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The First Minnesotan Funeral on Callisto 1251 words Archived Antivehicular fucked around with this message at 13:49 on Dec 29, 2019 |
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Feb 25, 2019 06:22
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anatomi posted:
Thirdtomi Brawl: THE GREATEST CHALLENGE I saw some allusions in chat to wanting a generous brawl deadline, so I'll give you one, but in return, I expect you to write in a speculative mode perhaps even beyond human comprehension: Write a story about an April Fool's Day prank that is not malicious, in awful taste, or otherwise lovely. 1500 words. Deadline April Fool's Day (April 1st), 11:59 PM Pacific. Toxx if you're down.
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Mar 8, 2019 01:57
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Let's roll, douche canoe.
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In and flash, plz
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Mar 12, 2019 04:22
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Re: supporting the forums, I'm gonna quote this post of mine from a month or so back:Antivehicular posted:Oh hey, apropos of nothing, now that I'm out of shutdown hell, I can offer my TD Avatar Good Words Bounty: This offer still stands. I dunno if anyone's eligible to claim it, but if you are -- seriously, bug me about it. Or go fight for new avatars. All of my hard-earned fivers are on the line here, people!
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Mar 13, 2019 09:21
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Saucy_Rodent posted:I’ll trade my HM last week for a new avi. Gimme an email to send the cert to, and I'll take care of it once I get home from work.
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Mar 13, 2019 22:40
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The Night Cousin 1380 words Flash rule: It's 3AM. You can't afford to sleep now. Archived Antivehicular fucked around with this message at 13:48 on Dec 29, 2019 |
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Mar 18, 2019 01:59
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animist posted:ok question: what's the etiquette for crits? like are you allowed to just throw a couple out or do you need to do the whole batch of stories for the week? Generally non-judges should wait until after judgment to post crits. Otherwise, do as many or as few as you like, no worries.
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Mar 18, 2019 23:51
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flerp posted:onsetoutsider skunk story crit I'm gonna piggyback off this good crit for my own thoughts. I suspect you'll be writing this one off as "dumb premise," but I honestly think the premise is fine, and I was interested in the first paragraph. The concept of roadkill piling up to impossible levels over the course of a week, and nobody noticing until the situation is beyond absurd, is a perfectly good magical-realism-flavored premise. I can imagine any number of good stories starting with that skunk pile. The real problem here is progress and execution. I know you had time-management issues, but I also suspect you had confidence issues, convinced yourself the whole concept was stupid, and deliberately half-assed it from there. I feel like this is maybe something you've done before in TD, and I'd like to see you get away from it, because it's self-sabotage and frustrating to read. I'm not sure what concrete advice I have for you, besides working on time management, but I think outlining might help -- give yourself a firm foundation to write from, both in terms of knowing where a story's going and in maintaining confidence that it's going somewhere worth putting effort into. Give it a shot.
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Mar 19, 2019 02:50
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Also, in.
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Mar 19, 2019 04:51
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The Buffalo Mountains, the Pelican Swamps 986 words Archived Antivehicular fucked around with this message at 13:50 on Dec 29, 2019 |
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Mar 24, 2019 19:31
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Thunderdome CCCXLVII: Suddenly, Everything Has Changed This is a writing-exercise type prompt I've been thinking about for a while. TD often focuses on action and story momentum, and while those are good things, I'd like to turn them more internal to characters than external this week. This week, write me a story where little to nothing changes for the protagonist's external status quo, but everything changes for their emotional or mental one. A fruitless task teaches them something crucial to the rest of their lives. Some average day-to-day event, or some bigger story they're on the fringes of, changes them irrevocably. I want to see clear internal development for a character without any external trappings of it. The only other rule of the week is no death in the story beyond the background level. Background deaths and deaths happening before the story starts are fine, but the protagonist or their loved ones dying is a major change to their external status quo, and if I read even one "protagonist meets a Manic Pixie Dream Person who loves them and dies, leaving them sadder but wiser" story, I will be profoundly displeased. You probably don't want me to be profoundly displeased. Flash rules are available but will be Flaming Lips songs, because I have a problem. Standard TD rules apply: no fanfiction, erotica, poetry, political screeds/topical politics, Google docs, quote tags, dick pics, or handwritten dissertations about masturbation. You probably know the score, and if you need to ask, ask. Word Count: 1500 Signup Deadline: 11:59 PM Pacific, Friday, March 29th Submission Deadline: 11:59 PM Pacific, Sunday, March 31st Judges: Antivehicular ThirdEmperor ????? SOMEONE ELSE ????? Entrants: 1. Staggy -- "Feeling Yourself Disintegrate" 2. flerp 3. onsetOutsider -- "Ego Tripping at the Gates of Hell" 4. Chili -- "Maximum Dream for Evil Knievel" 5. Obliterati 6. Salgal80 7. Thranguy -- "Moth in the Incubator" 8. Djeser  9. sebmojo 10. kurona_bright 11. Flesnolk -- "Assassination of the Sun" 12. Fleta McGurn 13. Bad Seafood 14. Ceighk Antivehicular fucked around with this message at 07:57 on Apr 1, 2019 |
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Mar 27, 2019 20:35
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Staggy posted:I really shouldn't but in, flash. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l8IP3S8dxU8 onsetOutsider posted:in flash! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6tkHIMqN-YM Chili posted:In. And Flaming Lips? Hell Yeah! Flash me, please. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FHQK4ICPYIM Thranguy posted:In and flash. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XA9z5Jq2f_w
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Mar 28, 2019 07:03
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Flesnolk posted:In, flash. Can't realistically toxx due to certain demands on my time that might throw a curveball into this whole thing but... I dunno, come up with some fun punishment if I fail. Or I have to brawl you, whichever. just do your best, mang, this ain't gotta be weird https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JhgbVWrY36s
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Mar 29, 2019 08:19
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Quick note: I'll be keeping signups open until 11:59 PM Pacific on Saturday, since this week got a late start and there's no harm in keeping the doors open a while longer. Submission deadline remains on Sunday, though.
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Mar 29, 2019 17:26
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Yoruichi posted:This week appears to be missing a third judge. You are! Also, signups are closed. Write words. Try to make them good, if the fates allow.
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Mar 31, 2019 08:14
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Fleta Mcgurn posted:oh god loving dammit, can I fix that? Okay, so after some quick chat in IRC, here's what I'm gonna do: keep your first post as is, so I can double-check that the only edit is the formatting, but repost the story in a new post with the formatting fixed. Alternately, we can always appeal to the archivists to correct your formatting for the archive.
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Apr 1, 2019 07:05
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Submissions are closed. Stories posted between now and judging will receive a DQ and a crit. Stories posted after that will receive a Redemption and maybe a crit. Stories posted never will receive a firm, disappointed glare.
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Apr 1, 2019 08:04
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TD Week 347: The Results You guys want fast? I'll give you fast. flerp wins. Djeser HMs. Nobody DMs -- it was a solid week all around. Thranguy loses. Throne's all yours, flerp.
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Apr 2, 2019 20:36
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Week 347: Crits Staggy, "Death, of a sort" I confess that these sorts of exercises in nerd-bashing humor are not always my bag, but I think this works all right. The real issue with Steve isn’t that he’s a nerdy Trekkie shut-in -- it’s that he’s terrified of change, and that he feels the need to inflict this fear even on those close to him. I wasn’t sure how I felt about the dialogue at first, but I think it works well overall, and there’s something affecting about how Steve goes from well-cited careful arguments about Trek minutiae to just sort of fumbling emotional appeal about real-life things. Salgal80, "The Undoing of Hannah McAllister" The concept here is fine, but I don’t really like the execution. This is in a first-person, pseudo-diary format, but the style reads much more flat and expository than anyone thinking or writing about themselves would (nobody has ever mentally exposited about their perimenopause this way). The dialogue about the dating-site thing is especially clunky. There’s also not much resolution here, which I understand is maybe a consequence of the prompt not allowing status quo change, but I think I would have liked to see the protagonist at least come to some mental conclusion once her husband is home. Does she decide to bury this? Is she about to blow everything the gently caress up? It’s okay if the potential affair plot never leaves her own mind, but boy, I’d like her to settle on a path forward about it. Djeser, "Ib-Nebu" This story made me do some Wikipedia research, which is maybe judge-cheating, but I wanted to make sure I understood what this was riffing on mythologically. It’s a good riff, but more than that, I think it’s an interesting moment to choose to highlight. What’s really happening in this story isn’t so much an escape as an awareness that escape is possible -- the equivalent of packing a bug-out bag and carrying a hotline number in your wallet -- both the incremental progress towards freedom and the psychological relief that comes from knowing it’s a possibility. This is a very human moment to capture in a story about Egyptian mythological fantasy about animal-people. I like it. Chili, "Cutting" I’m struggling a little with this one, because I can see the shape of it and it’s reasonably competent, but the character work seems kind of contradictory and shallow to me. I may be biased here by my own job, but reading that this dude is a tax cheat who also controls his children’s tax filing made the rear end in a top hat Alarm start going off in my head and made me assume this dude was going to need a lot of work on himself, but… I guess he just needs to re-prioritize? Obviously I know that assholes can still be good parents/grandparents, but the decision seems really light and trivial, and I think it needed more weight. (Maybe the point is that this is the kind of rear end in a top hat who can readily flip the switch and let people down when he’s getting more out of being a Good Grandpa than a Good Professional? But I think this story is supposed to be more charitable. Fleta McGurn, "Quiet Room" Good core concept, but I think it needs some editing to tighten it up. The question of where the line is drawn, or should be drawn, between symptoms of mental illness and authentic emotions and personality traits is a powerful one, and I think most people who have attempted mental-health medication treatment have struggled with it. I like the beginning and ending in that regard -- the mixture of relief and discomfort that comes without Bella’s inner hate-voice, and then Bella allowing herself to express authentic fear and self-loathing outside of her illness paradigm -- but the incidents feel a little messy and meandering. This would be a much stronger piece if we had a focus on one or two incidents that bring Bella’s inner conflict to the fore. flerp, "It Runs in the Family" Really nice dialogue work on this one. I found some of the grammar a little rough (lots, of commas, not always, naturally placed), but in a story that’s as dialogue-heavy as this, I’m willing to let that go. The situations and emotions feel very real: the deep family secret, the slightly gently caress-up-y older brother who’s struggling under the weight of trauma and trying his best, and the protagonist figuring out the shape of things and understanding his brother a little better. Good execution of a straightforward idea. Thranguy, "Quickening" This one has a really hollow feeling to me. Of all the stories this week, this one has the weakest character work; we have a handful of signifiers about Amanda (she’s into urbex and had a vacation fling, so maybe she’s adventurous? She works in law, I guess?) but I honestly don’t really get a feeling for her, and it makes her decisions sort of arbitrary. The sexual harassment feels gratuitous, frankly. I can see the shape of what’s going on here -- Amanda having a bad night courtesy of a lovely nihilist coworker but still choosing to exercise hope and optimism by having her vacation-fling-conceived baby? -- but I can’t tell how much of that is intended vs. just my reading of things, trying to get some character out of it. The combination of flat characterization, gratuitous sexual harassment, and some kind of shoddy ambiguity about things (who is Jackie? Amanda’s friend, I guess?) make this just not work. Bad Seafood, "The Road to the Sea" This is kind of a gutsy piece that I don’t think quite worked. I like what you’re trying to do here -- convey these two characters who can’t communicate still sharing a single moment of mercy, in a story with a broad outside POV to echo that in the prose -- but I think the POV distance doesn’t help the reader get a feeling for the characters at all. I liked it quite a bit, actually, but it’s certainly putting more of a burden on the reader than a lot of stories, and I’m not sure that’s a great choice in the TD environment.
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Apr 2, 2019 20:45
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In, and hit me with a story
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Apr 9, 2019 22:05
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Dismantling Father 1043 words Prompt: Fumblemouse's "Willful Indescretion" The library shelves at Eversing Terrace had taken weeks to install, but it only took three days to tear them down. For the first time in his life, Lawrence Clemence was grateful his father had been such a miser; the low-bid contractors he'd chosen for the library job had secured the shelves poorly enough that he could dismantle them with untrained hands and a power drill. It was work, but he was grateful for that, too. The burn in his muscles was a welcome pain, the feeling of his body doing honest work and obeying him -- a feeling he feared he might never feel again. Across the room, his brother Lance pulled another shelving board from the wall with a satisfied grunt. Lance's dress shirt was sweated through and rolled up to his elbows, his tie loosened for air; on the third day of work, a sensible man might have dressed down, but nobody had ever accused Lance of being sensible. "Close to done," Lance called out. "Wish Mum could see this!" "Better to let her be!" Their mother hadn't left their sister's flat in days, ever since the reading of their father's will, one last gasp of cruelty from beyond the grave. Lawrence hadn't expected some vast inheritance or any great sentiment, but he'd hoped, foolishly, for a moment of decency from the old man, or the usual insults. Instead: hideous novelty. Lance being willed the library shelves, and only the shelves, had been the least of it. Lawrence hauled down a shelf and carried it to the growing pile in the middle of the nearly-bare room. All the proper furniture was long gone, but Lance had brought in a camp chair and had sat down to mop his brow and drink from his water bottle. From the scent of it, it really was water, too -- maybe Lance did have some sense. "You're right," Lance said. "Poor Mum. Least we can do is keep her out of this. Lettie says she can sell the Torrenby Street house sight unseen -- lots of developers in the neighborhood -- get her some money for a new place." "She can have mine, if she likes." Lawrence sat down on the floor and reached for his own water bottle. A break had been a mistake. Without constant motion, his legs were going weak, and the gnawing pain low in his belly was reasserting itself. "I'm moving in with Dustin." "Wait, Dustin? Someone serious? Congratulations, Lawrence -- I didn't know." "Because I didn't tell anyone." There'd never been any reason to tell anyone in his family anything, before now, but with the circle tightening, maybe it was worth the risk. "And... it is serious, in more ways than one. I mean, we're serious, Dustin and I, but -- I'm starting chemo in two weeks. I'll need the help." "Wait." Lance stood up -- something he'd always done when he was confused or befuddled, as if being taller would help somehow. "Lawrence, look at you. You're not sick." "I wasn't supposed to be. They said they got it early, that surgery would clear it right up, but here we are. They say the odds are still good, but... doctors. It's good you bought that nice funeral suit, Lance. You'll probably need it." "No." Lance grimaced, stepping to Lawrence's side and flexing his hands, as if preparing to grab Lawrence by the shoulders and haul him up. "I've promised myself I'm not going to another funeral for thirty years. You're going to make it, and if there's anything I can do -- if you need somewhere to go, if this Dustin doesn't stay with you -- anything in this drat world, Lawry. It's yours." Lawrence drank deeply from his water bottle and climbed to his feet, just in time for Lance to pull him into a tight, sweat-damp hug. That was Lance for you. He'd loved Father the best of them, tried constantly to get in his good graces -- sold Lawrence and Lettie out for a grudging word of praise, when Father was having a generous day -- but on the worst drunken nights, they'd always hid in Lance's room, and he'd never once opened the door no matter how much Father screamed. In the bad times, Lance was there. Lawrence wanted to cry, and might have, if he'd come from a crying family. "Oh, let me go," Lawrence muttered. "We've still got a wall of shelves to finish." *** That evening, Lawrence came home to a flat that smelled of washing-up liquid. Dustin looked up from his vacuuming as Lawrence stepped inside, at his side and embracing him before he could warn him about the grime and sweat. "Lawrence! How are you? How's your brother?" "He's satisfied. We've gotten him his inheritance in full." Lawrence let himself lean against Dustin, letting himself feel the mingled aches of satisfying work and creeping sickness. "I'm exhausted. Need a shower, too." "Go shower. I'll call the Thai place. Your usual?" "Please." As Dustin went to call for takeaway, Lawrence stepped into the bathroom to strip off his work clothes and run a hot shower. It was two or three minutes of standing under the blast before he could form meaningful thoughts again, the kind of thoughts he so often fled from -- but there wasn't time anymore. He had Dustin to think about. And Lance, and Lettie, and Mum. Maybe he'd get through this, as hard as that was to believe. But maybe he wouldn't, and if he didn't, he'd need a will. Lawrence didn't own much worth giving away, but that wasn't the point, was it? The point was getting one last word in, and if Lawrence was going to be the next Clemence to die, he didn't want to be misunderstood. There were things he'd need to tell the world: that, whether Dustin stayed to the end or not, every day with him was a gift; that Lance's stubbornness was as much strength as flaw; that Lettie, always defiant, had taught him what bravery meant; that his mother had survived, and that was a triumph. That he loved them all in ways he didn't know how to express. He'd try to figure that out as he wrote. And maybe, if he lived, he'd find another way to tell them.
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Apr 15, 2019 06:00
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Thranguy posted:Interprompt: Running on fumes Inhale "I wrote this on my phone and didn't check" words There are two kinds of tourists: amused and angry. The first kind reads out your nametag, says it in their best Guido voice: "eyyyyy, Joey!" You're a punchline, a stereotype in your dancing-monkey gas-pumper uniform, a part of their New Jersey Vacation Experience. They're half right. You and your people are local -- have been for longer than they'll ever know. The angry tourists are more tolerable, because they're closer to understanding, even if by accident. They know you're taking away their power, their autonomy, the sense of mastery over their own cars. They can pump their own drat gas, and you know it, and they know you know. They seethe, and you breathe, slow and calm, ready for an explosion. You keep up that rhythm, slow calm inhale and exhale, whether they scream themselves red at you or sit in silence or make jokes. They all think you're slow; who else would take this job? You're on deferred admission to NYU -- but first, you have to put in your time at the pump. All your people do. You inhale, and you feel the gas fumes as much as you smell and taste them. They settle into your lungs, leak their power into your blood. For any people but yours, it's slow cancer. For your people, it's coming of age. At night, you can feel the fumes doing their work: organs of transformation growing, new hormones ramping up. This summer, you're a gas monkey. Soon, you'll be a Devil, and you'll own the night.
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Apr 23, 2019 02:50
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In with Rain on the Roof.
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Apr 24, 2019 04:01
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Sometimes Too Late 758 words Prompt: Rain on the Roof A hundred thoughts were running through Nevaeh's mind, but the only one that stuck was someone needs to wash these windows. The Lower Departure Lounge was glass-walled, and after three days of storm, the windows were covered in grimy streaks, cutting through old dirt and adding more from the ashen clouds. With the rain still pounding down, Nevaeh knew there was no point in washing them, but couldn't someone do something to make it a bit less sad? Then again, the Lower Departure Lounge being sad was the point. It was all metal and hard plastic, everything scuffed, and the brightest lights in the place were the glowing computer kiosks, every screen urging you to reconsider in bright green letters: "It's Never Too Late." In the three hours Nevaeh had sat there, she'd seen five people take those kiosks up on their offer, tapping on the screen and taking back their rejections of their assignments. There were still a few dozen stubborn rejecters left, though, waiting for the next cargo ship with labor contracts. She recognized all of them. They'd all been her classmates; perhaps half had been her friends; only Hunter, next to her, had been anything like her lover. Hunter had never loved her. She'd only ever been his fallback between real girlfriends, but nobody else had ever taken his place; now his last girlfriend was a star system away on her assignment, and Hunter was a rejecter, and Nevaeh was keeping him company for the last time. Funny to think of it as the last -- that she'd never get another message, the kind she recognized without seeing his name, "come over" in all lowercase, no emoji. Hunter wasn't much for words. He was on his tablet now, though, swiping furiously on his screen -- maybe, Nevaeh thought, it had just been her he hadn't had words for. When he realized she was watching him, which took a moment, he was only barely fazed. "Hey. Sorry, Lindsay hit me up. Wanted to let me know she got to Argus okay. She says they've got great hydroponics. Guess she got pretty lucky, huh?" It really was luck: luck to come out of the vats with the correct genetics for a garden-colony assignment, and for a few quirks of methylation to make you beautiful, a cut above the rest of their class and their clone stock. Lindsay was made for tending hydroponic orchids on Argus; Nevaeh was made for livestock processing on Pelops III. That was luck for you. "Sorry," Hunter said, and Nevaeh realized she must have been scowling. "I shouldn't talk about her. She's gone, and... I'm glad you're here." Something warm smoldered in Nevaeh's chest, like it always had, but only now did she realize how faint that feeling was -- almost more of a memory. She'd spent years cherishing any scrap of praise from Hunter, letting those scraps fuel her dreams, and where had any of it gotten her? The Lower Departure Lounge: dirty windows, dingy suitcases, hard plastic chairs. Hunter watched her with the dark, serious eyes she'd always loved, and yet none of her old fantasies came to mind. There was an emptiness in her head where he'd always been, and she wondered just how long it had been there. "Nevaeh," Hunter said. "Do you want to come with me? The next ship's supposed to have a ton of contracts. We can work a few years and then do anything. Be free people. You don't have to go to... what was it? Polyphemus?" "Pelops," Nevaeh answered, and thought of her assignment. Pelops III was no garden colony, but she'd seen pictures of the facilities, the grass-feeding pastures and the spiral abattoirs that kept the cows calm. She'd spent her life in the Facility training for Pelops III, the assignment she was engineered for, and now it was waiting for her. A home. A job. An arranged marriage to a boy from some other Institute, his gene-stock matched to hers -- someone she'd never met before, and someone who might love her. Hunter never would. What was freedom even worth, when you'd been built from the vat with a purpose? "No," she said. "I'm sorry, Hunter. I hope it's wonderful out there. I've got somewhere else to be." Nevaeh rose, and Hunter didn't stop her -- no grand gesture, no fantasy fulfilled. She hadn't expected it. She walked, and forced herself not to look back, to listen to the howling of the storm beating against the walls. It would die down soon enough. Storms always did.
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Apr 29, 2019 07:47
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Oh hey, it's the end of April, and I was supposed to judge a brawl at the beginning of April! GOOD WORK, SELF, YOU'RE A DISASTER Thirdtomi April Fool's Brawl Judging: It's Still April Somewhere These are going to be quick capsule crits because I'm on my phone at work and don't have the stories in front of me. anatomi: Lots of good ideas, not quite fully-baked. I like the historical context and the attempt to eradicate AFD before it becomes a thing; the weird touches of inhuman... intestinal?... detail re: the time travel also really intrigued me. That said, this feels like a half-fleshed-out outline more than a story at times. Aside from a vague allusion to tragedy, we don't have a lot of character or motivation here, and that's a shame. ThirdEmperor: This was late, but brawl DQs are lame, so whatever. I really like the core concept here, personifying the April Fool as a gadfly fae working against his own people for the sake of messy, delightful humanity, and I feel like you execute it pretty well. The big weakness is that occasionally you seem to get wrapped up in your own descriptions, which are lovely but can make it easy to lose the thread; the beginning is the worst offender here. Third wins, but full credit to both for writing stories I liked with that crappy prompt.
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May 1, 2019 02:42
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You don't get to give flash rules as a brawl participant, dingus
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May 2, 2019 07:10
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BLOWMUFFIN BUDDIES LWARB Write me a story about a neophyte trying to break into a challenging field. Bonus points if this field is not music, theater, the arts, or sports, unless it's a real weird sport. Surprise me, basically. 5000 words. End of May
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May 2, 2019 08:36
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You can and should also do Yoru's, btw If you don't, I will buddy-write a story about petting a griffin with whoever wants to
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May 2, 2019 08:43
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Okay, so, this came up in chat and I figured I'd make it official:Antivehicular posted:BLOWMUFFIN BUDDIES LWARB This is becoming an actual brawl, with teams of Anomalous Blowout/SurreptitiousMuffin vs. Yoruichi/Crabrock. The prompt/word count/deadline are as stated. Both teams are welcome to include as many or as few griffins as they see fit. Could I get some toxxes from Team Yorurock, please? Antivehicular fucked around with this message at 09:46 on May 5, 2019 |
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May 5, 2019 09:26
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In with Sonder
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May 7, 2019 22:25
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Radical Empathy 1454 words Prompt: Sonder: the realization that everyone has a story The meds kick in halfway to the job. I'm wedged between Marnie and Roscoe in the back of Blue's car-shared silver Benz, watching Blue fiddle with the radio presets and tapping on the dashboard, and for the first time I wonder: where'd he pick that up? When he was a kid, maybe? Blue's never been a talker, and I've always liked that, but suddenly I wish he would talk. It's the wanting that makes me know it's the meds. They said that'd happen. They called it "curiosity," but it feels like hunger, or chest-deep aching for a smoke. They also said it'd kick in within two weeks, but it's been three months since parole and intake, and I thought maybe I'd gotten the sugar pills. But no, three months on and suddenly there's a fire inside my brain, and I'm on my way to knock over a bank. I force myself to look at Marnie and Roscoe, people I know just enough about to not want to know more. I tell myself this'll be fast. It's an easy target in the uptown tech district; we'll be in and out in five minutes, and my share will give me time to figure my poo poo out. I won't have to go out -- won't have to look at other people, think of other people -- unless I want to. They can give me pills for empathy, but they can't make me use it. One job. Five minutes. I sit in the car and look at Roscoe's grubby knee. Blue guides us through traffic, and I glance up to see he's got both hands on the wheel, radio off. Someone taught him when to get serious. He's as old a hand as us, even if he fidgets, and he scores us a parking place a block from the bank, in a mass of silver BMWs and Benzes. No one looks at us twice as we pile out and start walking. They're not really seeing. But I am. I see the faces, every one unique, and the ranges of expressions of people staring at their phones. I imagine business deals sealed or lost, Skype calls with babies, long breakup texts. I get lost in the face of the college-age boy with a fresh haircut squinting at his phone -- he's got shiny job-interview shoes on, and his GPS has to be loving up, and he's probably about to be late -- and I don't realize it's go time until we're in the alley and Roscoe shoves a mask into my hand. A seagull. Roscoe's got a duck, and Marnie's slipping on a pigeon. There's gotta be a story here. This isn't the time to ask. I slip on the mask, make sure the eyeholes are clear. I check my watch: 12:14. The security guards are fifteen minutes into their hour-long lunch at the diner five blocks away. We're good to go. Roscoe always takes point, and he comes in gun drawn; he's never wasted any time. This place is an easy target -- poo poo, they let their security guards all take their lunches at once! -- but they'll still have a silent alarm, and we've got maybe ten minutes before the cops show up. The lunchtime bank crowd is on the floor, and the two tellers on duty are shoveling their bags full, and all I can do is stare at them. Their nameplates say they're Yesenia and Aracely, and they could be mother and daughter, or aunt and niece: one in her forties and one in her twenties, with the same round faces and button noses. Did Yesenia get Aracely her job, I wonder? Did the kid like it before now? Will she blame Yesenia for today? There's a choked sob from the mob on the floor, and I look away from the cowed tellers. It's just a little kid, maybe three or four, lying on the ground and taking big heaving sobbing breaths as quietly as he can. His mom's got her arm over his back, so he doesn't get any ideas. Good mom. Marnie and I aren't hair-trigger enough to shoot a kid, but with Roscoe, you never know -- And then there are footsteps coming towards us from a back hallway. Fast cops? A security guard coming back from smoko? I spin and pop two rounds off before I see who I shot. It's a banker in a blue suit, grey at the temples, big Welcome Back Kotter moustache, hands empty. Not trying to be a hero. His tie has little sailboats on it, and he looks like the kind of guy who'd buy a boat and take it out every weekend in the summer. I can see his widow a year from now, wondering if it's time to sell the boat, because they never take it out anymore and their oldest never did take those sailing classes, but it's a part of him, and how can she give that away? Several people are screaming. Roscoe's louder than all of them: "you see that? That's what you get!" I can't see his face under the duck mask, but I know he's grinning wide and mean. Roscoe's always liked it when someone gets popped during a job, especially when he's not the one doing the shooting. Christ, I loving hate him. For a moment, all I want to do is loving pop him right there, and then the meds remind me he's got a sister and a mom, somewhere out in the flyovers. They think he's in finance. I've never met either but I can picture the black dresses and the wailing, and suddenly I can't do it, no matter how much better the world'd be without that shithead in it. I can't do this. I drop the gun and bolt, and I don't look back, because if I do I'll see the dead man and his sailboat tie, and his story'll swallow me. I take off in the opposite direction from the car, knowing I won't have answers for Blue if I show up alone. I hardly have answers for myself. I'm running, taking random turns through Techtown, and clarity's seeping back in, mostly to tell me I'm completely hosed. If I get away, I'm blackballed, and if I had other options I wouldn't be holding up a bank with Marnie and loving Roscoe. If I get caught and not just gunned down, that's life in the joint. Prison on the meds, imagining the life of every rear end in a top hat and mope in the place, sounds like Hell -- and going off the meds? gently caress, I realize, I can't. You can't see things and then make yourself stop seeing. I've never looked away before, never flinched, and if I do it now I'll know how blind I am for the rest of my life. There's one option left. Ariadne Neuropharm's central lab is on 53rd, and I'm on 48th. I've only been there once, for my first intake three months ago, but the building's showy golden steel and you can't miss it. I start running with purpose, hearing the sirens behind me for the first time. I only need to beat them for five blocks. I force the brain-fire down, focus on the street and the sirens. They're blaring by the time I burst through the glass double doors, but I've won. I'm here. I tear my mask off in the lobby and rush the reception desk. The receptionist looks familiar, and she doesn't blink at the discarded mask, at the stink of sweat and gunshot that hangs around me. I cut off her questions before she can ask. "I want to volunteer. Inpatient." She stands up silently and leads me back into the offices. I can hear the sirens screaming outside, then a car door slamming. She leads me to a bare intake room, hands me a folder of papers and a pen, then steps out and locks the door behind her. She'll deal with the cops. I've just got to sign my life away. Ariadne Neuropharm inpatients don't leave as the same people, if they ever leave. Even just skimming the volunteer contract, I can see the clauses about indefinite stays and durable power of attorney. I don't care. All I can think about, as I sign in duplicate and triplicate, is what being an inpatient is going to mean. They'll get data from me. They'll make the meds better. It'll all go to people who need them: parolees who want to go straight, kids who don't want to end up in jail in the first place. People who use the meds to build lives. Maybe I'll get to meet a few, once I'm somebody else. That'll be nice.
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May 13, 2019 05:07
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A Right Setback for the Gripweed Lab 144 words Docs Gripweed, Brown, Bundren, Brown, et al.: This committee ain't pleased with your experimental design -- no sirree! We think the question of attention and focus in the online sphere is worthy of some darn serious research, but y'all show flaws in yer procedures that those Duke Boys could drive the General Lee through. The gaps between your input and prompt intervals are too dang large for your target audience; that passel o' polecats responds best to extremely rapid intermittent props, and your gaps of up to two days create major problems for interpretin' their responses and potential disinterest, hoo golly! You might should clean this grant proposal up and get it in its Sunday Best for reconsideration in next season. Yers in Science, Doc Eveline Pettibone, Ma Plunkett Professor of Downhome Sociology on behalf of the Cooter Sopwith Memorial Communications Grant review committee
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May 14, 2019 08:39
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In, flash
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May 14, 2019 20:20
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The Only Story Your Friend Knows 644 words Flashrule: Are those howls from the woods really from coyotes? archiving this weirdo Antivehicular fucked around with this message at 13:56 on Dec 29, 2019 |
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May 20, 2019 04:47
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In, and a thing to make the story harder, please.
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May 21, 2019 01:44
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How to Use the Doctor Machine 1028 words 15 words that are not simple (three different ones: two said once, one repeated often) Harder story idea: I like blue and red and yellow, but i do not like the colors together. When you are sick, you need to take medicine. If you have a doctor, she will make some for you. If you do not, you will have to make it yourself. Do not be afraid. We made the doctor machine simple for you. Everyone in the room with the doctor machine must wear ear covers. The machine makes a loud noise when it works, and this noise can hurt you if you do not wear ear covers. If you do wear them, it is still loud but safe. Be careful, but do not be afraid of it. If you are sick, do not use the doctor machine. It is not safe for you or anyone who uses the doctor machine after you. Tell a person who is not sick what to do. Stand near them and read them this book. Make your voice loud, so they can hear you. That will help them and will not hurt anyone. If you are not sick and helping someone who is, or you are a new doctor, here is how to use the doctor machine: 1. Press the spot on the machine that says "On." 2. Put your arms in the holes in the machine, into the covers that are inside. These covers let you work with the machine and keep it clean, and it keeps you safe. The things inside the machine are not safe for you to touch. (On the side, in different writing: We are sorry. I promise you that we are sorry.) 3. Your face should rest on a soft thing above the holes. This has glass to let you see inside the machine. If your face does not rest there, your body may not fit the machine, and you should find someone else to use it. (All of you should fit the machine. We made you so you would all be like each other, so it would be easy for you all to use the machines we left you. I do not know if that was a kind thing to do.) 4. Inside the doctor machine are three spots with three different colors: red, yellow, blue. If it is dark or you cannot see colors, look at the shapes: red is round, yellow is three-sided, blue is four-sided. Each spot makes a medicine for a different way to be sick. (We tried to make life simple for you. We tried to make you simple. Three ways to be sick, three ways to get better. Are there new ways for you to be sick, now, that this book doesn't know? That the doctor machine can't fix?) If you feel too hot, like you're burning, and see things when you sleep, you need the yellow (three-sided) medicine. Push the spot once, then wait for it to light up, then push it again. The machine will begin to make a loud noise. Do not be afraid! This loud sound is how it turns the things it stores into safe medicine. When the machine is done, it will go quiet, and the door will open with the yellow medicine inside. It is a hard yellow ball. Do not break it! Put it in your mouth and swallow it whole with cold water. Soon you will feel less hot and you will sleep without dreaming. If blood comes from your mouth or your holes, you need the red (round) medicine. Push the spot, wait until it lights up, then push it again. The light will turn on and off quickly. Push the spot again. This noise will be louder. The red medicine is strong and the machine has to work very hard to make it. (We are sorry about the blood. There was no other way to make that part of you work with what we knew then. When we come home, we will fix it.) The red medicine is like water, but very thick, and darker than blood. Put it in your mouth and let it melt away. If you can drink water, drink as much as you can. Eat if you can. Do not go to sleep again until something leaves your holes that is not blood. If you cannot sleep or work, or you sleep too much, and there is a darkness or a heavy feeling in your heart, you need the blue (four-sided) medicine. Press that spot once. This will be quick, and there is no noise. Blue medicine is easy to make, and the doctor machine stores a lot of it. The blue medicine is like water. Drink it. If someone is sick and asleep, open the hole in the back of their neck with a doctor's key and put the medicine in, to help them wake up. It may take a lot. The blue medicine is not very strong, and this way of being sick is strong and slow. Do not be afraid. Just do your best. (We did not make this way of being sick. The burning we made, because it is good for you, although it feels bad. The blood we made, because we had to. The heavy heart we could not find a way not to make. If we could have made you happy all the time, we would have, but even making you simple did not fix it. We tried our best.) 5. When you are done with the doctor machine, step away and press the spot that says "On." It will turn off. If you turn off the machine, it will make less noise and last longer. If you are afraid or not sure what to do, ask a doctor or reader. If you have no doctors or readers, touch the teaching machine and ask for help. If you have no teaching machine, just try your best. You will be all right. You are strong. (We love you very much, more than my words can say. We are sorry we had to leave you. We will come home, one day, and we will show you the sky, and we will fix everything together. I don't know how long it will be. I'm so sorry.)
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May 26, 2019 08:39
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In.
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May 28, 2019 23:20
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Thanks/I'm sorry, Kai
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May 29, 2019 07:28
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Anomalous Blowout posted:Also while I have internet access: I am working in a foreign country presently and spent the first two days of this trip in hospital, so in the interest of not dying from pure stress, would the LWARB participants be amenable to an extension? Something like 20th June? I am exquisitely ill and traveling at the same time and I'm happy to eat the ban if everyone else is good to go but since this is a collab story between GIANTS OF THE DOME I'd like to try to take time to actually make it good. As judge (egduj?) of this lwarb, I'm fine with this if all parties involved are.
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May 29, 2019 11:45
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Find Out What You're Made Of 992 words Archived Antivehicular fucked around with this message at 14:01 on Dec 29, 2019 |
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Jun 3, 2019 04:15
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