." "We aren't yet drowning our books, just passing them down. Mars, as they say, endures, and may for billions of years more. Let their company put on The Tempest as the sun gutters out." We designed our Globe, our London to house it, a lake to stand in for an ocean around, then set nanomachines to building them, racing against the end. .* * *. "I'm not going," I told Father, as we put the last touches on the weather effects. "Of course you are," he said. "Not without you." "You know I can't. My quan may be right here," he said, pointing at the back of his skull, "But nearly all of my mind resides in the machines below the crust. Take me offworld and I'd be broken as Lear at his maddest." "Then I will stay as well " "You know," said Father, as he balanced the volume of the wind against his own voice, "Lear was not the only monarch to command the weather. King Canute ordered the tide to reverse. He meant to demonstrate that his power had limits, but in decades of retelling he just came off as a vainglorious fool." "What does that have to do with anything?" I asked. "If you must command the weather," he said, "Better to ask for what it is already inclined to do. Ask the tide to come in and out as the moon inclines. Ask for a rainbow after a light daytime shower. A hurricane will do one thing and one alone, so give it the command it will obey." .* * *. We took the stage the next day, Father as Lear and me Cordelia, with the Martians as audience, along with everyone as young as me not part of cast or crew, everyone with less than a few thousand years. The rest of the planet watched through the computers below, the last and greatest production. Holographic knights and armies filled the back of the stage, and every performance had behind it decades of rehearsal and the excitement of opening night. Then we took our bows on the bare stage, stripped of all artifice, just nanofabricated wood and cloth. We went out into the audience and mingled, taking congratulations from the Martians, and finally sent them back to their work. Father and I walked down to our Thames, cleaner than the real had been since before men arrived on the island, and settled by the shore. I rested on his chest, and fell into deep sleep under the stars and the angry moon. I slept deep and long, too much of both. When I woke Father was gone, and all my mental extensions were too quick, too responsive. I felt the slight soreness in my side where local storage and processing had been implanted. I stood, and felt how much lighter I was than before. Tears filled my eyes as I realized what that meant. There was a message. I did not read it then. I waited, waited until the solar shockwave struck the massive Martian vessel, larger than many moons, with miles of rock to shield crew and our London in the cargo hold. I barely felt it. The force of the Martian crew doing their salute as one, when the wave had passed, was louder and more forceful. Finally, I read. I hope you will forgive me, in the time I have given you. My generation has lived too long already. When the end was within reach we stretched our hands to cross that line. What disappointment it would be to die in the second-to-last cohort. We moved a planetary mind to performing nanomedical miracles, to keeping enough of our biology intact to hold on to our quans, to stay the same being and not a soulless copy of a copy. To see the end. But we could not allow you to share our fate. We paid your freight before you were born. This London was filled with priceless artifacts of billions of years of history: replicas of replicas mostly, but still treasures of Earth. And the data, the works of our deep and broad culture that were never deemed worth narrowcasting planet to planet. There are diamonds plenty among the dross, and some may spend lifetimes long as mine exploring it. I only hope you do not spend your life exclusively in that, nigh-infinite past. Live. Meet a wise and virtuous Martian or thirty, forge romances and alliances. Fight for justice, make new art. Even now there are plays to be written, sculptures to chisel, songs to compose. As for me, I plan to find some high cliff and greet the final dawn, and raise my voice to exhort the solar winds to rage and blow.
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Jun 2, 2019 19:03
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In and flash.
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Jun 4, 2019 21:40
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Night Shift! 1482 words Interior, nighttime in an open-plan office building with several CUBICLES in a row, most empty. Two (center, adjoining) are occupied by PETER and CAROL, night-shift employees in office casual dress. At the far stage right back is a DOOR, closed, behind which is a traditional office. CAROL: Urgh! PETER: What’s the matter, Carol? (Begin ‘Night Shift’, an upbeat, mid-tempo song) CAROL (Spoken, over light piano music): Have you ever stopped to wonder where it was your life went wrong For me, I know exactly to the day. When Justine was cutting corners and I wouldn’t play along She sent me here (sung from here) and this is where I stay On the night shift We’re working the night shift Where nothing ever happens but you’re busy anyway Out here on the night shift A call-center night shift It’s like dating men who never call and when they do they’re not at all like anyone you’d want to- PETER (Spoken): So, just like dating BOTH: We’re working the night shift For Heller and Montz PETER: They’ve got a hundred different things for sale that nobody wants When somethings not working We pick up the phone We’ve got a dozen different scripts to get to ‘It’s not our fault’ CAROL: Someday soon they’re going to realize That they don’t need to keep a center of this size The night and the day shift, each guy and each girl Could all be replaced with about ten lines of Perl PETER (Spoken): That’s not going to happen. CAROL (Spoken): Why? PETER (Points at the DOOR): Heller’s been making most of his money making book out of his office. Needs the office to stay open as a front. So he won’t every automate or outsource or anything. We’ll be here forever! BOTH: We’re working the night shift ‘Til someone gets wise CAROL: It’s boring here but daytime’s like the Lord of the Flies We’re working the night shift We’re stuck on the night shift There’s only one good thing, to say about the night shift Working on the night shift We’re safe from the queen Yes on the night shift, At least we don’t have Justine (End ‘Night Shift’) Offstage, Left, the sound of a door opening and slamming shut. Enter JUSTINE, a middle manager, dressed slightly more formal than the others and in red, including a bright red PURSE. CAROL: What are you doing here? JUSTINE: Hm? Oh, Carol, was it? I’d forgotten you existed. You know, just like everyone else at the company. Carol stands, and walks stage right. JUSTINE: Where do you think you’re going? CAROL: I’m taking my scheduled three-minute bathroom break. (Exist offstage right) PETER: What are you doing here? This isn’t your usual haunt. JUSTINE: I came to check on Mister Heller. Apparently he hasn’t been answering his phone. I guess he can keep busy down here, unlike some people. PETER: God, Justine, why do you have to be so petty? Main stage lights turn off as a slightly green-tinted spotlight illuminates JUSTINE (Begin ‘Petty’, a minor-key song, instrumentals dominated by strings. Starts slow, continuously accelerates until the end) JUSTINE: Petty... Some say that I’m petty I say that I’m wise Some say that I’m evil Now tell me who’s the fool who’s pushing that pack of lies? When I was just a child at my parents’ feet They always tried to teach me how to live They’d show me that a winner can’t accept defeat I took each little gem they had to give. (She stops in front of CUBICLE near the left side of the stage.) Mister Samoza was no great composer, no more of a poseur he was Each morning he’d hum a laborious thrum that would lodge itself right in my head Well I couldn’t let that stand, I had to make a little plan, the law does frown on murder so instead One day after work I went out drinking with that jerk and when he couldn’t stay up straight I shave his head (spoken)Some men can pull off the bald look. Frank Samoza...isn’t one of them. Petty... Some say that I’m petty I say that I’m wise Some say that I’m evil Now tell me who’s the fool who’s telling you those obvious lies? My parents told never to get even Their advice drilled itself inside my head So when somebody gets to hurting or deceivin’ I don’t get even I get ahead (She streches over to the next CUBICLE toward the center) Diana Savannah, fresh out of Montanna, she used to go out with my brother She dumped him on Sunday, I made sure by Monday her little blue Hyundai was trashed (spoken) Some people would settle for a few sweeps of a key across the paint. But it was such a small thing, and I did have a few of my brother’s friends with me. Have you ever seen a car parked on its side? Petty... Some say that I’m petty I say that I’m wise Some say that I’m evil Who says that I’m evil? (Trailing off, spoken) Seriously, give me their names. There’s always room on my little list... (End ‘Petty’, normal lighting resumes) JUSTINE walks up to the DOOR, knocking on it. JUSTINE: Mr. Heller? Mr. Heller? JUSTINE reaches into her PURSE, retrieves a key and briefly fumbles with the DOOR before opening it. She reached inside to flip a lightswitch, at which point the stage lights should illuminate the OFFICE behind. Visible is a desk, with MR. HELLER slumped over it, lifeless. JUSTINE screams. CAROL rushes back from off-stage, joins PETER, and gathers by the DOOR CAROL: Is he...? JUSTINE: (Holding MR. HELLER’s arm as if to check a pulse, drops it. It drops lifelessly to the desk.) Listen, you two. If you know what’s good for you you won’t call the police until I say so. There’s some very important company business I have to take care of first. In fact, give me your phones. JASON and CAROL produce phones. JUSTINE puts them in her purse, then runs off to the back left corner of the stage. CAROL: She’s looking for something, isn’t she. JASON: Look like it to me. CAROL: I wonder what. (Begin ‘Bug-Out Bag’, upbeat, medium speed, ragtime instrumentation) JASON(spoken intro): Isn’t it obvious? Don’t you know? The one thing that every criminal needs? To make a new life when the consequence finally catches up with them for all their misdeeds? (sung) A bug-out bag, A bug-out bag A little suitcase full of cash and other things you might want A bug-out bag A bug-out bag Where would he hide his bug-out bag? (patter or rap, depending on the actor’s abilities) Now a criminal with minimal agility of mind has got to understand when forming plans he’llhave to leave behind the lion’s share of what he snared for the police to find. But with a little time when undermined he’ll be inclined to flee if he prepared before ensnared a way to stay free A bug-out bag A bug-out bag Or maybe two, one for the office and the other for home A bug-out bag A bug-out bag Where would he hide his bug-out bag? (End ‘Bug-Out Bag’) (Dance portion beings, with JASON and CAROL together and JUSTINE separately searching the office, while also trying not to keep out of each other’s sight. Piano instrumentation and tap. Ends, eventually, with CAROL discovering a misplaced floor segment, lifting a hidden trap-door in an empty CUBICLE, and retrieving a SUITCASE. They open it.) JASON: (Whispered) Look at that. That has to be, what, twenty thousand dollars? CAROL: (Whispered) At least. And a new passport, and a fresh untraceable burner phone. JUSTINE: (Entering behind them, holding a tiny pistol) I’ll be taking that. JASON drops the phone back into the suitcase JUSTINE: It’s the least of what I deserve, after everything I did. He wasn’t supposed to die. I mean, I knew he was allergic to shrimp, but I was hoping for hives and sweats, not face down on the desk. Still, after what he did to me... JASON: What did he do to you? JUSTINE: When I showed him my niece’s paintings, he called them ‘pedestrian’. ‘Pedestrian’, can you believe it? JUSTINE shuts the suitcase and carries it awkwardly, as if it’s nearly too heavy for her to move as she exits, stage left. JASON: Of course, she’s going to get away with it. CAROL: I wouldn’t be so sure. You see, I managed to dial 911 before I put the phone down. (Begin Bug-Out Bag Reprise) BOTH: Her bug-out bag Her bug-out bag CAROL: It recorded her confession and will bring the police BOTH:Her bug-out bag Is gonna drag Her straight to jail and then to prison with no early release Just blame her bugged-out bug-out bag! END
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Jun 10, 2019 02:18
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In, flash.
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Jun 11, 2019 07:52
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From the Notebooks of Barron Tuesday: Secrets of the Sunken City 1360 words Dearest Gloria, You will notice, no doubt, gaps in this transcription. They come not from a want to censor or redact on my own part, but rather the condition of the original when my agents recovered it from a merchant in Kabul who swears it was untouched by him since he purchased it from a refugee fleeing Russia's late troubles. The covers are scorched and slightly redolent of petroleum, but this is the least of the damage: the rear covering and, alas, much of the interior has been ripped apart, as if by some manner of wild beast. Nonetheless, I trust this will aid in your pursuit of the history of your illustrious ancestor. Sincerely, Crispos II November 7, 1875 We emerged from thick forest to the top of the cliff so suddenly I wondered how many startled prey before must have run too fast and plummeted the two hundred feet, into the depression before us. From here we could see the massive extent of it, the nearly circular ring of cliffs punctuated by we waterfalls as streams flowed from various parts of the Russian wilderness. Captain Weisshaupt organized the ropes, rigging pulleys and counterweights on a sturdy overhanging limb, while Jamai,Yardley and I organized the supplies. After sending the box of rations and ammunition down as a weight test we descended, the Captain first, then me, then the Sikh. It was then that the treacherous Brit Yardley picked to strike. A thunderous crack from above assaulted my ears, unmistakably the report of an elephant gun. Yardley shot the tree-limb, severing it cleanly, and Jamai, counterweight, and branch all started to fall freely toward us, shadows growing ominously. The Captain backed away on foot, but I was transfixed a few seconds longer than wise, and barely had time to leap and roll aside. The branch landed across our supply crates, smashing the wood and crushing or scattering the contents. Jamai did not move or scream, his head tilted so far it was painful to look at. A mercy, given the alternative, no doubt. And Yardley was not done. A shot, less loud than the elephant gun, and I saw a plume of dust mere inches from my head where the bullet hit. One of the rifles. I resumed rolling, then sprang to a run, heading for the cover of the forest beyond the cliff-base. Weisshaupt did the same. I felt a sting in my left ear as Yardley's second shot sounded, and my hand drew to it involuntary, coming back bloody. I kept running, into the shaded wood. I heard a few more shots, but none hit home. We ran, heedless into those strange woods, unfamiliar odors mixing with the stench of our panic. A screeching growl struck us with almost physical force, and a beast half again as tall as either of us, a huge and toothy mouth, short but sharp clawed arms, all covered in purple and yellow down that flared as it reared back,no doubt to attack. My pistol was with the crushed supplies. I drew my field knife, thinking it inadequate next to the monster-bird's neck reach, and held it defensively. It reared back and roared, blasting us with the raw-and-rotting meaty breath of a predator. Then from the trees arose a sound, a human sound, a high-pitched ululation, and obsidian-tipped spears rained on the beast from the treetops. One struck home, skewering the neck, and the beast fell. We were rescued, but also made captive. ^^^^ weeks and months passed the Captain's classical education gave him a head start, as their language bore a relationship to Attic Greek, although only in the same sense that French does to Latin. My increasingly close association with Chyrena gave me opportunity for practice and correction, aided by her own prodigious study of English. Her sisters, or perhaps cousins, kept a constant watch until after a night of feasting and ceremony I only later came to understand to be a marriage, with no place to insert my assent, as freely as I might have given it. In the haze of the following morn I asked many questions concerning ^^^^ diminished, in both numbers and the capacity for specialization numbers provide. Their great forges that must have made this metal, brass treated to be both stronger and far lighter than steel, now sat cold and unused. Waterworks that once drove great mills served only to keep the depression from flooding over. Weisshaupt became fascinated with their rocketry, more advanced than mere Chinese fireworks, which he considered applicable to his dreams of ^^^^ library full of books, written in an ancient language none of us could begin to understand. Chyrena was in a rage at the folly of her ancestors, to allow something as wondrous and useful as the written world to be lost, perhaps forever. I gathered those with illuminations that marked them as relevant to the sciences and engineerings, intending to attend to the literature and poetry on some future ^^^^ returned with nearly a dozen gun-bearing associates, Russians, Tsarists not too proud to take British pounds. Yardley surprised us all by speaking the language fluently in his demand for surrender. Given that, the betrayal of the Queen's second, Phosis, should have been less shocking. Like most would-be conquistadors, Yardley understood the importance of cultivating local allies. Queen Biarsa had scarcely finished her defiant refusal when, at a slight gesture from Yardley, one of the Tsarists shot her square between the eyes. Chyrena and the rest of the guard let out a long modulated cry, as of mourning. Yardley fired his pistol into the air to end it. "Anyone else care to volunteer for a dose of lead?" he asked, aiming the Colt revolver at each person in turn while Phosis tried vainly to get his attention. Then he turned behind, alerted by a growing thunder. It had not been a cry of mourning but a call. A herd of feathered dinosaurs came crashing out of the woods, a purple wave of tooth and claw. The Russians turned and fired. Their weapons did damage but did not stop the beasts, nor were their bayonets proof against the toothy charge. More were trampled than fatally bitten in that ^^^^ Why?" asked Captain Weisshaupt, shouting over the storm. "You know how rich Skythian Brass could make us," Yardley answered, balancing the torch and revolver in his crossed hands "Yes, more than enough," I said. "To share?" Yardley barked a dark laugh. "Share what I have earned with a god-forsaken Kraut and a ^^^^ Water pooled, perhaps an inch deep, as the storm continued. I wondered how deep it would get, with the drainage tunnel collapsed by Yardley's dynamite. Surely not too deep. Then the second explosion sounded in the distance. ^^^^ Canyon to the north," I explained. "A dozen men with shovel to dig a canal, ending with a dam impregnated with explosives. When he set it off he loosed the waters of the mighty Volga straight toward the northern cliff." "How long?" asked Chyrena. "Until the Earth between canyon end and cliff erodes enough to form a channel?" suggested Weisshaupt. Chyrena nodded. "Hours, rather than days." "As the last of my people, I would not spend my final hours idly awaiting death," she said. "Wait," I said. "I have ^^^^ prepared to strap ourselves on to the Captain's hastily constructed rocket, a considerable improvement on my initial vision. Rigid gliders for the three of us, and parachutes to save our cargo, the brass samples and indecipherable books. "Remember," said the Captain, "Cut the rope at the flight's peak, which should be three minutes after the reaction concludes." ^^^^ This is the final entry. The rest we must infer. We know your ancestors survived, both your grandfather and grandmother, and of the fortune they and the Captain were able to build thereafter. The journal must have come loose in the fall. As for the other damage, the most parsimonious explanation is that at least some of the beasts of that now-drowned depression were capable enough swimmers to survive, and their offspring may yet roam the southern wilds of Russia to this day.
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Jun 16, 2019 22:24
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