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Central Character is… A COLLECTOR +69 words and a…. DIAMOND CAPSULE Setting is… IN A CITY +160 words and a…. DIAMOND CAPSULE Song is… Kingdom of Rust, by Doves +72 words and a…. DIAMOND CAPSULE The Rust Queen 950 words Micaela - my favourite, and worth every dollar I paid for her - has presented me with a fake. I have killed girls for less, and she knows it. This one is good; a replica 1873 Winchester, artfully aged to be passed off as an original. Micaela has worked hard, I’ll give her that. I would have been satisfied with the rifle as it was - even as a replica, it still dates from before the Calamity, and thus would fetch a pretty price with off-world collectors, nostalgic for relics from the old Earth. But, Micaela knows exactly how much she owes the Rust Queen. An antique this rare - if it were genuine - would be enough to buy her freedom. *** I found Micaela chained in a line of men, digging through the mud in an old canal outside the city. A fat slaver with missing teeth held up the object I’d come to see. A 1950s Beretta, badly rusted. Could clean up nice, but it would never fire again. “Who found it?” I asked him. He nodded at a mud-encrusted waif. She was stick-thin, her dark hair matted and filthy. The slaver’s eyes lingered on her, and I shuddered. I knew that look too well. “I’ll take this,” I said, hefting the pistol. “And her.” He hesitated. “She’s not for sale.” I sighed. Some men will only listen to the violence of other men. With a delicate flick of my wrist I signalled my personal guards to approach. “Everything is for sale,” I told him. “Now, shall we start again?” *** “How’d you find it?” I asked her later, as I combed the knots out of her freshly-washed hair. The steam from my bath coiled around us. “I just got lucky, I guess.” “A woman has to make her own luck,” I told her. *** The first artifact that Micaela brought me was a pocket watch, early 1900s, its delicate mechanism frozen with rust. “How’d you find it?” I asked her. My brand, a florid RQ, was still red-raw on her arm, overlapping with that of her previous owner. “I just got lucky,” she said. Then, she asked, “how much is left?” Most slaves, if they don’t get killed trying to run first, can buy their freedom in 10 or so years. Micaela knew what she owed me, down to the last cent. *** “How much is left?” Micaela asked, as I examined the exquisite pair of art deco earings she had brought me. “Oh, you will be with me for many years to come, my lovely,” I said, preoccupied with the earings. Micaela frowned. “You’ve been giving me bad leads on purpose, haven’t you?” I looked up, surprised at this rare act of defiance. “Your bond-debt was dropping too fast,” I snapped, then immediately regretted this show of weakness. I cursed my foolishness for thinking she wouldn’t notice. *** Micaela was late returning from a job. I gave her a day’s grace - the most I could afford before my generosity raised eyebrows - then sent enforcers after her. They found her with a boy, in an apartment in the market district. “You are late,” I said, my voice echoing around the dusty warehouse. She shrugged, not meeting my eyes. “I just haven’t gotten lucky recently.” I stood up, strode across the room. I raised my hand, but couldn’t bring myself to slap her. “Women make their own luck!” I spat at her. I was shaking, furious that she might have found happiness without me. “I saved you from that disgusting man and you just go and give yourself to some boy?” My face was close to hers, my voice a harsh whisper. “I own you,” I said. “Don’t you forget that.” “How could I?” said Micaela, pushing me away with her branded forearm. *** And now, she has presented me with a fake. “Come, Micaela, I have something to show you,” I said. I led her through the warren of my warehouses and into the crumbling highrise that I claimed as my home. The elevator still worked, barely, and we rode it up to the penthouse floor. I walked slowly through the apartment, letting her drink in my lavish furnishings, the racks of exquisite off-world wine, the rare fruits stacked on my table. On the balcony I swept my arm towards the luminous web that hung in the sky above the dust-brown city. “Soon I will have enough money to leave this planet,” I told her. “You could come with me.” The sleeve of my silk gown slipped back, revealing a large patch of shiny scar tissue, where, years ago, I cut out my own brand with a kitchen knife. I quickly shrugged it back into place, but Micaela wasn’t looking. She stared not at the distant lights of the off-world habitats but down at the sprawling city, its dark expanse punctuated by the glow of cooking fires. The distant thud of music floated up from the dusty streets. “This is my home,” she whispered. She was still holding the fake Winchester, and thrust it towards me. “Take it,” she said. She stared straight at me, though her arm was shaking. “Guess you found that just by getting lucky, did you?” I said. “A woman makes her own luck.” I smiled at that. I had taught her something, at least. I took the forgery from her, felt its weight, and that of Micaela’s life, pressing too heavy on my hand. “Your debt is cleared,” I said. Then, “what will you do now?” But Micaela was already striding away from me. The elevator doors clanged shut behind her. I stayed on the balcony a long time, staring down at the city from my rusted tower.
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Jul 28, 2019 08:12
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Jul 29, 2019 20:45
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Go on then gimme a hell rule too 
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Jul 31, 2019 01:01
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Take The Anomalous Moon Blowout Brawl Your prompt is: A person standing in the sun, smiling. 2,000 words Due by midnight on Thursday 15 August, NZ time. Yoruichi fucked around with this message at 02:13 on Aug 1, 2019 |
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Aug 1, 2019 01:06
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Thank you for the crits Chili and Anomalous Blowout!Chili posted:Yoruichi: For this can I please request a crit of Human Geometry, from week 297.
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Aug 3, 2019 10:53
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Personality type: ISTP (https://personalityjunkie.com/istp-type-profile/) Hell rule: Your story takes place during a nuclear war. No-one may die. I sneezed on your baby 745 words “Stop it, you little fuckers,” I mouth-breath to the army of germs that are attacking the interior surfaces of my face. YOU ARE NOT FIT TO TAKE CARE OF A BABY, they respond in unison. “I told Lucy that I’m sick but she said there was no one else free and that if she had to push a screaming baby around Countdown one more time she’d probably leave him there, so--” I wave my hand at the toy-speckled scene of before me. Liam is lying on his back on a sheepskin rug. He gives me a solemn look and puts his foot in his mouth. Fingers of cold slime are working their way down my nostrils. YOU CAN’T KEEP US IN HERE FOREVER, they chant. “Lucy said she’d be half an hour.” I reach for the box of tissues. It’s empty. “I can hold you until then.” With a mighty inhale I sniff the germ escape pods back into the confines of my skull. SHE’S ALREADY BEEN GONE 40 MINUTES. YOU DON’T EVEN LIKE BABIES. “I have to like this one. He’s my nephew. There’s not way I’m going to you infect--” My sentence is cut off by a wheezing cough and I double over, palm pressed against my mouth. Liam’s frown deepens as I choke on my own diseased breath. He takes his foot out of his mouth and lets out a single, exploratory sob. ADMIT IT, HE TERRIFIES YOU. With a shudder I swallow a glob of phlegm. “That’s not true.” It is true though; I have no idea how Lucy does it. Liam’s mouth is widening alarmingly. “Hey buddy, it’s ok. Look!” I pick up a pale blue teddy bear and waggle it at him. Clouds of microscopic dust particles and desiccated baby-slobber waft from its matted fur and coat the surface of my eyeballs. WE’VE GOT YOU NOW! I hear from somewhere behind my throbbing forehead. My eyes start watering like crazy and fire-ants prickle the inside of my nose. I press the butts of my hands against my cheekbones, then pinch the bridge of my nose and tip my head back, directing the tears and mucus down the back of my throat. “No! I lub this baby,” I say, tilted over the back of the couch. DO YOU? YOU HAVEN’T TOUCHED HIM ONCE SINCE LUCY LEFT! From the floor I hear a long, high-pitched whine, and I lurch back upright. The enemy troops redirect down my inflamed nasal passages. “I’ve touched him before! I just don’t want to make him--” Liam fills his lungs and lets out a wail at a volume that should be impossible for such a tiny person. I jam the sleeve of my hoodie against my streaming nostrils and slide off the couch to kneel next to him. “C’mon bud, don’t cry,” I say, my hands hovering above the little bundle of inexplicable rage. “Please.” SEE? YOU’RE A TERRIBLE AUNT! “Why don’t you just gently caress off?” HAVE IT YOUR WAY. At the centre of my maxillary sinus, a red button is pressed. The germs go nuclear. Mucus pours down the back of my throat and my nose feels like it’s full of rapidly expanding foam. I can’t breath. My eyes stream and my vision blurs. My body tries to suck in air, and snot and phlegm flood down my trachea. I’m drowning and Liam is screaming and everything goes dark-- FREEDOM! scream a million tiny voices. A giant mushroom cloud of snot and saliva erupts from my nose and mouth. The particles glitter as they drift through the shaft of sunlight coming through the ranchsliders. The inside of my face feels like a blasted wasteland, and I suck in a mercifully clear breath. There is a moment of perfect, sunlit silence, and then Liam starts to laugh. He burbles, waving his hands at the glistening cloud that drifts down around him. The front door bangs. Lucy walks in and dumps her bags of shopping next to the fridge. “Hey, look at you two!” she says. She pulls a box of tissues from one plastic bag and chucks it to me. “I told you you’d be okay with him.” I smile ruefully at her and blow my nose. “I’m sorry I sneezed on you, bud,” I say to my nephew, stretching myself out on the rug beside him. He grins at me, tiny fists clenching and unclenching in the glimmering air.
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Aug 5, 2019 10:30
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Aug 7, 2019 06:04
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Prompt: Elvis didn't die -- he just got tired of being the King The King is Dead, Long Live the King 980 words The King wasn’t dead. Keith knew it. Twenty years ago the King himself had offered Keith a job working security at Graceland. Helped him quit the booze, gave him a chance when no one else would. Believed in him. And now it was Keith’s turn to believe. That lawyer’s lackey who had told Keith he was being “let go” a mere two days after the funeral could take his measly payout and shove it. The King was not dead. He was out there, and Keith was going to find him. *** “Bullcrap he had a heart attack,” said Maude, bingo marker poised like a snake about to strike. “Young man like that?” The caller shouted a number, and Maude dabbed another big dot onto her card. “I’m telling you the aliens have him. They took Betty last year.” Maude nodded towards a woman with thin, blue-rinsed hair. “Poor dear’s never been the same since.” Condensation from Keith’s glass of lemonade had soaked a hole through his untouched card. The vodka he’d added from his hip flask wasn’t helping. He hated being at bingo on a Tuesday, like some drunken good-for-nothing. He should be at work, walking his familiar beat around Graceland’s pink fieldstone wall. “Don’t listen to her nonsense, Keith,” said Owen. “You need to cheer up. It’s past time you retired anyway, what with that hip of yours.” Under the table Keith’s hand paused in its kneading of his aching thigh muscles. “Nothing wrong with my hip,” he mumbled. “In twenty years I never took a single sick day, you know!” Keith’s voice rose. “And now they say he’s dead and a dead man don’t need no security! Well it ain’t true! I--” “I heard his real people came for him,” said Betty, leaning suddenly into their conversation from the opposite side of the table. Her too-big cat-eye glasses had slipped to the end of her nose. “Just like they said they would.” Keith’s heart pounded. He recalled an overheard conversation, from a hot summer night years ago. The King had been sitting alone in the dark, trousers rolled up and his feet dangling in the kidney-shaped pool. Not yet, Keith had heard the King say to the darkness. One day, came a hissing reply. We’ll come to take you back. The King’s shoulders had slumped. Keith had hurried away, afraid of being caught eavesdropping, and later convinced himself he’d imagined it. Betty’s rheumy eyes bored into Keith’s over the top of her glasses. “You just have to follow the river.” Keith’s chair scraped loudly against the bingo hall’s wooden floor as he stood up. “Keith, where are you going?” demanded Maude, as he strode from the hall. *** Dawn light filtered through the cypress trees as Keith’s flat-bottomed fishing boat drifted down the vast Mississippi. Empty bottles clinked against his feet. When he’d pushed the boat onto the river last night he'd figured he'd know where he was going when he got there. The riverbank gave way to the entrance to a swamp, and Keith steered the boat in between the trunks. A sudden splash from his left startled him. Probably just a catfish, he thought. Keith was sweating, despite the cool morning air. Suddenly an alligator reared out of the water in front of him. Keith swerved, the boat hit a partially submerged log and tipped, sending Keith tumbling into the swamp. He thrashed to the surface, grabbed the edge of the upturned boat and clung to it, gasping for breath. There were alligators everywhere. They watched him from small islands between the trees and floated in the swamp around him, eyes hovering just above the algae-covered surface. Keith struggled towards the one alligator-free mound of mud he could see. Their eyes tracked him. I’m going to die, he thought. Keith wondered if Maude would think the aliens had gotten him too. Unbidden, the opening notes of Amazing Grace drifted through his mind. Keith started humming. He’d always liked the King’s gospel music best of all, and it seemed fitting, given the circumstances. The bottom of the swamp began to slope up and Keith could breathe easier. He started to sing, his voice wavering in a pallid imitation of the King’s sonorous baritone. Keith staggered onto the mound and stopped, as the biggest alligator he had ever seen marched up out of the swamp towards him. Its white teeth gleamed in the dim light. Keith fell to his knees. Casting his eyes up towards his maker, Keith picked up the refrain again. “I once was lost...” The beast reared onto its hind legs. One green lip lifted in a slight curl. “But now, am found.” The ‘gator’s knees bent, its legs rubbery, and its hips swayed in time with the song. “Was blind, but now, I see.” As Keith held the last note the alligator tossed back its head and windmilled one forearm. A ray of morning sunlight broke through the canopy, illuminating the giant creature on its muddy stage. Overcome, Keith crumpled, pressing his forehead to the ground. “I knew I’d find you,” he sobbed. *** “Keith! Where in God’s name have you been all week?” said Owen, as Keith plonked into the seat next to him. Keith smiled and took a big gulp of lemonade. “A man’s got things to do, you know,” he said. “A man needs a shower,” said Maude. “Keith, you stink like swamp water.” “Swamp water’s good for your skin, my dear,” said Keith, and patted Maude on the cheek. She batted his hand away, blushing. “Have you heard the latest? His middle name is misspelled on his tombstone! That proves the King is still alive.” “He's alive alright,” said Keith, leaning back in his chair. “He's not coming back though.” “How do you--” Maude was cut off by the caller shouting another number. With a smile Keith popped the top off his marker and dabbed a big dot onto his card.
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Aug 11, 2019 10:08
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In, gimme something super metal
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Aug 13, 2019 00:17
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While NZ does in fact exist in the future, midnight is still midnight. I.e. the middle of the night, the witching hour, the in between one day and the next. As I write this it is Wednesday morning in my dimension, so you have 48 hours until the time at which I will read your entry.
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Aug 13, 2019 22:09
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You're all good dude, I am looking forward to reading your words 
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Aug 13, 2019 22:27
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Take The Anomalous Moon Blowout Brawl Result This was a great brawl. You both showed up with interesting pieces that you'd clearly put effort into. Nice work. You certainly didn't make my job easy. Black Lung was beautiful and thought provoking, but confusing. I loved some of the language and images, such as, "She has sorrow worth torrents that she can’t release," and, "The offspring slips closer like one turns a page." I thought the characters - the cursed one, Tagata, Eloal and Cirra - were fascinating. I would like to read more about them. But, the last line of this story starts with, '"What do you mean?" she says,' and I confess that at this point I was asking the same thing. Like looking at an abstract painting, I enjoyed trying to work out what the artist was trying to say. But, even after several reads, I'm still not quite sure what the ending of this story means. Things That May Yet Shine Again, on the other hand, is competently written, but feels like the outline of something bigger. Aloiso's journey through this story - from his commitment to his 'mission' and resolution to steal his dead friend's secrets, through to confronting his own grief - is well-done and satisfying to read. I'm guessing that the city this is set in is supposed to be fantasy / medieval, but this isn't actually clear, and confused me initially. Similarly, it feels like there is much more to the relationship between Aloiso and Cachetano than you managed to fit into your work limit, and this weakened the story's impact. So, which one of these is quote-unquote better? Who deserves the win? At this point please picture me pulling at my hair in an agony of indecision. Take the moon's story was a wonderful jumble of colour and ideas, but there were so many in there that ultimately they got in each other's way. I really had to concentrate to work out what was going on, and the ending left me feeling a bit lost. While Things That May Yet Shine Again felt like it wanted a longer word count, it had smooth, clear prose and well-edited ideas. I hope you both do more with these stories - editing / clarifying and expanding respectively - because they are both worthy of further polishing.  Anomalous Blowout wins
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Aug 16, 2019 10:24
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Prompt: It’s a wicked world in all meridians; I’ll die a pagan. In The Depths 1090 words Agwé, forgotten Goddess and shepherdess of the sea, rose screaming from the depths. The death-songs of her children had ripped her from her slumber. Wooden boats of men were dark silhouettes on the surface of her desecrated ocean, slick with the blood of harpooned whales. She burst from the sea, her body a huge wave, and crashed down over the stern of the whaling ship. Agwé saw the bodies of her children, mutilated and tied with oiled ropes on the stinking deck. She howled, and a sudden wind rent the ship’s sails. Men shouted in fear as lightning crackled across the sky in sympathy with Agwé’s anguish. Torrential rain sluiced gore from the deck and churned the sea into bloody froth. Agwé raced around the ship in her distress, the wake of her passage making it rock violently. She was too late; the whales were all dead. Men had done this. Men who came only to kill, befouling their bond with the sea. Men who had forsaken her. The cry of a lone calf echoed beneath the waves. Agwé halted, casting about for the source of the sound. She saw the calf, out beyond the spreading circle of blood, a single whaleboat rowing hard in pursuit. A flash of lightning glinted off sharp steel as a whaler let fly his harpoon. It stabbed into the calf and Agwé felt its pain deep within her soul. Rage welled up in her as the calf’s hot blood unspooled. Agwé’s fury gave the red tendrils form; they coagulated into muscle, grew vicious hooks and hungry suckers. She wanted revenge. The blood of men for that of her children. The calf’s carcass split open, and from its ribcage spewed forth a huge creature, its mantle blood-red and its eyes as black as the deepest ocean trench. Agwé watched as her rage-made-manifest broke the surface with flailing tentacles. The kraken smashed the whaling boat to matchsticks; the men screamed only briefly before the frothing waves swallowed them. Agwé smiled, baring her teeth, as the kraken turned towards the ship. *** Isaiah, shanghaied deck-hand, was roped to railing of the ship’s bow, his right arm held out straight by one of his shipmates. The man wouldn’t meet his eyes. The Captain stood before Isaiah, holding a skinning knife. Dark clouds roiled above them. In a flash of lightning Isaiah saw tentacles rise from the sea and descend upon the distant whaling boat. Then the men and the boat were gone and there was nothing but the black waves. Fear wrenched his gut and he convulsed against his bonds. The Captain yelled into the howling wind, cursing the ill-fortune that had brought this unnatural storm upon them. Isaiah screamed as the Captain plunged the knife into his inner forearm. The Captain cut deep, carving the spiral of a nautilus shell into Isaiah’s flesh. Isaiah sobbed with pain as the Captain gripped his wrist and held the bleeding sigil out over the sea. “Blood for blood,” the Captain shouted, baring his teeth to the storm. *** The kraken reached the ship and plunged its beak into the keel. Biting and tearing, it ripped chunks from the wood until it penetrated the hull. Water rushed into the hold, upsetting the barrels stacked inside. The kraken smelled the flesh of its brethren, and howled. With chitinous suckers it gripped the hull and pulled itself up the side of the ship. A long tentacle crested the upper deck and wrapped around the mast. The thick timber groaned and men screamed. One brave soul hacked at the tenacle with a butchering knife. The mast splintered with the sound of a cracking whip and crashed down, splitting the planks of the deck and knocking the man into the waves. The kraken’s arms flailed, blind in its rage, against the stricken ship. *** Shock reverberated through Agwé’s body as she felt sigil-blood drip into the sea. She tasted salt and iron, and heard the words of sacrifice shouted against the storm. So there was one aboard who remembered the old ways, after all. Agwé surged up past the bow in a great waterspout. She saw the Captain standing over a bound and bloodied boy. In his hand was a knife, tainted not just with the boy’s blood but with that of her children. It had been used to rend their flesh, and now this man dared to heap outrage upon outrage by using such a blade to commune with her. Agwé drew herself up into a huge wave and crashed down over the bow. The Captain crumpled under the force of the water and Agwé tossed his broken body into the sea. The kraken thrashed against the splintered timbers of the deck, oblivious in its anger to the shards that ripped its flesh. The ship listed, its lower decks full of water and its hull split. Those men that could lept aboard a retreating longboat, only to be capsized in the tumult of Agwé’s waves. The surface of the sea roiled as the ship succumbed to the kraken’s embrace. The bodies of the whalers tumbled in its vortex as the kraken dragged the doomed vessel into the depths. Isaiah thrashed against the ropes that bound him to the bow rail. Bubbles streamed from his nose and the light from the surface quickly faded. His wounded arm burned as his blood pumped freely into the sea. Agwé could feel her sigil, still alive and crying for help. She dived down to the boy. She tilted her head, left, then right, observing him with eyes like two full moons. He was so young. The last of his air left his body and he slumped against his bonds. Agwé thought of the murdered calf. She shuddered with anger, and the kraken lunged for Isaiah with its beak. But Agwé was not like that man, who would hurl a lance into a babe. She threw her body before the kraken, holding it back though its hooks flayed her back. She opened her mouth wide, and swallowed the boy. *** Agwé regurgitated Isaiah in a rush of saltwater onto a rocky shore. Raindrops hissed against the wet sand. The spiral-shaped gash on Isaiah's forearm was red and ragged. Agwé pressed her lips to the boy's flesh. Saltwater washed into the wound and Isaiah's body jerked, and took a deep, shuddering breath. Clanging and the shouts of men echoed down the shore from the whaling village. Agwé would let Isaiah tell them the story of his Captain’s fate, and what waits for them in the depths.
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Aug 19, 2019 02:06
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Yoruichi posted:A crit of Three things I remember happening by Sebmojo You agreed to do a crit swap with me, Sebmojo. A swap. Where the gently caress is my crit, Sebmojo?
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Aug 28, 2019 10:07
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Sep 7, 2019 07:29
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Metaphysics 1070 words Wendy Nienaber re-materialised in her shabby office, trembling with excitement. She had succeeded where centuries of scholars, linguists and cryptographers had failed. She had decoded the Voynich Manuscript, and used its secrets to travel through space and time. Wendy had met the wizard who wrote the codex, gazed at the mysterious galaxies that were illustrated on its vellum pages, and washed herself in the waters of an alien planet. Wendy dried her cheeks on the sleeve of her yellow cardigan and straightened the waistband of her corduroy skirt. She was going to tell the world of her breakthrough, vindicate her decades of fruitless research and found a whole new field of scientific inquiry. But first, she had to tell Richard. Wendy’s Dr Martens rung on the cobblestones as she crossed the bridge to the Physics Department. She remembered how she and Richard used to sit on the riverbank after lectures, drinking beer and pontificating about metaphysics, their fingers intertwined. It had been years since they had talked like that. These days they hardly spoke at all. She stopped outside Richard’s office. It was one of the big ones, with a good view, unlike Wendy’s view of the carpark. Her unruly, greying bob tickled her face. Irritated, she snapped two hair ties off her wrist and pulled her hair into pigtails. She took a deep breath. This was the moment she had been working towards for most of her adult life. The door flew open and Richard strode out, bumping Wendy with his paunch. “Sorry, Wendy!” he said, and gave one of her pigtails a tug. “Nice hairdo. How goes the mysterious codex?” Wendy shoved him away. This was the last time he would talk down to her. “I’ve done it,” she said. “The Voynich Manuscript. I’ve decoded it.” Wendy searched Richard’s face, waiting for that old fire to light up in his eyes. He had been just as fascinated by the mysteries of the Voynich text as her, in the early days. Richard cocked an eyebrow, then looked at his watch. “It’s a manual for travelling through space and time.” Richard snorted. “Nice one,” he said. “But you know that’s impossible. Did you come all the way up from Linguistics just to tell me that?” Wendy stiffened. “You don’t believe me.” Richard tilted his head to one side, then the other. “Wendy, you look like poo poo. Are you getting enough sleep?” Wendy was crushed. Why had she wanted this man to be the first she told? She should have known he would react like this. Obsessed with climbing the university’s ranks, Richard had closed his mind to anything but the departmental orthodoxy. Wendy grabbed Richard’s hand. “Come with me,” she said. The warmth of his fingers sent a shiver up her arm, and she shook her head. After all these years, she thought. The reached her office door, and Wendy thrust it open. “What in god’s name have you been doing in here?” Richard said, taking in the unearthly botanic diagrams painted on the walls, the basins of water arranged on the floor and the rows of tubing tied with bits of string to the ceiling tiles. Wendy’s copy of the Manuscript lay open on her desk. “Stand there,” she commanded, and upended a basin of water over his head. Richard blinked the water from his eyes and gasped with shock as he found himself standing in a shallow pool of water cupped in the flower of an enormous plant. Unfamiliar constellations twinkled in a lilac sky. The ground was hidden by an undulating sea of mist. “Don’t worry, it’s perfectly safe!” called Wendy, from another flower some ten meters to Richard’s left. “Is this the one you told me about?” said a short, tonsured man wearing rough brown robes, who drifted towards them on another thick stem. Water dripped from the flower's petals and disappeared into the haze below them with a sound like distant bells. “The one with the stick up his arse?” “Richard, meet Roger Bacon, author of the Voynich Manuscript,” said Wendy. “But, carbon dating proves that the Manuscript was produced at least a hundred years after Roger Bacon died!” said Richard, a note of hysteria in his voice. “You travel in the blink of an eye to the center of the Andromeda Galaxy and you’re worried about carbon dating?” said Wendy. Roger Bacon snorted. “But, that’s impossible!” said Richard. “I must be hallucinating, or dreaming, or--” “Why do you love this one so much?” said Roger, turning to Wendy. “He is clearly an imbecile.” “I never said I loved him!” Roger tiled his head to one side, and spread his hands in a gesture that seemed to suggest that, even to a space wizard, some things were pretty obvious. “Wendy, what’s he talking about?” said Richard. He was gripping the edges of his pool, white-kuncked, and peering at the mist that swirled beneath their feet. Leaning carefully forward, Wendy made her pod glide close to Richard’s. “Twenty years,” she said. “It took me twenty years to achieve what others had failed to do in hundreds of years of study. And you never once acknowledged what I was doing. You treated me like a fool.” The stems of the huge plant shook. “I’m sorry!” said Richard. Water gushed from the flowers, and where it hit the mist it hissed into great clouds of steam. “Time’s up,” said Roger Bacon, and brought his hands together with an almighty crash. The pods split open, Wendy grabbed Richard’s hand as they fell, and-- *** “Nice view, isn’t it,” said Wendy, as Richard put down another box onto her new desk. From the top of the newly constructed Nienaber Tower they could see over the university’s rooftops and all the way down to where the sun sparkled on the city’s harbour. “Well, that’s the last one. I guess I’ll leave you to your unpacking.” Richard dusted his hands against his thighs, turned to go, then paused. “I don’t suppose you’d like to go for a beer, would you? That is, if you can suffer the company of a pretentious old fool.” Wendy peered down out of her floor to ceiling window. The campus river snaked around the Tower’s base, the last of the afternoon sun stroking its grassy banks. “Well, I do have some ideas about metaphysics that I’d be interested in your thoughts on,” said Wendy, and smiled.
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Sep 8, 2019 10:46
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Interprompt: This is not what it looks like 200 words
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Sep 9, 2019 22:55
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 Interprompt critsUntitled, by Sitting Here Normally I'd say that untranslated text is a bad idea, but this story had a certain je ne sais quoi that really elevates it above its peers. Untitled, by Fuschia tude Magic. I will be contemplating the layers of meaning contained within this simple yet complex for minutes to come. Untitled, by Flesnolk Definitive and articulate, this was unfortunately let down by the lack of punctuation.
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Sep 10, 2019 09:44
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Conversations With My Cat "Meow meow." "Meow?" "Meow." "Mrrp-meow!" "Puss puss puss puss!" "Meeeeeow!" Nom nom nom Purr purr purr
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Sep 16, 2019 11:02
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in gimme a terrible thing so that I might write you terrible words more blood for the blood thing etc.
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Sep 17, 2019 10:38
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The Ten-Year Carrot 1180 words Captain Shilo whinnied into the lashing rain as buckshot peppered the focsle of the Black Mare. Waves crashed against the ship and the gyroscopes let out a high-pitched whine as they struggled to stabilise the deck. Wild-eyed horse pirates galloped up the ramps from the lower deck, swords held ready in their robotic arms, as the ship closed the distance with the triple-masted Queen’s Courage. Somewhere in the hold of the fleeing vessel was the ten-year carrot, a legendary prize that had eluded Shilo’s family for generations. Jealously guarded by the royal family and produced only once a decade, the ten-year carrot was said to have the power to cure any illness. And it was worth a fortune. That cowardly bastard was wrong to think he could outrun me, thought Shilo, as he saw the hateful frame of Naval Captain Bartholomew Wallingford upon the stern. Wallingford had captured Shilo once. Forced a bit into his mouth and a saddle onto his back and thought him tamed, until Ginger had come to his rescue. An escaped domestic, bred for the plough and destined for the knacker’s yard, Ginger loved her freedom more fiercely than any wild-born, yet she had risked it all to save her Captain. Shilo shook the rain from his long, braided mane. He wouldn’t get another chance at a ten-year carrot in this lifetime. “To the treadmills!” he bellowed. The pirates galloped down the ramps to the lower deck. Steam rose from their sweating flanks and the ship’s two huge paddlewheels drove her through the waves. The squally storm was hindering the Queen’s Courage, but the Black Mare cared little for the direction of the wind. The sound of hooves on the treadmills rose like the thundering of war drums as the pirates closed upon their prey. With his robotic arms upon the wheel Shilo maneuvered the Black Mare close enough to the rolling sailing ship to see the whites of Wallingsford’s eyes. The man grinned, showing yellow teeth, and raised his musket. Ginger screamed and fell to the deck, bleeding from buckshot wounds in her neck. Shilo roared in anger and with three short strides reached the edge of the ship. With a mighty push of his powerful hind quarters he launched himself over the black ocean. He knew his crew would not be far behind. Without gyroscopic stabilisers the deck of the Queen’s Courage pitched and rolled. Shilo hit the wet planks and slid. The crewmen came at him with swords, but Shilo had four deadly limbs, vicious teeth and a sword in each robotic arm. He whirled, kicking and slashing, and the men fell back in terror. Shilo heard Captain Wallingford’s unpleasant cackle and then the musket boomed again. Shilo shied sideways. The shot missed, but his hooves lost their purchase on the wet, tilting planks, and he fell, smashing his right sword-arm. He saw Wallingford dart down the stairs to the hold. Shilo shucked off the now useless arm-harness over his head. Unencumbered, Shilo balanced easier, and he charged after Wallingford. At the bottom of the stairs Wallingford waited, his back to the barred door of the hold and a sword held in his shaking arms. “Give me the carrot and I’ll let you live,” said Captain Shilo. Wallingford shook his head, teeth gritted. He lunged at the stallion. Shilo reared, letting the sword pass under his elbow, then brought his front hooves crashing down upon Wallingford’s back. Too winded to speak, Wallingford lay gasping as Shilo spun his hind end to the door, and with both back legs smashed it from its hinges. There, sealed in a glass bell jar, lay the ten-year carrot. Its perfect orange flesh glowed with a soft golden light. Shilo carefully took the jar in his teeth. “Captain!” came a frantic whinny from above. “It’s Ginger, come quick!” With a clatter of hooves Shilo cantered up the stairs and leapt back aboard the Black Mare. The other horse pirates stared in awe at the magnificent carrot, but Shilo pulled up short, horrified. Ginger lay sprawled on the deck, spasms racking her sweat-soaked chestnut flanks. The muscles around her eyes were tight with pain. “The shot was poisoned,” said a young palomino, a recent recruit, who stood next to Ginger. Ginger opened one eye. “The carrot, its beautiful.” Her breath was coming in shallow gasps. “I’m glad that, I got to see it, before the end.” Shilo fell to his knees beside her. Ginger had been at Shilo’s side since the beginning, when he was but a colt and they alone had powered the Black Mare’s treadmills. “You’ll do more than see it,” he said, and with a flick of his head he smashed the bell jar against the planks. The carrot rolled onto the wet wood, and the scent of it made Shilo’s nostrils flare and his mouth salivate. He took the carrot between his incisors and held it to Ginger’s lips. “Eat it,” he said. “It will counteract the poison.” Another convulsion racked Ginger’s body. “We’ve had a good run, Captain,” she said. “But that carrot is yours.” She closed her eyes and rain swept across the deck. “Hold her head!” said Shilo to the frightened palomino. The young horse carefully lifted Ginger’s head with its robot arms. Shilo took the carrot between his molars and bit. The taste was like nothing he had ever experienced before. Notes of perfect sweetness sang above rich, earth undertones. The carrot spoke to Shilo of warm meadows under the summer sun. His throat spasmed, begging him to swallow. Shilo’s eyes snapped open. The wind roared in his ears and before him on the cold deck Ginger lay dying. Shilo put his lips to hers and with his tongue forced the mashed carrot into her mouth. With his head beneath her neck he helped the palomino hold Ginger’s head up until he saw the muscles of her throat working. As the taste of perfect, golden sunlight faded from his tongue, he knew that he would never again experience anything like it. *** Ginger stood next to Shilo on the prow of the Black Mare. Her chestnut mane was streaked with grey. Shilo’s back was swayed, now, his teeth worn short. “They say they’ve grown another,” said Ginger. Shilo had to tilt his ear close to her soft muzzle to hear her. “We’ve no crew left,” he said. “And the Mare has seen better days.” With his left robotic arm he gestured at the ship. Her sturdy planks shone like burnished copper in the light of the sunset. “Two is enough to power her, and she’s as seaworthy you or I,” Ginger said. “I so would love to taste it again. Just once more, before the end.” Saliva prickled Shilo’s mouth as the memory of that night flooded over him. His eyes met Ginger’s, and they were full of the wild darkness of the open sea. “To the treadmills!” he whinnied.
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Sep 22, 2019 10:54
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Hot Potato C'mon baby, you know you want it. I'm the hottest potato here. Just look at these sprouts, I've got huge knobs. You like it knobbly, don't you baby. Aww, yeah, solanum tuberosum knows what you like. You wanna get roasted? You can mash me all night long, baby. Just hash me up and we can have a real good time, this little pomme de terre is going to tear up your pom, you just wait, baby. You want a little gratin? It comes with extra cream. I'll make your chips real crispy, baby, if you know what I mean. And I think you do.
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Sep 23, 2019 10:01
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Barnaby Profane posted:I've still got room for a pair of alates to help with judging. Me. I judge
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Nov 9, 2019 21:48
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Crits for week 379 As always hit me up if you want more detail about my erudite opinions on your ant words. Lofi - Fourmis de Cuisine Wait, so, he gives the ants someone's business card, smeared with something that makes the ants sense danger, and then they go kill the guy? Erm, what? But the real problem here is that most of the words are about the protag not doing something (becoming an ant overlord supervillain), which is much more boring than actually talking to ants should be. 4/10 Thranguy - The Little One Stopped to Check the Time Here we have some competent words about an ant hivemind that exists over millennia and is forever at war with some other ants, I think. There are no stakes or real characters, and the words aren't pretty enough to make up for the absence of these. I felt like I needed to look up some info about your ant to work out what you were talking about. 6/10 Asap-salafi - Mother and Nature Horrible child gets horrible comeuppance oh no wait it was only a dream. This child was an unpleasant character to spend time with, the dialogue felt unnatural, and the moral of the story was obvious and weak. I think you should have made the ant revenge real and leant into the weird horror. 4/10 Some Strange Flea - The Mill This is weird and gross and altogether too vague for me. What was it even about? Monsters escaping from something…? 3/10 Crimea - It's Them Or Me! This is all flashback and no story. You have committed the story crime of ending at the beginning. 4/10 Jon Joe - Broken Through This is a well-written little vignette, but it left me thinking, where's the rest? It feels like the set up for a bigger story, and so isn't very satisfying. 5/10 Tibalt - The Lady-in-Waiting I didn't really get the reference to her “non-existent baby bump” - is she not actually pregnant? Overall I found this pretty boring. There's no emotional stakes - you state at the start that she's already made her decision, and there's nothing in the story to help me understand or make me care about why she's so in her sister's thrall. 5/10 SlipUp - The Slave The repetition of “it is spring / summer / fall” got pretty annoying, and this detracted from the impact of the final “it is winter”. This was too vague for me to follow what you meant, and there wasn't much description or imagery for me to picture any of the scenes. 3/10 Sitting Here - Desire Invicta Jesus Christ. 9/10 Something Else - Overwintering in Hive Country I assume this is about some weird thing your ant species does? Unfortunately, I hated it because of the use of the word “Oi.” There was no reason to give this beetle a bizarre and annoying accent. Also as a story it was pretty dull. 4/10 Antivehicular - Beautiful Things with Beautiful Wings Another story where I felt like I needed to read about your ant to understand what you meant - I didn't really get the jaws bits or the references to sisters / mothers. Still, you manage to weave more emotion into this than some of the other a-day-in-the-weird-life-of-an-ant stories. 5/10 Sebmojo - The Us Another day-in-the-weird-life-of-an-ant story, except this ant had a super weird day. And, importantly, because this is what makes this story better than the other similar entries, this ant feels feelings. Feelings are good. Feelings make stories interesting. You know what else is good? Endings that make sense. Not that I hate this ending, but like, how is it still conscious and talking to the reader when it's encased in amber I don't understaaaaaaand. 7/10 GenJoe - Diaspora Here we have another day in the life of an ant colony. This one is better than some of the others though because: the imagery is good and interesting; I can follow wtf you're talking about; and, I like the bittersweet non-resolution ending. Needed more feelings though. 6/10
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Nov 12, 2019 09:19
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Dec 6, 2019 05:50
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Rain on the Bodhisattva’s House 730 words Lilian Ng paced across the city, trying to outrun the images of her ex-lover with his arms around another woman. She wove between lunchtime shoppers, breathing hard in the oppressive heat. Her neck ached from nights of bad sleep. She couldn’t stop seeing his hands twined through the woman’s hair, his fingers on the skin of her waist. His mouth pressed against her lips. Lilian hid her fists in the pockets of her loose-fitting shorts and dug her fingernails into her palms. Tears blurred her vision. Her sandal caught the edge of a cracked paving stone and she stumbled, knocking into an elderly woman pulling a handcart full of vegetables. Face flushed red, Lilian fled from the woman’s sharp-tongued admonishment through the green-tiled gateway to an old temple. The temple was walled in on three sides by towering apartment blocks. Its vermillion front pillars were faded and peeling, and its tiled roof had been patched with sheets of corrugated iron. A rusty vending machine offered incense sticks to visitors. Lilian ran her hand through her short-cropped hair, tugging at it while she sniffed back her tears. The heat was making her nauseous. She fed the machine a handful of coins, and stepped into the temple’s shade. The temple was dimly lit by bare bulbs strung from blackened roof struts. Ceiling fans dragged their tips through the smoke-filled air like fingertips through water. Lilian heard the sound of a radio drifting from a back room. She walked to the far alter, her hand clutched around her trio of incense sticks. Lilian didn’t recognise the female bodhisattva; her grandmother would have scolded her for that. The cracked vinyl kneeling cushion squeaked as Lilian squatted on it, and wrapped her arms around her knees. His words came back to her. I never meant to hurt you. Pinching the incense between her thumb and forefinger Lilian jabbed the sticks into a basin of sand before the altar. She took a lighter from her breast pocket. Her hand was trembling and it took her several attempts to flick the flame to life. But you did, she thought. You did. The incense smoke curled through the still air. Lilian hugged her knees and lowered her chin onto her forearms, lips pressed together to stop them shaking. Fat raindrops plinked against the temple’s roof with a sound like plucked guitar strings. The first few notes rose to the roar of a tropical downpour and the temple darkened as the daylight from the door was obscured by storm clouds. A gust of wind made the tips of the burning incense flare red. Lilian looked up at the glowering bodhisattva. Her grandmother used to make the same face. Once, Lilian had come home from school crying after some girls stole her lunch. Her grandmother had scrubbed the tears from her face and told her to forgive them. Lilian, horrified, had asked why her grandmother was taking her persecutors’ side. The old woman had clacked her prayer beads. Forgiveness is something you do for yourself, not for them, she had said. Lilian jumped as rain dripped from the patchwork roof onto the back of her neck. Water was dripping on the bodhisattva, leaving a dirty streak like the wooden woman had spilled something on her robe. Lilian tsk’d. She stood up and glanced around the deserted temple, then shucked the cuff of her cotton shirt over her hand. Leaning her belly against the altar rail she stretched forward and wiped the dust from the carved statue. Satisfied, Lilian rolled up her sleeve to hide the grimy cuff. Her fingertips ran through her hair, straightening it out where her sweat had dried. Her stomach growled and she realised she hadn’t eaten all day. Lilian stood in the temple doorway and lit a cigarette with a single, easy flick. She watched the downpour ease to a light rain that danced on the steam from the hot pavement. Across the street the old woman with her burden of vegetables emerged from the shelter of a shop doorway. A sui mai cart with a hastily erected taupaulin was making its way down the street trailing mouth-watering steam. Lilian blew a lungful of smoke into the rain-cooled air and smiled. She flicked the butt of her cigarette into the swollen gutter and stepped back into the flow of the city.
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Dec 8, 2019 05:03
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I will judge this week
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Dec 17, 2019 09:56
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Exmond posted:They are making a list and checking it twice, seeing if you submitted or not! Umaru-Chan avatars are coming toniiiiiiight! This is annoying, because you have hardly been a regular participant yourself recently. I thusly invite you to choose from one of the following options: i) Cease and desist with the handing out of terrible umaru-tars ii) Enter this week iii) fite me iv) All of the above
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Dec 23, 2019 21:23
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Crits for chemistry week Here is my overall assessment of the week: everyone who entered is good. Everyone who failed is bad. The Roommate Solution by Something Else Weird bougie couple run into money trouble, get housemates, continue to be weird for a bit, but because their housemates are nice normal people everything turns out alright in the end. There is nothing actively bad about this story, and the ending is sweet, but I didn't find it very engaging. The first couple have a bit of personality but the housemates are cardboard cutouts. The protags face some challenges - money issues, adjusting to life with housemates, becoming better people - but they overcome all of this very easily, so there's no real tension in the story; at no point did I feel like I was rooting for the main character to get what they wanted. I think this would have been better if you'd focussed on a single scene, such as the dinner party where James has his revelation that he can be a better person. 5/10 Tessellating Chiral Bonds by Chainmail Onesie Ow your first sentence hurt my brain. Actually the whole opening section is quite hard going - it’s not immediately clear to me what sort of scene I should be picturing; I’m tripping up over words like “arcological” and “Ensign-Instrumentationist” rather than being pulled into the story. Sections 2, 3 and 4 have some tantalising details about the world you’re creating, but your characters don’t do anything apart from walking around and feeling sad, so this is not interesting reading. I already know that this is a story about unrealised love, so these sections add nothing. The story finally starts in the last section, aaaand then it’s over. Ok so this is a story about a man and a woman who love each other but cannot be together because of the rules of the society they live in. Tale as old as time, should be an easy one to write. But, you’ve missed out all the good bits - there’s no tension, no turning point when something happens to make them decide to throw it all away and be together. That said, the sci fi backdrop is cool. 6/10 Staggered Conformation by Sitting Here This is a sweet, weird little interaction, but it fell a bit flat for me. The blend of realism-realism and magical-realism felt like one of those cocktails where all the ingredients are great but the combination tastes like blue jellybeans or something. Not that I think this story was as bad as blue jellybeans (which are the worst ones apart from the black ones); I just felt like the wondrousness of this encounter was made less wondrous by the business-deal-esque ending. However, this was the most competently written in a week were basic competence was lacking; well done on your HM. 7/10 Rhymes with Spiral by Thranguy I liked this. I think you capture the vibe of teenagers doing something they shouldn’t really well. The seriousness of the consequences, and the way that they have to grow up, just a little, in order to deal with them, was nicely done. I wasn’t really feeling the relationship with Caylen though, so the ending is a bit of a flop. 7/10 Ethically Sourced Future Food by Anomalous Amalgam This suffers some of the same problems as Chainmail Onesie’s in that it is a lot of words in which the characters do not very much. Your protag wants to show someone his invention. Then he does, then that’s the end. Oh except for the implied diarrhea. The crux of the story is the protag’s decision to show the guests the foam; what happens to make him make this decision? What does this mean to him? It would have been more interesting if you had given this moment a lot more weight. The details of the setting are cool but not enough to make up for the lack of characters feeling feelings and doing things. 5/10 Above the Grid by Hawklad I was digging this right up to the ending. Where’s the rest! What happens next? Does he just blow up the thing and commit suicide? Why? This feels like the opening section of an awesome sci fi novel, not a self-contained story. 6.5/10 The Dizzy Wizard Family Fixer by Carl Killer Miller The ending killed this for me. I was digging the magical realism vibe to this story about a boy trying to cope with his dysfunctional family, but the super dark ending comes out of nowhere. I think you needed to foreshadow that something sinister was up, and make it clearer why he would chose to open the box. As it is, he is so sugary-sweet that this choice didn’t seem to fit. That said, this story was the most effective of the week in making me feel feelings, which is what made it a win candidate in an otherwise tedious week. Well done. 6.5/10
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Dec 23, 2019 21:40
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sebmojo posted:merry christmas you monstrous creatures, goodwill to all men even the stupid and terrible ones. as a present I've turned off kayfabe or whatever tattered shreds of it remain. now is the time to say what you like, what you hate, what should change or stay the same in this dumb dome that we love so much You are beautiful and perfect, Thunderdome, never change.
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Dec 25, 2019 09:58
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sebmojo posted:I will read both stories with music within one month of posting. *Ahem* Sebmojo, I believe you have an unfulfilled toxx Because of the bizarre machinations of this brawl, this monstrosity is the relevant story that you have toxxed to read, with music. Merry Christmas.
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Dec 26, 2019 00:30
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I have a Thunderdome addictIoN
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Dec 27, 2019 04:06
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Totally Addicted to Bass 525 words Raygun the shark saw the quicksilver flash of a sea bass’s tail and lunged. He knew he should quit them but he just couldn’t. He had the withdrawal-shakes, and his jaws missed their mark, crunching instead against spiny coral. The bass burst from the reef. She had a red reef crab between her teeth, its pincers gouging her face. Her eyes met Raygun’s. They were full of the deep wild of the open ocean. Raygun stopped in his tracks. She was beautiful. “Drop the crab!” Raygun shouted. The bass shook her head, jaws straining to break through the crab’s carapace. Her eyes never left Raygun’s even as the crab slashed at them. Raygun lunged again, this time smashing his teeth into the crab. Its shell exploded, white flesh drifting down towards the seabed. Ignoring her own injuries the bass surged after it, snapping at the flesh with an addict’s frenzy. Raygun watched, mesmerised by the way her silver scales rippled over her muscular back. Sated, the bass sank down to rest against a ball of orange coral. Blood seeped from the cuts on her face. “You should quit hunting reef crabs,” said Raygun. “They’re dangerous prey.” “I can’t,” said the bass. “Trust me, I’ve tried.” She hesitated. “But thanks. Name’s Cindy.” Raygun swam a little closer to her. “Raygun.” Cindy let the current lift her ever so slightly from the coral, so that her fin-tip brushed against Raygun’s. “What’s a blue shark like you doing this close to the reef? Shouldn’t you be out in the deep?” Raygun stared into her iridescent eyes. Her face and throat were covered in pincer-scars, but her eyes were bright and defiant. He had never told anyone about his addiction, but maybe, just maybe, someone like Cindy would understand… A wave of silver, flashing in the light from the distant surface, rolled through the sea above them. It was a shoal of bass, returning to the reef from a morning’s hunting in the warm water of the bay. Their bellies were full and they swam lazily. Raygun’s body spasmed and he let out an involuntary moan. “Wait, don’t tell me you want to eat…” Cindy backed away from Raygun. “I can’t help it!” Raygun cried. “I want to quit, I swear! But I’m weak! I can’t take the withdrawal, and there’s no one who can help me. I’m...” “You are not alone,” said Cindy. She flicked her tail and spun around to face Raygun, so close their snouts were almost touching. “I know what you’re going through. I’ll help you, but you have to promise me. Never eat bass again.” Raygun swallowed. His body was trembling. He looked into Cindy’s deep, dark eyes. No one had ever offered him hope before. His gaze took in her lustrous scales and the firm flesh beneath them. The scent of her blood lingered in the water. He opened his mouth to reply, and with a thrust of his powerful tail leapt forward and crushed her body between his teeth. Raygun’s eyes rolled back in his head. Hot bass-flesh filled his throat and he shuddered with ecstasy. God bass are delicious, thought Raygun.
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Dec 30, 2019 03:57
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