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A crit of Mis Secretos by Nethilia because you got my partner's prompt This is sweet, but I found it a bit too disjointed to really get into. The story opens with her fleeing her husband in Missouri, but then quickly pivots to her new life in the Collado home. This confused me for a moment, because I was expecting the story to be about her escape, but it's not. It's also not explained how she ended up in the Collado home. I think it would have been better to start the story after the first *~*~*, and explain her backstory along the way. There are several important plot points that are introduced too slowly. The reveal that she only has one eye comes very late, the fact that she wants revenge on her bandit husband should have been set up at the start, and I wasn't really feeling the build up of her and Luiz's relationship. The idea that she has lost multiple dogs isn't really necessary, and proved to be a bit distracting. It would have been better I think to focus more on her grief for Rock, to make her eventual revenge more satisfying. The story covers quite a long period of time, but this didn't really add anything to it. There's no sense of Sue getting older through the story, for example. The last section, where she finally decides she is able to tell Luiz about her past, is very sweet, but not very satisfying. It's not directly linked to her getting her revenge, as some time has elapsed since then, and nothing has really changed about her relationship with Luiz, except he got her a puppy? But overall this is sweet and the prose is nice and clear. My partner says thank you for writing it 
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Aug 25, 2020 02:49
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Aug 25, 2020 09:24
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nut posted:Quiet Here is a crit for nut because they are new. I liked this story. It is quite boring but also weirdly great. The things that made it boring: long rambly sentences; lots of pointless adverbs (don't say your character anxiously did something normal, have them do an anxious thing); characters "starting to" do things instead of just doing them; endless descriptions of what the protag was drawing and not enough about the protag themselves; and it kind of goes on and on. But! Every time I thought to myself, ok I really am bored of this now, something weird and great would happen. Take the first paragraph, for example. We've got Nietzsche and an old book, then the protag gets up, thinks about his brother, then walks to the window... At this point I'm thinking, oh dear this is all over the place, is it about a talking book or what. And then boom! Dead god floating outside. Love it. The descriptions of god floating past like an oddly dressed blimp are amazing. I was really drawn into this and very interested to find out what all this was about. But then we slump into half a dozen paragraphs about obsessive-compulsive drawing, and I confess my eyes started to glaze over. You'd pretty much lost me entirely when-- The town is being overtaken by the Quiet! What's this then? What's this got to do with god being dead? What's our protag's role in all of this? Suddenly I am very invested again. Oh dear but now we're drawing again, except this time it's maps. This bit is slightly more interesting because at least now there is some hint that the protag will solve the mystery of the quiet. Marto appears but is a bit of a non-event characterisation-wise. The story then wobbles to its perplexing conclusion, where our protag discovers that the conch shells are causing the Quiet, and then sets sail to spread the quiet to other places? I didn't really feel like this story had to strictly make sense, but the protag's motivation for this wasn't clear to me. I pretty much ignored the fact that you said they were only 12, because that didn't fit at all with the tone or the protag's behaviour. I think maybe you just had them be a kid because that was in your prompt? Better to ignore a prompt requirement and write a good story than slavishly follow it, imo. Overall I thought this was pretty good work, albeit it needed a lot of tightening up. I hope you do some more Thunderdoming.
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Aug 26, 2020 03:13
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The donkey enjoyed the mints, but decided not to go on TV again 910 words “Welcome to Body Match!” shouted the announcer. He hit one of the buttons in front of him and the studio audience roared with applause. “Today’s contestants are--” Bob’s bodiless head, encased in the best jar that washed-up-actor money could buy, ignored the line of contestants, eyes fixed on the announcer’s real-human body. “--a bear!” The bear chewed on the leather straps that held in it its booth and eyed the donkey’s hairy hindquarters. “A donkey!” The donkey might have wondered how it got there, except that it was a donkey, and they don’t tend to waste their time wondering about things like that. “And, a radioactive blob!” The blob rubbed its ectoplasmic pedipalps together and stared at Bob’s head. “Let’s begin!” The announcer hit another button and the audience shut up. “Contestant number one, why would your body be a match for--” A spinning metal rotor sprung from the top of Bob’s jar. As his head zipped into the air a buzzsaw extended from the jar’s bottom on a thin metal arm. A devilish grin split Bob’s face and his eyes flamed with imminent triumph. The announcer screamed and shielded his neck with his arms. Under his bowtie the skin was criss-crossed with scars. He knew it was a cruel joke that they put him up here as the host for this show, but they’d threatened to put him on the cat body, even though they knew he was allergic! Allergic!!! The blob glowed bright green with radioactive power and levitated from its seat. It had come on this gameshow to get a head and it wasn’t about to lose just because the head had gone berserk. The bear roared and bit through the last of its restraints. It could almost taste that sweet, sweet donkey hide. With drool flailing from its jaws the bear launched itself over the wall of its booth. The donkey watched as the blob snagged Bob’s rotor with a tentacle. The jar wobbled in the air and the blob hurtled around it. Bob tried to cut the blob loose with his buzzsaw, and the donkey had to duck to avoid getting sprayed with radioactive slime. Then Bob and his blob-copter were torpedoed by a flying bear. Bob had never wanted it to turn out this way. From his first movie role as hench-head no. 12 to the day his third wife left him with his mortgaged-to-all-hell mansion and her damned rug-pissing dog, all Bob had really wanted was to be treated as a whole person. But it was no use. No matter what accolades he won or how much money he made, all people ever saw was a head in a jar. He’d given up, would have drank himself to death if his jar’s life support system wasn’t so bloody effective. So he’d decided. It had taken Bob a long time to convince his agent to get him onto Body Match. Now that he was here he didn’t want to waste another second without the announcer’s body attached firmly to his neck. The bear weighed 300kgs and was travelling at almost 10 meters per second. While the force resulting from such an impact is impossible to calculate, it was sufficient to smash Bob’s jar to smithereens and cause the radioactive blob to meld with the bear’s body, mere milliseconds too late to stop the bear’s jaws from snapping instinctively shut on Bob’s head. Ghosty tentacles sprung from the bear’s chest and slapped against its face. You ursine bastard, you ate my head! wailed the blob. The radioactive bear shook itself in confusion as Bob’s last wish flooded its consciousness. The stage shook as Bob-blob-bear, its body writhing with luminous tentacles, spun around to face the announcer. Bored, the donkey smashed open its booth’s gate with two double-barrelled kicks. The studio audience gave a mighty cheer of approval. The donkey would have bowed, only it didn’t want to. It trotted past the announcer, who was gibbering behind his podium. The donkey stopped. Its nostrils flared. If it was not very much mistaken there were mints in that man’s pocket. And that was not where mints were supposed to be. Mints were supposed to be in the donkey’s mouth. Radioactive Bob-blob-bear smashed the podium aside with one meaty paw. Bob’s posthumous ego revelled in the audience’s frenzied stomps and whistles. The beast flexed its radioactively-enhanced muscles and fired off a couple of laser beam shots from its eyes, burning holes in the ceiling tiles. The announcer saw his chance and rushed towards the fire exit. The donkey cantered close behind him, nosing his suit pockets. Lost in a minty dream, the screams of the audience and the bear’s growls faded to silence. There was nothing but the donkey’s nose and the fabric puzzle before it. The donkey breathed deep. In. Out. Mints... The announcer slammed the fire exit door open. His trouser leg ripped easily in the donkey’s teeth, spilling its secret contents just as the bear, green lasers leaving a smoking trail across the studio walls, hurtled after him into the dark. The city rang with the sound of sirens until late into the night, and ratings for Body Match went through the roof. *** “Welcome to Body Match!” growled the announcer. The audience stamped and whistled as the announcer gave the reinforced ceiling a couple of zaps with his laser eyes. He waved a luminous tentacle towards the booths. “Tonight’s contestants are--”
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Aug 31, 2020 02:54
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In, flash
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Sep 23, 2020 05:34
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Prompt: “No. I don’t know what those symbols are. I just put them how I remembered them.” Flash: Ah, the crickets are screaming at the moon. Moon Hill 1130 words Seamus stood on the top of Moon Hill and stared with trepidation at the empty horizon. He’d aced his final exam, making the moon come up should be a cinch. Moon Hill was loud with the singing of crickets, its top worn down to smooth dirt by the gumboots of countless wizards who trudged up its muddy sides every dusk to make the moon rise. Seamus shook back the sleeves of his heavy woollen bushshirt, brandished the communal owl-feathered night wand, and said the magic words. Nothing happened. Seamus felt sweat run from his armpits and down his ribs under his singlet, despite the cold night air that ruffled the hairs on his bare legs. He knew the words were right. He’d memorised the sounds, perfected their cadence. He could write extensive essays on their etymology in under three hours with neat handwriting. He could do this. Seamus rubbed his elbows against his sides to warm his clammy pits and stretched his neck to one side until it gave a satisfying click. He took a deep breath, pointed the wand, straight-armed, at the spot from whence the moon would momentarily rise, and— “Seamus!” Anna appeared from the path that lead back to their dorm. Seamus couldn’t see her face in the faint starlight, but the silhouette of her frizzy red hair was unmistakable. “I brought you some pudding.” Anna plopped herself down on a thick patch of kikuyu grass, set Seamus’ bowl down beside her, and hoed into her fruit salad and ice cream. “Go on then,” she said, waving her spoon at the surrounding sheep paddocks. “The crickets will lose their poo poo if the moon doesn’t come up soon.” Cold sweat prickled Seamus’ scalp. Anna was the last person he wanted to see here. Not literally, of course; she was his girlfriend. But he couldn’t bear the thought of Anna discovering he was a fraud. That he didn’t believe in magic. Never had. Seamus just rote-learnt the words and did the finger sigils correctly and the spells worked. But Anna, she said she could feel the magic moving in her bones. gently caress, gently caress, gently caress. Anna was watching him. Seamus cleared his throat, and with a frown of concentration, shouted, “Get up, Moon!” The horizon lightened not even a little bit. Seamus let his breath out in a tight stream through his nose. He spun to face Anna. Her face was hidden in shadow. “Look,” he said, his face hot. “Would you mind, like, not watching, or something?” “You’re too tense,” she replied. “It’s so dark I can’t even see you and I can still tell.” “I’m trying to concentrate!” The crickets were getting louder, Anna wasn’t wrong about the poor insects getting agitated. They must be hungry. “I’m just trying to help. And your ice-cream is melting.” “I didn’t ask you to bring me bloody ice-cream! Just let me get this done and I’ll see you back at your room.” “Who said you were coming back to my room?” Seamus rolled his eyes, at once pissed off and glad that Anna couldn’t see his face. His heart was pounding. This was loving stupid. He turned deliberately away from Anna and squared his shoulders at the horizon. “Get up, Moon!” he shouted, but his form was all over the place and the spell didn’t even make it past the wand’s tip. Seamus couldn’t feel any magic, not now, not ever. All the time he’d spent memorising spells was a joke, and sooner or later Anna was going to realise that so was he. “For goodness sake.” Anna put down her bowl and spoon with a clatter and marched to the center of the Hill. She was wearing robes over her hiking boots, despite the fact that the tassels trailed in the mud. She spread her arms, not even bothering to take out her wand, and lifted her face, beatifically, to the stars. “Anna, I’m supposed to be the one who--” “Get up, Moon,” Anna breathed. A wave of phosphorescence rolled down her arms and little motes of light floated from the tips of her fingers like fireflies. Seamus thought Anna’s face looked beautiful in the soft glow. Beautiful, and infuriating. How did she do that? He paused, one foot poised to begin stomping off back to his dorm room, when he realised it was still pitch black. The moon was not getting up. “Huh, this is harder than it looks,” Anna said. She got out her wand, ready for a second attempt. “Wait,” said Seamus. “You got the tones wrong. It goes up on the first beat, then down, then the last word is third tone, you know, starts low, then down and up, but not all the way up?” “How do you remember all that?” Anna replied. “I just go with how I think the words should sound...” The crickets were really screaming now. The wan starlight barely reached the bobbing seed heads where the crickets clung, waiting. “poo poo, it’s getting pretty late,” said Seamus. He shivered, despite his bushshirt. “What are we going to do?” Anna tugged her sleeve-ends, a nervous tick. “Together?” Seamus nodded, cheeks hot. “On three? One, two--” “No! I’ll say it. You do... the other thing.” Seamus felt more than saw Anna’s smile in the darkness. She laced her fingers through his. Seamus didn’t believe in magic, but with Anna’s warm hand in his he felt his heart rate slow. His hearing sharpened and instead of a single distressed whine he could hear each individual cricket, urging him to hurry up, hurry up. He took a deep breath and his nostrils filled with trampled earth and kikuyu and the sticky-sweat scent of canned fruit salad. “One, two…” Seamus nailed it. Each word, pitch perfect and crystal clear. Anna squeezed his hand and let out a tiny whoop as a silver glow lit the horizon. The crickets opened their carapaces and bathed themselves in the spreading moonlight. The multitude glowed, lighting up the paddocks that surrounded Moon Hill like phosphorescence spreading across water. Anna did a twirl, arms outstretched, so that her robes swirled around her. “Yuss!” she said. “Ugh, my ice-cream’s melted,” said Seamus, poking at the watery white liquid in which his fruit salad now floated. Anna stepped in, very close to him. She held one palm over the bowl, fingers splayed, and whispered something. Seamus felt a shock of cold through his fingers as his ice-cream re-froze. “Better?” said Anna. Lumps of pear and pineapple were now encased in solid cream like rocks trapped in an ice-flow. The spoon’s handle jutted up like the mast of some lost ship. “Much better,” said Seamus, and he leaned forward and kissed her.
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Sep 28, 2020 00:36
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Sep 30, 2020 06:02
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And then there were two 540 words After the storm passed Chelsea poked her head out from her hutch and found her mirror was broken and she was alone. Her water bowl was full of smashed leaves and her pellets were a soggy mess but that didn’t matter because Cinnamon was missing. Chelsea nosed the mirror but there was NO ONE THERE, just splinters of reflection that hurt Chelsea’s eyes. She was not going to back to what it was like in the run before Cinnamon arrived, oh no. She bit her paw, hard, to cut off the memories, and then she was digging, digging, digging. There was wire mesh hidden beneath the grass on which her run rested so she attacked the wooden frame with her teeth and even though it hurt and she tasted blood she didn’t stop because she had to find Cinnamon. Gnawing and pulling, separate the wire from the frame, push head through, ears scraped, belly cut, then-- Chelsea shivered on the lawn under the freshwashed sky, no comforting roof over her head, no friendly ears to watch gently twitch. CINNAMON! Chelsea darted for the hedgerow. Sniffling and snuffling, but there was no sign of her friend, just the sticky-dark smell of untunnelable loam, mushrooms lurking beneath the surface, and, cat-- RUN! Chelsea bolted through the hedgerow and down a wooded hillside, snowdrops nodding as she dashed between the trees, the sound of cat’s paws skittering over the leaf litter chasing her. Chelsea should never have left the hutch, but she’d lost Cinnamon in the storm - careless, stupid. Cinnamon would have seen the cat, would have warned her, kept her safe, but now she was two ears not four, two eyes, blind. Her heart racing and her legs weakening, Chelsea realised she wasn’t going to make it, the cat was going to get her, but then at least she wouldn’t be alone-- A familiar smell, tendril thin, snagged Chelsea’s nose and spun her around in the empty woodland. Cinnamon hated it when Chelsea’s mood turned fatalistic. More pellets will come soon, Cinnamon would say. Tomorrow they’ll move the run and the grass will be bright and fresh again, she’d remind Chelsea when the mud clogged her claws. Cinnamon always watched Chelsea while she slept, buried in her nest of straw. Cinnamon was always-- THERE! A flicker of tawny fur behind the roots of a huge oak. A flash of white tail between the snowdrops. CINNAMON! But, where was the cat? Chelsea thumped the ground, a one-two WARNING. Back under the hedgerow; the tendril of scent was stronger here. Nose-snagged, Chelsea followed it out onto the lawn. There were people there, the hutch unroofed and straw-tossed, and-- There was tawny fur, warm breath, friend-scent. Chelsea nosed Cinnamon all over, breathless with relief. The other rabbit returned her greeting, circling, touching; four ears, four eyes, together again, always together. The people caught the rabbits and returned them to the run. Fresh grass underfoot and comforting roof overhead, two rabbits is hardly a colony and a hutch is hardly a warren but-- Chelsea curled against Cinnamon’s soft fur in their nest of straw as the stars came out and the moon drifted lazily across the sky. She wouldn’t lose her again.
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Oct 4, 2020 10:38
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I am judge
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Oct 13, 2020 22:54
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steeltoedsneakers posted:In. One story, told 3 ways.
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Oct 14, 2020 07:57
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Cereal box Cereal rocks My cereal's gonna clean your clocks My cereal's gonna blow off your socks It's shaped like cocks sitting on docks nodding their heads to the cereal vox And I'm out.
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Oct 20, 2020 10:27
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Week 328 Crits The Sad State of A Fair by Crabrock 10 points straight off the bat for a terrible pun title. Well done for conquering your hell rule with flourish and aplomb. I enjoyed reading this. As a bureaucrat frequently outraged over petty rules leading to nonsensical outcomes that don’t in fact matter in any way shape or form, I naturally sympathised with your protagonist. I felt sad that all his flying spittle had flown in vain. But, there’s not much of a story here, is there. I wondered whether this disappointment of a biggest pumpkin contest was perhaps a metaphor for 2020, but if that’s what you were going for I didn’t really get it. I can’t believe you thought you’d get away without a DQ though, lol. 6/10 Questions by a friendly penguin I have mixed feelings about your decision to post a content warning. On the one hand, good on you for being sensitive to people’s feelings about an upsetting topic. On the other hand, Thunderdome stories address distressing and tragic topics all the time; why call out this particular type of tragedy? My interpretation of this story is that Jill knows, or strongly suspects, that she has had a miscarrage, but was in denial of this. As such, this is a story about a woman getting, and coming to grips with, some very sad news. The story is very quietly told - the brevity of the dialogue and the lack of description emphasises the doctor’s coldness, or at least inattention, in the face of Jill’s silence. I think it could have done with a few more details though. What is Jill noticing about the interior of the examination room, for example, and what does this tell us about her? The ending didn’t quite land for me. I think what I wanted was a bit more of a sense of how Jill is adjusting to this news. As it is she starts off feeling sad and wishing her partner was there, and ends feeling sad and wishing her partner was there. On a very minor note, at one point you say, “The Dr. took a breath.” I think in this sentence “doctor” should be written in full, otherwise it’s a bit like saying “The Mr. took a breath.” 6.5/10 ...And There Will Your Heart Be Also by magic cactus First thought: “...hovers into her vision” is weird, because hovering is usually stationary. Second thought: Oh no this isn’t getting any better. A “green” is usually a flat grassed area, why is this one rolling and also a glade. “Fallow” implies that the area was previously planted with crops, what are you talking about… Third thought: Oh ok the young woman is a witch. No wait, she’s from a tribe with magic-y traditions. Wow this first paragraph is long and I really don’t understand what’s happening. WHY IS THE TREE COVERED IN MEAT? Oh ok, so this is a creepy ritual in which you nail the heart of a deceased loved-one to the magic tree and you get to see them again, but just for one day. But why does she want to see her great-grandmother so badly? Did she even know her when she was alive? Why does she care about the story of Pashtul? Why does she have to cut out her own heart, and, erm, shouldn’t she be dead now? 5/10 - some cool imagery, otherwise confusing. The Galaxy in the Back Room of Grandfather's Basement by Thranguy This is sweet but doesn't really go anywhere. The image of the two children lying underneath a tiny galaxy with their hair being tugged on by its gravity is great, this was the best bit for me. Why'd you decide to kill Ashley? That was a bit of a bummer, and didn't add anything. 7/10 a puncher’s chance by Tyrannosaurus Oof, my heart breaks for your protagonist, but your prose sucked me into his delusional optimism and I almost found myself believing… This was a good, snappy piece of writing. Nothing groundbreaking, but it had just the right amount of emotional content for its length. 8/10 Miocene Delta by Weltlich This is a story about two extinct sea creatures meeting and having a nice time. What sort of sea creatures they are I'm not sure, except they have moustaches and might be the ancestors of modern whales. There's not much character, little stakes, some silty descriptions, and not a lot else. Not terrible, but not terribly interesting. 5/10 Case The House First by GrandmaParty I didn’t quite get the tone of this - it felt like it alternated between comedy horror and weirdly serious. Like saying the vampire “got iced” but then crying about it. 6/10 - a fun read, not amazing. Enlightenment by Staggy Man tries to programme a lightbulb attain enlightenment. Man experiences extreme frustration. Man has revelation that maybe he should just go to bed. Partial enlightenment achieved. This was fine. Nice concept, not badly done. Didn’t thrill me. I also want to go to bed, yet here I am, judging thunderdome. 6/10 The Oracle by QuoProQuid I think I like this a lot better than it deserves. I love the image of an oracle residing in one’s closet, and the fact that the dog is happy at the end pleased me out of all proportion. It might be the case that you are getting an unfair advantage because you gave me a story about a happy dog when I’ve had a bad day. But, to be fair to your competitors, an oracle in a closet is a cool idea, and your prose is good. 7/10 What We Can Do by flerp Ok, well, if QuoProQuid gets an unfair advantage by giving me a happy dog story on a bad day then you, my friend, definitely shot yourself in the foot with this one. I really thought this was going to be a story about a puppy pulling through, flerp, I really did. But it’s not. It’s a story about a dead puppy. And I guess it’s a story about hope and perseverance in the face of the inevitable, which I suppose you did portray pretty well, and to be fair it’s not badly written at all. But next time happy dogs please. 6/10 Muffins by steeltoedsneakers I’m not entirely sure what happened in this. What I think happened is that a small child uses some of her father’s plastic explosive(?) to make play-doh muffins and then play-doh octopuses, and then her father mistakenly uses the explosive cut with play-doh mixture to unsuccessfully try and blow the door off a safe. I’m not one to judge other people’s parenting, but what sort of “precision guy” leaves his C-4 or whatever just lying around the living room? Bomb guy’s problematic home situation aside, I thought this story was fine. The description of the explosion was ok, but I think you could have made it clearer that something had gone very wrong. For the ending to land we needed more reason to care about the fate of these characters. Hard to do in such a short piece, maybe you could have linked his failure to blow off the door back to his feelings about his daughter or something? 6/10 Zoetrope by Antivehicular This is pretty cute, and a bit zany. It feels a bit lacking in consequence, but I liked it just fine. 7/10 On the Rim by Killer-of-Lawyers This seems to be a story about how stubbornness can keep you going in a desperate situation, but there’s not quite enough story in it for me. Nothing happens and nothing changes, which just felt unsatisfying. 4/10 World in a bottle by kiyoshimon “Theirs's” should just be “theirs”. Quantum elves are created, develop superhuman intelligence, escape, and… take over the world? There’s no real characters in this to root for, just the elves and “a scientist”, and without that there’s nothing to pull you into the story. 5/10 - not terrible, not terribly interesting.
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Oct 20, 2020 23:02
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GrandmaParty posted:This is wrong. No, you're wrong 
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Oct 20, 2020 23:57
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Weltlich posted:update Whaaaaaat Wait, so are we writing 1 story per team, or 2?
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Oct 21, 2020 04:59
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If this is what we're doing then I want a treat
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Oct 22, 2020 00:12
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Are you a horse or are you glue? Are you stuck in your ways, not so much in mud but the mud itself, a fixed fixative, adhering adherents like an epoxy pox, a demented cementist, agglutination your only goal? Or are you a horse, bolting before the stable door is closed with the bit between your teeth, no one looking in your mouth be you gift or not because your value is measured in kingdoms, even if you will and/or won't drink when led to water and there's no point flogging you once you're already dead. Or perhaps you are both, a sticky pony, catching children like fly paper
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Oct 27, 2020 09:20
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Halloween brawl. “Have a callback to a classic ThunderDome story buried somewhere in yours.” Nature Abhors a Vampire. At the Galactic Olympic Games. 1050 words Seventeenth Lieutenant Rebecca and Yve von Vampyre, both hot favourites to take the 1,000m simul-dive gold at the Galactic Olympic Games, sprung from their respective platforms at precisely the same moment. “My name is Yve Boris von Vampyre. You killed my father. Prepare to die,” said Yve, before tucking into the first rotation of a reverse triple twist. Becky pondered these words as she began her own backwards spiral pike-flip. She was pretty sure she’d never killed anyone. Sure, she’d seen a lot of people die - hard not to in a 10 year military career. There was one though that was arguably her fault. After all, it had been her decision for the squad to leave base on a full moon night... “Was your father a werewolf by any chance?” Becky asked, as their respective rotations brought her back face to face with her vampiric rival. Yve felt like she’d been slapped. The shock of such a grave insult made her fluff the entrance into her octaplex-flickflack. She executed a septuple instead and snarled. “My name is Yve Boris von Vampyre! You killed my father! Prepare to--” Becky levelled out of a perfect triple potato-slicer. “I’m sorry. Your father was…?” “Boris!” Yve shouted, upside down and chin jammed against her knees. “Ambassador Boris von Vampyre! He was obliterated by the sun after you refused to let him onto your stupid ship!” “Ooh.” Becky wobbled, slowing her descent with a quick jazz flap so that the incensed vampire dropped below her, a little closer to the pale blue pool seven hundred meters below them. “But,” she called. “There wasn’t an airlock. Because of cost cutting.” Yve busted out a horizontal whirly-flare, an amateur’s move really, but it slowed her and brought them back level. Her face was flushed dark and her forehead was an angry V. Becky felt her limbs tingle as a numbing cold spread up from her toes and fingertips. Her eyes widened with shock. “That’s cheating,” she hissed. She pirouetted into her own whirly-flare, trying to mask her decreasing coordination from the judges. “To reiterate: my name is Yve Boris von Vampyre. You. Killed. My. Father!” Yve dove towards the focus of her life’s most bitter grievance. Nothing had gone right for Yve since Boris - the man who had turned her all those hundreds of years ago, always impeccably dressed and the most stalwart supporter of her Olympic diving dreams - had died, murdered by an idiot with an etch-a-sketch. “Stop!” said Becky, though numb lips. “If the New Vampire Republic gets disqualified from the Games everything your father worked to achieve will be wasted!” Or at least that’s what she meant to say. What really came out was a froth of spit and, “ff ew wam buh mm ‘d aahm vry bugh ung nnn!” Becky locked eyes with Yve, willing her to understand. Yve slammed into Becky and cartwheeled her towards the waiting pool. Becky struggled to push Yve away with arms as responsive as play-doh. Yve bared her fangs and pulled her unwitting nemesis in tight. Their bodies were perfectly vertical. They began to rotate around their shared central axis, the extra weight creating a momentum that no diver could ever hope to generate alone... Yve’s pupils dilated. This was it. This was the opening form for the one move that she and Boris, their bodies too mismatched in size, had never been able to pull off. With her heart pounding in her ears Yve met Becky’s bright green eyes and saw that the other woman had realised it too. Yve knew that Boris would never have forgiven her for wasting a chance to pull off the most ultimate to the max extreme diving move ever. Yve released her glamour, and bent one pointed-toe leg away from Becky’s. Becky, gurgling a little, mirrored her exactly. The two sparkly-swimsuited bodies parted like the petals of a spinning blood-orchid, grips locked on each other’s wrists. Their combined rotational potential energy was incredible. Neck muscles straining against the last of the glamour, Becky gave Yve the tiniest of nods. Yve let go. Yve and Becky corkscrewed away from each other in perfect synchrony at a speed that would have stopped the average human heart. Fortunately, Becky was no average human, and Yve was a vampire. A single tear whipped from Yve’s eye. This is for you, dad, she thought, as she super-piked through more rotations that she’d ever thought possible, before slicing into the pool with no more splash than she had reflection. Becky, giddy with relief at avoiding a major diplomatic incident, arched her back, touched her fingertips to toes, and busted out her trump card: the hitherto unseen-at-the-Galactic-Olympic- Games sideways quadruple-swan. She arrowed into the pool a split-second after Yve. The crowd literally howled their approval, because they were nearly all space werewolves. Becky swam over to Yve, and caught her by the shoulders. “That. Was. Amazing!” she said. Yve’s eyes were bright with tears. “My name is Yve Boris von Vampyre. You… you...” Her voice caught in her throat. “I didn’t,” Becky said quietly. “There really wasn’t an airlock. There was nothing anyone could have done.” Yve let out a small sob as Becky pulled her into a hug. The human’s breasts were warm against Yve’s undead body. Yve hesitated, then lifted her own arms to circle Becky’s. Perhaps Yve had been wrong, all these years… Over Becky’s shoulder Yve watched the scores going up on the holoboard. Seventeenth Lieutenant Rebecca, representing the Human Space-Olympic Team: 10. 10. 8. 9. Yve von Vampyre, athlete-prime of the Vampire New Republic: 9. 10. 9... The holoboard froze. The space werewolves held their collective breath. 8. Yve blinked. Silver. Yve was going to get good-for-nothing-but-killing-werewolves silver. Yve’s head snapped back and she let out a blood curdling screech of frustration. She grabbed Becky’s biceps and sank her fangs into her neck. Blood bloomed across the blue water, causing the remainder of the competition to be halted for hygiene reasons and getting the New Vampire Republic barred from competing in the next Galactic Olympic Games, which really was a shame given all the hard work Boris had put in to get them there in the first place.
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Oct 31, 2020 06:56
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Weltlich posted:The Nebulous Shipman's Tale: The Mone Seilor Amazing. I have zero idea how any of this is supposed to be pronounced but I dare anyone else to read it better. https://drive.google.com/file/d/15BBji1LQqS1DQahO_yTFMzMbg6fa7-lm/view?usp=sharing
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Nov 9, 2020 08:35
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sebmojo posted:Nostradumbass A crit of Sebmojo's horse story and a reading cos it feels like this is what we're doing today. This story only really makes sense if you blur your eyes a little. There's a squire, and he's lost his horse (who can talk and see the future), and he comes across a businessman, who harnessed the horse to a cart, apparently at the horse's (Roger's) request, because Roger has stuff (?) to do, which requires a cart (?), but Roger gives the businessman hot stock tips, so he (the businessman) decides to keep Roger forever, but then sells him to the lover, or rather, the lover steals him (but also pays for him), and the lover is riding along on Roger, chatting away, when the spouse overhears them, and realises the lover is having an affair with his wife (Judy), so the spouse pulls the lover off the horse, and then somehow they're all in a fight, which is when the squire turns up. The squire breaks up the fight, passes around a bevvie, and then asks for their story, the telling of which provokes another round of fisticuffs, so the squire wanders off, and finds his horse, who he is after all very fond of. Hooray! Who is the squire? Why does he have a fortune-telling horse? Why did Roger want to be harnessed to a cart? What does Judy think of all this?? I have the distinct feeling that these are questions that Sebmojo might have been able to tell us the answer to, had he started writing more than 15 minutes before the deadline. Not a bad effort considering, just a little lacking in, erm, focus. Enjoy my bad rendition of your bad words: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1saxGYqank-b4ugbyw1OP4Lr0hhD1w7d0/view?ts=5fa9ecfc
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Nov 10, 2020 02:41
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In, something important I've just remembered please
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Nov 16, 2020 21:36
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Weltlich posted:Nae also gets an HM. This nearly was my pick for win this week, but the optimism was just a little (lot) too tainted. Still, it was an excellent story, and managed to put some serious weird in I haven't even bothered to read your story and I probably won't but what the hell who are these newbies who just waltz in and get HMs and nearly win on their first try wt actual f Fite me, Nae, you dang talented new babby you
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Nov 19, 2020 04:05
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Flash rule: You remember talking to someone who offered you a job - but the number on their business card is one digit short. That seems to be intentional. Spangs & Ress 1140 words The huge rainbow trout rolled its eye wetly at Spanglesdot when it was her turn to board. She hated riding public fish transport; the trout always gave her a suspicious vibe, like they could tell she was a B-type idol and thought she might blow at any moment. The fish’s iridescent scales felt slimy against her skinny knees, exposed between her tube socks and the saddle, and she gave the unpleasant creature a kick in the ribs with her strappy pumps. It bucked, and Spanglesdot’s knuckles went white on the handrail. Once I get signed I’m never riding a damned trout again, she swore. Inside the pocket of her bubble skirt, Spanglesdot’s fingernail worried at the laminate surface of a business card. The woman, smile like a toothpaste advertisement and deeply lined eyes, had promised to get Spanglesdot an Agency audition. The phone number - the incorrect phone number - was hand-written. One digit short. Spanglesdot had told her cube-mate Glitteress that she was sure it was just a mistake. She just had to find the woman and talk to her. Glitteress had rolled her eyes. She’d been insufferable since getting her own Agency contract offer. Spanglesdot pick-picked at the card as the trout finned mindlessly between the skyscrapers, as if she could somehow excavate a different reality from within its cardboard innards. Glitteress - A-type, willowy and with natural colouration and real hair - was squatting on the pavement opposite the Agency HQ as Spanglesdot descended the escalator from the nearest pier. The building was surrounded by a ring of yellow and black tape, drones stationed at even intervals around the debris-strewn perimeter. Spanglesdot paused just shy of the other girl’s peripheral vision. She stared at the building, one diamante’d thumbnail clamped between her teeth. The windows were blown out and the Agency’s chrome exterior was streaked with ash. The whole area stank of melted plastic. Spanglesdot thought of girls stacked up inside, waiting for shipment, and shuddered. “So, are you going to say hello, bitch?” said Glitteress. Spanglesdot jumped. “Hello, bitch.” Spotted, she stepped forward to stand beside Glitteress’s shoulder. “Are you crying?” “gently caress off.” Glitteress rubbed her eyes dry on the sleeve of her see-through blouse. “What on earth happened here?” “They said it was a chain reaction, a whole troupe went off. You know, the whole ‘B-types can’t handle rejection’ thing.” Glitteress took out a compact, examined her impregnable eye makeup, and snapped it shut. “What are you even doing here?” Spanglesdot took a deep breath. So the HQ building was a bomb site, so what. She still had the Agent's card. “I have an audition,” she said. “Bullshit you do. Open your eyes. She clearly gave you a fake number on purpose.” Glitteress hugged her knees a little tighter to her chest and waved a shellac’d hand at the ruins of their one and only hope for escape. “I had a real offer. Now god only knows what’s going to happen.” Raised voices echoed from the crowd in front of the barrier tape. A woman was arguing with a security drone, bollard-shaped and just as immovable. “That’s her!” said Spanglesdot. She hoofed it across the street, weaving through the rubberneckers to grab the elbow of the woman’s boilersuit. “Are you Agent Three-three-oh-seven? I’m Spanglesdot, B-type, Stable Fifty-five?” 3307 spun to face her, toothpaste smile fixed in place under narrowed eyes. Spanglesdot dropped the fabric as if burned. A susurrus of hushed conversation rippled through the bystanders. Spanglesdot felt her face flush. Deep breaths, she told herself. She took the dog-eared card out of her pocket. “I came about my audition!” she said, too fast. “I tried to call, only--” Glitteress shoved in front of Spanglesdot. “Where’s Three-three-ten?” Her voice was a tight wail. “What am I supposed to do about my contract?” “Piss off,” hissed Spanglesdot. “What about my audition?” “Don’t go all defective on me. Why can’t you learn to take a hint?” “It was just a mistake!” Spanglesdot wailed in reply. Her heart was pounding. Her skin was flushed and she felt dizzy. 3307’s smile was icy still. A private koi dropped out of the overhead transport stream and hovered beside her. The Agent swung onto its saddle, and looked at Glitteress. “3310 is likely not answering her calls because she is dead. It was a most unfortunate incident.” Her eyes slid over Spanglesdot in the same way one might eye a dangerous dog. “I suggest you keep less defective company from now on.” The koi rolled one milky eye at Spanglesdot. Defective. The fish’s mouth opened and shut as if it were mouthing the word at her. Spanglesdot was hyperventilating. Her face was burning but her back felt freezing cold. She shivered, gasping for air. “Did she really…” Spanglesdot moaned. “Oh god I'm never going to get out of here. She lied...” A wave of mortification broke over Spanglesdot, her gut churning like rough surf before a storm. The drones fanned into a semi-circle around them, pushing back the bystanders. PLEASE STAND BACK, they intoned at Glitteress. “I'm sorry, Ress. You were right,” Spanglesdot gasped. “You should go. Before I. You know.” “Oh bugger that.” Glitteress ran a hand down the stiff curls of Spanglesdot’s electric blue hair. “I mean, what if I got an even bigger dick for a cube-mate?” She brought her head close, and rested her forehead against Spanglesdot’s perspiring temple. “Deep breaths, Spangs. You've got this.” The drones rolled towards them. Glitteress held out one arm. “Back off!” she shouted. “She’s going to be fine.” Then, to Spanglesdot. “You are, right? Please?” Spanglesdot concentrated on exhaling, fighting down her panic. She was pouring sweat, the pits of her frilly shirt embarrassingly dark. She leant against Glitteress, eyes closed. “Course I am,” she said. “It's not like I'm defective.” “I know that!” said Glitteress. She squeezed Spanglesdot's shoulders. “Otherwise you would have blown up on me years ago.” Spanglesdot forced a deep breath into her lungs. The drones rolled back to their positions behind the barrier tape. “You are hell to share a cube with.” “That’s why we’ve got to get out of here! Both of us.” The two girls looked up at the ruined Agency building. The glistening stream of rainbow trout had curved to avoid the smoke that drifted from the upper storeys. “What the gently caress do we do now?” said Spanglesdot. Glitteress shrugged. “Want to walk home? I hate those trout. Always feel like they’re judging me.” Spanglesdot smiled. “What would they know.” She slid her arm through Glitteress’s elbow. With a shared glance, both girls pulled the finger at the watching drones, and laughed as they wound their way cubeward through the city.
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Nov 23, 2020 08:01
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In to redeem myself, please assign me a thing
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Nov 24, 2020 07:18
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 Naeing Horses Brawl Boned at Noon 1180 words An explosion rocked the mountainside above Hope Creek. Thornton and his horse George reached the clear ground of Ramstooth Pass just in time to see Beth pummel the cybernetic horse with a hail of bones like bullets from a gatling gun. Her eyes were aflame with righteous indignation, auburn hair escaping from the hood of her black robe. The sight slammed Thornton back to the first time he’d met her. His battalion half dead and the town near taken, Beth had descended like a hurricane on the enemy droids and their cybernetic mounts. Thornton had fought at Beth’s side that day and lain beside her that night, and every night since; until peace came. Then they’d fought with each other, until, one dusty day, Beth had left. The hail of bones knocked the cybernetic horse to its knees, but from his vantage point Thornton could see the panels covering its flank-cannon opening. Oh gently caress, he thought. Beth was gasping for breath. Her robe had fallen open, revealing a sweat-soaked t-shirt and bike shorts above a pair of leather hiking boots. Thornton realised there was no way she’d get a shield up in time. “Beth, get down!” he screamed, and spurred his long-suffering horse towards the two combatants. *** X2045 stumbled with the force of the explosion, and barely got its shoulder-mounted shield up in time to protect itself from the hailstorm of bones. The shield was military-grade and deeply pock-marked. Its previous crest had been painstakingly scoured off and painted over with the emblem of the Cybernetic Horse Veterans’ Union. X2045 had sworn it would never turn its flank-cannon on a living creature again. If it had known this crazy bitch was guarding the path to Hope Creek it would have gone looking for plowing work somewhere else. But Hope Creek was small, and life was simple there. Plus, this was horse country. X2045 found the company of horses was best of all for keeping its old programming locked down. Hell, the town had what X2045 was looking for right there in the name. Hope. But having hope wasn’t worth a drat if X2045 got blasted into scrap by a vigilante necromancer. A chestnut horse burst from the trees to X2045’s left. The gelding’s neck was wet with sweat and it was jigging sideways, resisting its rider’s urgings to move forward. X2045’s heart went out to the other equine. It remembered that feeling well, of being spurred into a fight that it wanted no part of. I’m sorry, X2045 thought, as its cannon’s servos whirred to life. *** The skeletal mare’s front legs were blown off by the force of the explosion. Held to the body not by boney joints but by a miasmic cradle of spirit-muscle, stopping the scapula from detaching was the bane of quadruped reanimation, and Beth was out of practice. Tilly sat back onto her pelvis, deeply perplexed by the sudden absence of forelimbs. She tried to flick her ears in agitation, but found she didn’t have any. She wished her bones were back in the soil, close below where her old pasture-mates grazed. Her necromancer’s opponent was a horse, Tilly was pretty sure of that. Something about it wasn’t quite right, but it had neighed when it saw her. It was a lonely neigh; one herdless horse to another. Tilly had tried to respond, but when she opened her jaw no sound came out. Suddenly a chestnut gelding burst from the treeline, blowing hard, his rider making a fearful racket. Bright blue fire blazed in Tilly’s eye sockets as she recognised George’s whinny. The cybernetic horse’s cannon boomed and the hillside behind the mare exploded in a shower of rocks and dirt. George spun in panic, unseating his rider. The necromancer sprinted, robe flapping, towards the crumpled human. George paused-- Wait! screamed Tilly. Tendrils of blue flame sprang from her ribcage, and with a panic-fueled force of will she sucked her scapula and foreleg bones towards her, reattaching them with a sound like a cracked whip. She leapt to her feet, and bolted after the other horse. *** The earth of Ramstooth Pass boomed beneath the necromancer’s feet as she ripped the old bones of thousands of mountain creatures from their resting places and hurled them at the war-horse. She hated these remnants, these unnatural tools of violence and destruction. They should have been melted down along with the captured droids and their means of creation scrubbed from humanity’s records. There was no loving way she was letting it get away with thinking it could pull a plow in her town. Her first assault had not had the effect she wanted. Beth panted, trying to slow her breathing and summon enough necromantic energy for another go. gently caress, she thought, as she realised Tilly’s front legs had fallen off. But she couldn’t let herself get distracted; she knew better than anyone how dangerous war-horses could be. “Beth, get down!” she heard a familiar voice scream. She opened her mouth to tell Thornton to gently caress right off, but she was knocked off her feet by the shockwave of cannonfire hitting the hillside behind her. When she looked up, coughing dust from her throat, she saw Thornton crumpled on the stones, and her heart froze. No, thought Beth. No, no, no! She and Thornton had kept each other alive right through the war, the stupid bastard couldn’t go and die on her now. Beth abandoned her fight, and ran. *** George did not like the noise of the explosion, and did not want to go up the hill towards where it came from, but Thornton told him he had to, so he guessed he’d better. He was blowing hard by the time he cantered from the trees onto Ramstooth Pass. A woman he recognised was facing a horse (something a little off about it) that he didn’t. And behind the woman was-- “Nnnnuhuhurruru!” neighed George. He’d recognise the bones of his old pasture-mate anywhere. He had felt her absence from the soil, and he missed her. A second explosion shook the ground beneath George’s hooves, and he spooked. Thornton thudded onto the ground and the sudden lightness on his back made George hesitate, confused. The woman was running towards him. Her robe was flapping behind her, flappy and black and flicky and shifty in a way that George did not like, not one little bit. The woman tossed the robe aside as she knelt beside Thornton, blue fire springing from her hands as she cupped his face-- The robe hit the ground and poofed in an alarming fashion, and George bolted. He heard the thundering of hooves and looked back to see Tilly running to join him. The other horse (bit odd but definitely a horse) fell in behind her. Neck extended, George flared his nostrils to flood the great bellows of his lungs with air. The three horses galloped together. The wind was in them, and they were the wind. This is great, thought George.
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Nov 25, 2020 20:56
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Brosno dragon "Expertly learned Dorothy is capturing random pawn" (4,3) The River 990 words Adrienne Pavelka stalked through the familiar corridors of the hydro-dam’s admin block, her bare feet quiet in the darkness. She stopped at the door to her old office. It was locked, so she pressed her face to the glass, hands cupped around her eyes. Someone had already moved into her desk. Adrienne frowned. They’d put a stuffed Dunstan Dragon - the lake’s legendary inhabitant - right where her scale model of the dam used to sit. Through the soles of her feet Adrienne felt the vibrations of the lake pounding against the dam, like the boom of a distant drum. Adrienne had always been able to hear the lake. On her lunch breaks she used to sit atop the dam and watch the way the surface rippled, agitated, even on windless days. She had listened to the rhythm of the lake’s breath through the power station’s pipes as she worked. She’d always known what the lake wanted, too, though it was not her job to grant its wishes. The lake had been Adrienne’s ubiquitous companion, until she’d been asked to take early retirement. The manager who’d delivered the news had been barely older than her own youngest son. He had stared past her as he talked, calling her “Ms Pavelka,” as if she was too elderly to be familiar with the use of first names. There had been nothing Adrienne could do, no reasonable argument she could mount. She had felt like garbage, scrunched up and tossed away. Adrienne’s fingers gripped the thin fabric of the nightshirt she was still wearing over the top of a hastily pulled-on pair of shorts. She felt suddenly ridiculous. She could still visit the lake any time. She could go bloody boating on it if she wanted to. The Clyde river even ran right past her house. But it was a shallow, aglae-clogged thing, nothing like the deep, freezing water of Lake Dunstan. Adrienne reached the secure door to the control room. She took a deep breath, and punched in the code. She just wanted to hear the lake’s heartbeat, one more time. The control room was the lowest part of the station, almost level with the bottom of the lake. Adrienne pressed her palms against the wall and leant her forehead against its white paint. She had spent a large proportion of her working life in this room. She thought about the millions of tonnes of water imprisoned by the huge wall of concrete above her head. She had always been able to hear the lake, and she’d always known what it wanted. But she was an engineer; holding the water back was her job. It was a job she’d done well. Adrienne had liked coming to work, liked eating her lunch on the sun-warmed concrete while the dragon rippled below her dangling feet. She used to tell it she was sorry, but that she had a job to do. Adrienne sighed as she felt the lake’s thrumming through her forehead. It should have been you, she thought. You should have been the one they let go. Adrienne put her back against the wall and let herself sag to the floor. Through her back muscles she felt the dragon’s heart, pounding unceasing against its prison. She hugged her knees to her chest and took one last look around the room’s familiar instruments. “Goodbye,” Adrienne whispered. She stood up. It was time to go. The floor bucked, making Adrienne jump. She glanced around the monitors, but they had picked up nothing untoward. But Adrienne could hear it. The lake’s pounding was no longer a just-out-of-hearing vibration but a real, audible boom. In her mind’s eye Adrienne saw the dark surface, a hundred meters above her, suddenly start to seethe. Adrienne had always been able to hear the lake. But it hadn’t been her job to grant its wish. Hadn’t been her job. Hadn’t been. Adrienne closed her eyes and tried to count to ten. It didn’t work. She was trembling all over, her heart pounding in time with the lake’s. She could feel the dragon’s hot breath on the back of her neck. It was pleading with her, she realised, her companion of so many years. She couldn’t leave it here, alone. Adrienne felt elated and terrified all at once. She eyed the dam’s control panel. I’m a madwoman, she thought, and realised that she was deeply delighted at the prospect. Adrienne took a deep breath, and held it. The dragon held its breath with her, as if it were looking over her shoulder, waiting. She breathed out, and with shaking hands opened the floodgates. The emergency discharge siren blared throughout the power station as the huge gates clanged open. Adrienne was laughing as she hit the stairwell, and was thoroughly out of breath before she was even halfway up. Red lights strobed the walls as she hauled herself along with the handrail. Through her bare feet she could feel the floor trembling, like the lake was laughing with her, a great belly-deep laugh that rolled up from its silty bottom and burst from the surface like bubbles on a boiling pot. Adrienne shoved through the exit and stumble-ran, clutching the stitch in her side, to the center of the dam. Three huge jets of water roared from the spillways, sending up a plume of spray that soaked Adrienne’s nightshirt. Across Cromwell lights were coming on - the station’s siren a rude awakening for the town. In the dawn light Adrienne saw a crowd gather along the riverbank. She fancied she could hear people cheering at the sight of the mighty Clyde flowing full and deep once more. Adrienne felt lighter than she had in years. She leant on the railing, slowly catching her breath, and watched the lake return to the river. The dragon’s serpentine body unfurled across the landscape, glowing burnished orange in the rising sun.
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Nov 30, 2020 02:19
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I don't know how to write a love story so I will judge all of you instead
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Dec 4, 2020 03:03
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Crits for Week 435 So this week you were invited to write stories about love. You didn’t have to write love stories, but I would have thought that at least some characters would have fallen in love and lived happily ever after. Wrong. Let’s see what you did to your protagonists. A whopping 64% finished the story somewhere between sad and dead. Only 21% managed to finish the story in love of some kind, while the remaining 14% ended up alone, but at least they weren’t sad.  There’s nothing wrong with happy endings, Thunderdome! Anyway, onto the crits... HOT POINT by brotherly An obsessive person sells a kidney in order to secure enough cash to buy an antique refrigerator. His partner hovers, disapprovingly. The obsessive person obsesses over the fridge. His partner hovers, disapprovingly. Obsessive person bores of fridge and starts obsessing about buying a grand piano. His partner hovers, disapprovingly. The end. This story isn’t terribly written but as you may have guessed from my summary it is not very satisfying. Neither character really does anything, and both end exactly as they start, albeit minus a kidney. I think the missing piece was Cordie - you needed to show him reacting to his partner’s self-destructive behaviour, and then that would have given the protag something that he had to make a decision about / respond to. Then we’d have gotten to see what their relationship was really all about, instead of reading about a man buying a fridge. 6/10 Crazy for you [but not that crazy] by Tree Bucket I enjoyed the first half of this. The contrast between the protag’s stressful working day and the delightful escapism of fantasising about a beautiful stranger was well done. But then it gets repetitive, in a way that I think you might have thought was interesting but was actually a bit tedious to read, and then the ending is just weird. Was she a magical music fairy or a figment of his deranged imagination or is this a thing that happens in Australia when you eat too many gum tree leaves or whatever the hell it is you all do over there? 5/10 Royal Wants, Worker Dreams by Simply Simon Wow, this opens with a veritable waterfall of insect-people sci-fi / fantasy jargon. Two paragraphs in and this deluge of descriptive wordage has swept away my fragile understanding of wtf I’m supposed to be picturing. Nonetheless, I will read bravely on, because I want to see if there are rude bits. Ok I’m up to the aedeagus boner and it is now clear this is a story about a forbidden love affair between a royal heir and a commoner. So far so good, although it has taken rather a lot of words to get to this rather obvious premise. Ok, wait. If he has an aedeagus then surely she has an ovipore, not a vagina? And if you’re going to say things like “showing her entire vagina,” then “vulva” would be more accurate. (And you thought I just did horse facts). Oh dear, pausing in the middle of hot sex to be all “let’s make a baby” is the least hot thing I can imagine. Also stop thinking about your mother during sex. Leaving that aside, the implication at the end that, because his brothers are dead, he has put her in the position of having to (being forced to?) carry the next heirs to the throne does not seem like a particularly loving act. You’ve set her up as a rebel, so sentencing her to a future as a mother in the royal court - all so the protag can have the ultimate organsm - seems pretty lovely. Unless life in the royal court is great, but that’s not the vibe I’m getting from Mr Runaway Prince. Up to this point, my interpretation had been that this was their last night together because he had to go home before they got caught. Or are they already rumbled, and she is therefore going to be executed unless he somehow saves her? If that’s the case then his decision to impregnate her makes more sense, but this wasn’t clear to me. It feels like you had a lot of fun writing insect porn, and didn’t pay enough attention to your underlying story. 5.5/10 The Curse of Eternity by Nae Well that was weird. Not bad, but it was a strange journey from 8-year old with a crush on his nanny to space-time wizard sulking for centuries before randomly deciding to meddle in the fate of a version of himself in a parallel universe. I think you needed clearer characters and more reason to care about them. 6/10 Funhouse Mirrors in Parallel by magic cactus I think this is a story about a guy with a prosthetic leg who earns cash on the side by making VR vids for people who get boners for his false leg? And then one day he gets a job banging an escort, who is being paid to be in this vid with him, only this time these two people really click and they have some nice sex and a cuddle afterwards. And because it was a special experience, he decides to delete the data rather than sell it. So, that’s nice. I would have liked to have read about what happened to these two characters after that. Does this encounter cause them to approach their lives differently? Do they fall in love? Maybe get coffee some time?? Or is the world too grim-dark for that? 6.5/10 Entanglements by Nikaer Drekin This one seems to be about someone who has been electrocuted by their vacuum cleaner and is now in a coma. They are reliving, over and over, all the things that made them anxious about their relationship with their lover. But despite how anxiety inducing love can be, they think it’s worth it in the end. And that’s it, the end. While this wasn’t an unpleasant little ramble, it wasn’t very satisfying as a story-reading experience. Very little character and even less plot. Writing stories without plot or characters is like cooking without fat and salt - the rest has to be that much better to make up for it. 5/10 When You Look at Me, Please Don't Think of Me Everytime by flerp This story feels like it’s trying to be a whole big metaphor for something, and I don’t get it. It’s not, “if you love something then let it go,” because the protag doesn’t even like the moon. Maybe the message is, “if your partner wants to keep something in a cage against its will then your partner is a dick and you’re better off without them”?? There’s some moralising about how you need to experience darkness in order to appreciate the light, but it wasn’t the case that the protag was unappreciative of what he had - quite the opposite, he seemed very sad to lose this relationship, even though he knew it was the right thing to do. The prose was good though. 6/10 our aeons by take the moon In this story the protagonist is leading their twin on a journey to find a cure for a malady the twin suffers, that causes them to dream for aeons. The protagonist frames this as an act of love for their twin, but through the story it becomes clear that they are just as motivated, if not more so, by a desire to free themselves from suffering the side-effects of their twin’s affliction. In the end, they succeed in finding a cure, but regret their decision, as they realise that they have taken something significant from their twin. The use of language in this story is pretty cool, but unfortunately I found myself tripping over some of the more unusual descriptions, and this hindered my understanding of the story. For example, from near the ending: “A glaze flares before her like light in glass, and she crashes and skids on chrome she can't see.” What does it mean for a glaze to flare? What’s the chrome thing? What am I supposed to be picturing here? 6/10 i’ll get you a good lawyer once i’m famous by Tyrannosaurus look at this cool guy with his cool guy lower case title. who needs capital letters. not me, I’m too cool. Ok I’m glad I got to diss your title (which is actually a good title btw) because I don’t have anything negative to say about the rest of this. It’s a great story. Clear characters. Strong emotional arc made all the more compelling by how understated the characters’ feelings are. Nice bittersweet resolution. Very nice work. 9/10 How I Wrote My First Love Song by Pththya-lyi This was pretty sweet. I enjoyed the way the protag’s decision to learn the guitar started off as a ridiculous impulsive decision and turned out to be exactly the sort of distraction they needed. The decision to break up felt natural, and the apology to the supportive cousin was a satisfying ending. Just a smidge behind Tyrannosaurus’ because the emotional content carried less weight. I think you could have given this story more impact if you’d shown how ending this relationship affected the protag’s life. E.g., they mend their relationship with their cousin, but do they also grow up in other ways? 8/10 Lost Time by sparksbloom This is pretty cool but I’m not sure I get it. Marina has been away for a year, and since she came back she’s been staying out late, which is stressing Robin out. So Robin goes for a walk in the forest late one night, and finds Marina having a magic battle with a parasite that has invaded the woods while Robin has been distracted. They fight it together, and then at the end accept that they need to do something about their relationship. But why didn’t Marina just ask Robin for help? What’s going on with these two? I think the ending just needed to be a bit clearer about what was going on with Marina and how she felt about Robin, so the reader was left with an understanding of whether their relationship was going to work out or not. 7/10 Timeout by Thranguy I enjoyed this - the premise was interesting, and the time travel thing was a good metaphor for the doomed decision to get back together with an ex - but I stumbled over the ending. Did we jump back to the beginning of their relationship, or are they meeting again, but this time one or both of them has different memories?? 6/10 Papa Was A Rodeo, Mama Was A Cone Of Flesh by Djeser I’ve always thought it was weird how horny mecha anime is, and this story is no exception. Djeser, you completely lost me in the swirl of tentacle-limbs and lasers. What was even going on? Who are these people? What are the things they’re piloting? How is there a baby at the end?? On the upside, much like most mecha anime, at least the swirl of tentacles and lasers was fun. 5/10 Polar Night by siotle This is a story about two friends who take each other for granted, until they are separated because one of them is selected for a research expedition to Antarctica. They don’t communicate effectively about how they feel, but I think the ending is supposed to imply that they eventually will, and the friendship will be ok. It’s not a terrible story, but it wasn’t very engaging. The most interesting bit - how they resolve this challenge to their relationship - is left out. There are some mechanical problems. The dialogue in the first section is weird - you describe them as both typing and talking (which is it?), and then you say they’re roommates. Are they typing to each other from neighbouring rooms…? Then we have a POV shift, from Xuan to Itsuki. While at least it is clear whose POV we’re looking from, swapping halfway through the story felt awkward. 5/10
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Dec 8, 2020 03:10
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Tyrannosaurus posted:There are twenty-nine of them. This is absolutely disgusting. And also far too many for me to look through because I am lazy. Can you please pick one for me? Whichever one you chose, can you please say you picked it specially just for me because you are absolutely just so excited to see what I do with it, because you are sure that I have (as yet untapped) latent genius-level writing talent? Thank you in advance, Your friend Yoruichi
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Dec 8, 2020 09:42
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Week 95: Inhuman Centipede. Opening line: “Time was always neutral to everyone regardless what anyone had said to her.” You know, I've been thinking, you've read so many Sitting Here stories that it shouldn't be hard to write one yourself. But do make it fresh, you know what I mean? I'm thinking something kinda dreamy, something something a "story about the power of stories" but you're the expert. You'll do great. Time was always neutral to everyone, regardless what Anyone had said to her. 980 words Xanthe knelt before the witch, who sat cross-legged within a thick circle of salt. Time alone would never be enough to heal the pain of losing Elsa. Anyone’s black hair spread out around her like tentacles, and she looked hungrily at Xanthe from beneath her greasy bangs. “So you want me to tell you a story,” the witch said, her voice a heavy smoker’s growl. Elsa would have been furious at her but Xanthe was beyond caring. She looked around the witch’s cottage. The room was devoid of decoration, save a row of herbs rotting in jars on the windowsill. An odorous nest of bedding was piled before the empty fireplace. Elsa would have felt sorry for Anyone. Wouldn't have trusted her, but still. Xanthe could just see the way Elsa's brows would have knotted with concern. She felt tears welling behind her hot and aching eyes. She squeezed them shut, forced the thought away. Then Xanthe looked at the witch, and nodded. Anyone’s hair slithered against her thighs as water bubbled from between the flagstones. The salt circle dissolved with a hiss and a sharp smell like hot iron. Xanthe stood and stepped backwards towards the door, but the water - already up to her knees - dragged at her jeans like thick mud. She stumbled and fell, barely keeping her face above the frothing surface. Anyone’s voice rose above the torrent, and the story poured into Xanthe’s ears. Xanthe was in her living room, holding a steaming jug of water. Before her was her clawfoot bath, dragged from the bathroom and placed right in front of the fireplace. Elsa - beautiful and alive - reclined in the tub. Xanthe poured the water over Elsa's long, black hair, not caring that the tub was overflowing onto the carpet. She tasted salt. Feeling strangely furtive, Xanthe let her eyes wander over Elsa's naked body. Her wet skin shone like bronze in the firelight. Sweating in the overheated room, Xanthe moved to open the door, but found it locked. “You’re not going anywhere,” said Elsa. The surface of the water rippled, distorting the image of Elsa's slender legs, so that they seemed to writhe-- Xanthe opened her eyes. The water in the cottage was up to her chest. She flailed her arms, suddenly frightened. The story was all wrong. “Stop!” said Xanthe. In the stuffy living room Xanthe sighed, sat down on the sodden carpet and rested her head against the lip of the tub. “I’m the only thing you need,” said Elsa. Her fingers curled through Xanthe’s hair, suckers gripping her scalp-- The pressure of Anyone’s words made Xanthe’s ears pop. She pressed her palms over her ears and shook her head. She had to brace herself against the water, as if the tide were rushing in. Anyone stood before her, dress swirling in the current. Beneath the water, refracted by the surface so they didn’t quite line up with Anyone’s skinny torso, were Elsa’s legs. “This is my story,” the witch hissed. She stepped forward, moving as though the water wasn’t there, and shoved Xanthe under. Xanthe screamed. Bubbles rushed from her mouth and she tasted iron. Elsa was gripping Xanthe’s biceps, holding their bodies close. Elsa’s eyebrows were pressed together in just the way they always did when she was most worried about Xanthe, and her lips were moving, mouthing Xanthe’s name-- Xanthe melted into Elsa’s embrace. Elsa’s lips were blue, so Xanthe kissed them, concerned. Elsa’s arms were around Xanthe, and she shuddered as Elsa’s fingertips walked down her spine and under the waistband of her jeans. “You said you'd love me forever,” Elsa hissed, lips right by Xanthe’s ear. What a stupid thing to say. That's what Elsa had said, when Xanthe once told her she'd love her always and forever. Time is a bitch. Noone knows how much of it they've got. Elsa had grinned, and run her fingers gently through Xanthe’s hair. On her face was one of those earnest looks she got when she thought she was being extra profound. That's why right now matters so much. And right now, Xanthe realised, she was drowning. Desperate for air, she shoved Elsa away and kicked for the surface. Her face burst from the churning water, right below the cottage’s ceiling. Elsa’s fingertips had become suckers, gripping viciously to the skin of Xanthe’s back. Tentacles wrapped around Xanthe’s biceps and thighs. She looked down, and saw the octopus poised with its beak directly above her heart. Elsa would have taken pity on the creature, Xanthe thought. She remembered the time Elsa had brought an injured pigeon home in a shoebox, and how she’d insisted on burying it in their garden when it died. But then Elsa always had been a better person than her. Xanthe gave the octopus a solid elbow to the mantle, planted her feet against the ceiling and dove for the door of the cottage. The octopus hissed and filled the water with ink, but Xanthe’s hands were already on the doorknob. She twisted, and the door burst open under the force of the water. Xanthe was on her hands and knees outside the cottage, coughing to clear her lungs. The black water beaded from her clothes, dripping from her as if in a hurry to be gone. The puddles coagulated and wormed their way into the stony soil. Xanthe tilted her face to the night sky and took a deep, shuddering breath. Elsa would have been so, so mad at her. Xanthe could just picture Elsa’s eyebrows, pressed together with exasperation. She laughed, surprising herself with the sound. She coughed. She could just imagine Elsa’s outrage if she told her she’d punched an octopus, even if it was a witch. Xanthe laughed again, and fresh tears rolled down over her cheeks.
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Dec 14, 2020 00:40
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Entenzahn posted:The War on Christmas Dear Entenzahn Happy Christmas! After last year’s Christmas epic, I couldn’t resist doing something this year too. I hope you like it!  Your friend Yoruichi I guess I’m also in, and this must therefore be my entry for this week, god help me. The War on Christmas Episode 2: All is Calm, All is FIGHT 1200 words Bob-Santa stood in the shadow of a subway entrance and watched the bomber-sleighs disappear into the darkness. Sleety rain was falling, and the city rang with sirens. Bob-Santa looked again at his watch, took one last draw on his cigarette, and flicked the butt into the gutter. On the watch face was a picture of Rudolph, the minute hand passing inexorably across his red nose. Bob-Santa undid the plastic strap and stuffed the watch into the pocket of his Santa suit. Sugarfloppemlollops was never late. Terri Taylor crept up the stairs to the subway’s exit. She couldn’t believe her luck. Her enemy’s unmistakable silhouette was framed in the streetlights’ yellow glow. Santa. Terri squeezed her daughter Tammy’s hand, and held one finger to her lips in a silent entreaty for silence. In her other hand Terri held the green and white striped pistol she’d taken from the elf who’d jumped them in the tunnels, now hog-tied in the deserted station below. Terri was going to save the city for her daughter’s sake, even if it meant war. War, on Christmas. Mr Krozsarsky crawled from the bombed-out ruins of his apartment building in nothing but his underwear. He probably should have been more judicious with the fake coordinates he’d given that fool elf, but Krozsarsky would have gotten his own home bombed a hundred times over if it meant that Christmas and its vile trappings would be banned for good. He had to get a message to the ultra-othordox Russian headquarters in the occupied North Pole: midshipman cools ices. With this success, Krozsarsky’s commitment was beyond dispute. He could almost feel the weight of his forthcoming medal around his unshaven neck. Krozsarsky slapped his hands against his shivering biceps and hurried along the empty sidewalk. Sugarfloppemlollops’s eyes rolled back and his chin was sticky with peppermint drool. That bitch woman and her awful child had made one, fatal mistake. Trying not to breathe the intoxicating fumes he tongued the candy cane they’d left behind. Sugarfloppemlollops sucked and rubbed enough of an edge into the shaft to cut through his bonds. His head jerked as his handwork caught his lip, and he tasted blood. poo poo, he thought, and spat out the cane. But it was too late. The subway station began to spin as the juice hit Sugarfloppemlollops’s bloodstream. He had maybe 30 seconds before he was transported to elf paradise for the next, oh, three to five hours. The tremors from the bombing had stopped; Sugarfloppemlollops knew that Bob-Santa was waiting for him. He pictured his partner… No, Bob-Santa was more than just his partner, though in all these years of hiding together Sugarfloppemlollops had never been able to confess his true feelings. He couldn’t let Bob-Santa down now. There was only one option. His bound limbs and imminent candy-delirium made movement almost impossible, but with gritted teeth Sugarfloppemlollops wormed his way to the packet of Nescafé that the child had dropped. Colours were waterfalling over his vision as he tore it open with his teeth, and took a huge snort of the world’s worst instant coffee-- Terri was trembling. She counted the stairs. Seven… five… Three from the top she lost her nerve and ran, so that the fat man heard her coming, and turned… Terri found herself with her stolen pistol rammed not into the small of his back but into his red velvet gut, his surprised eyes staring straight into hers and his hands held out, palms forward and fingers splayed. “Ho, ho, who are you?” said Bob-Santa. He could see from her woollen jersey with a Christmas tree knitted into the front that the woman was no ultra-orthodox Russian. “Cut the crap, Santa,” said Terri. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Tammy staring at her, hands clenched around the straps of her backpack. Like most modern parents, Terri was terrified of being judged by her children. She took a deep breath, and jabbed the pistol against Santa’s stomach. “Why are you attacking New York? It’s Christmas, for Christ’s sake!” Bob-Santa spread his hands a little wider. He needed this chick to calm down, to give him a moment to think. They were supposed to be attacking the North Pole! “That jersey,” he said. “How did you manage to keep it hidden from the ultra-orthodox Russians all these years?” “The U-Os? Where have you been, living in a secret bunker or something?” (Bob-Santa had indeed been living in a secret bunker). Terri sighed, and continued, “The ultra-orthodox Russians don’t have any territory outside the North Pole. Why do you think they call it the cold war?” Bob-Santa’s mouth was suddenly dry, and he struggled to swallow. “So… Christmas isn’t banned?” he said, hopeful and terrified all at once. Christmas is so banned, you jingly gently caress! thought Mr Krozsarsky. He was huddled behind a dumpster, standing on a flattened cardboard box to stop his feet from freezing. He did not leap out from behind said dumpster and yell, “Christmas is so banned, you jingly gently caress!” because he was armed with nothing but his underpants, and he was wearing those. Better to watch from the shadows, and wait for his opportunity to-- “AARRRRGHL!” Sugarfloppemlollops’s voice reverberated up the stairs, followed closely by the elf himself. The coffee powder stuck to the sugar slobber on his chin gave him a weird Nescafé goatee and his pupils were dilated from the cane. “Thatonetimeinthebunkerthatyoukissedmewasthatjusttosavemylifewithelfmagicorwasitsomethingmore?” Sugarfloppemlollops said to Bob-Santa. “Sugarfloppemlollops!” Bob-Santa exclaimed. “Thank god, I was so worried. This woman says this is New York! Who gave you the coordinates?” “ItwasoneofthenewrecruitsyouknowtheonewiththeneckbeardandtheRussianaccent.” “My god,” said Bob-Santa, the pistol in his belly all but forgotten. “Sugarfloppemlollops, I’m afraid we may have been infiltrated.” Behind the dumpster Mr Krozsarsky, who was by now definitely hypothermic, let out a snort of laughter. Sugarfloppemlollops keeled over. “I’msosorryBobit’sallmyfault.” The elf hugged his knees and began to sob. “Howwillwedefeattheultra-orthodoxRussiansandsaveChristmasnow?” “Here,” said a small voice. Tammy had crept up the stairs and was holding out a steaming thermos mug to Sugarfloppemlollops. “Mom always makes me get her a cup of Folgers when she’s ‘under the weather’…” Tammy put air quotes around this last bit, and Terri twitched involuntarily. The elf took the mug in both hands and inhaled deeply. His pupils contracted slightly. Colours stopped gyrating. He took a deep draught, then handed the mug to Bob. Bob-Santa brought the mug to his lips and the smell of Folgers filled his nose. It was the smell of Christmas morning, a smell he hadn’t smelt for so many years. Tears spilled from his eyes. “Merry… Christmas…?” he said to Terri. The long-disused words tasted like delicious cranberry sauce on his tongue. “I guess there’s no war on Christmas after all,” Terri said. She looked ruefully at the striped pistol, then tucked it into the back of her jeans. “Except for the war on the ultra-orthodox Russians who have illegally occupied the North Pole,” said Sugarfloppemlollops. “Which, given it’s Christmas, is on Christmas,” said Tammy. Terri, Bob-Santa and Sugarfloppemlollops all burst out laughing. Terri hugged her daughter. Bob-Santa bent down and scooped up Sugarfloppemlollops, and held the smaller elf so that they were forehead to forehead. “That kiss in the bunker,” Bob-Santa whispered, “that meant everything.” Behind the dumpster Mr Krozsarsky passed out from the cold, but Terri found him and revived him with a hot cup of Folgers.
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Dec 18, 2020 05:22
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I love and hate wearing the losertar. I hate it because I don't like losing, but I love it because it feels like a badge of belonging to this bonkers community. I also like seeing my losertar lined up next to the other losertar-havers, it reminds me that everyone poos bad words sometimes and writing the stinkiest poo one week is not actually that bad! I'd be sad to see it go, but I'd like it if it was a gif that didn't spin quite so fast because it makes my eyes feel funny. If someone had the losertar and didn't want to participate in TD again or was just done with wearing it it would be nice if they could get their av back for free, if the cost was an issue.
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Dec 23, 2020 01:47
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p r o m p t
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Dec 23, 2020 07:01
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As you know I can't write weird stories because I have no imagination, so please give me a hellrule to assist me with this.
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Dec 23, 2020 08:34
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Deadline is like 6 hours away... You've already got your opening sentence, just write 300 words describing what this dying tree looks like and boom, job done.
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Dec 28, 2020 03:05
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Flashrule: Your presents are all alive and screaming and the tree is made of hairspray. The War on Christmas Episode 3: The Wind of Change 650 words Mr Krozsarsky sat on the floor of Terri Taylor’s cramped living room. The power was out because of the bombing that Krozsarsky had himself, as an ultra-orthodox Russian agent, helped to orchestrate, and the only light came from two candles that Terri had scrounged from under her kitchen sink. The hastily-wrapped present she had just handed him sat like a dead weight in his hands. “You didn’t have to,” said Krozsarsky. “I didn’t,” said Terri. “This is just some crap my ex left behind. But it’s Christmas. So there should be presents.” Krozsarsky looked around the apartment. A child’s painting of an elf was pinned to the fridge. There were books on martial arts on the bookcase, under a violin case that was gathering dust. You didn’t have to save me, was what he’d meant to say. After tonight’s attack Krozsarsky had expected to end up dead, not having an impromptu Christmas party on his neighbour’s threadbare rug. This wasn’t how the war on Christmas was supposed to end. Not for him. With an effort, Krozsarsky held his poker face, even smiled a little. He picked at the sellotape with one broken fingernail. A whistled refrain began to issue from the box. It was a simple tune, but it knifed into Krozsarsky’s ears with a jolt of recognition. The lid popped open and the Scorpions rose from the box in a cloud of dry ice. Klaus Meine took a deep breath, and-- Krozsarsky tried to push the box shut but the mechanism jammed. The Scorpions began to sing in earnest, filling the flat with painfully familiar lyrics. Krozsarsky stood, dropping the box. The Scorpions spilled out, but somehow kept hold of their instruments. The song was too much. He’d been a different man entirely when he’d first been swept away by these lyrics. When he thought of everything he’d done since then, all his regrets-- Three strides and he was at the door, but Terri was blocking his path. “God I haven’t heard this song in years,” she said. She pulled a lighter from her pocket, smiled at Krozsarsky, and flicked the wheel-- Unbeknownst to Terri and Mr Krozsarsky, a corona of hairspray had built up above the power-ballading Scorpions. The lighter ignited the gas, and a cone of fire wooshed up to scorch the ceiling. It left a Christmas-tree shaped afterimage on Krozsarsky’s retinas. Terri shrieked, and then burst out laughing. The Scorpions continued, even louder than before, and Krozsarsky could feel the song building, drawing him in-- Mr Krozsarsky hadn’t always hated Christmas. But ever since Inna had been run over by that reindeer... That’s why he’d gone over to the U-Os, that’s why he’d tricked the elven resistance army into attacking New York, that’s why-- “TAKE ME TO THE MAGIC OF THE MOMENT…” Terri belted out. Krozsarsky cleared his throat, unable to believe what he was doing. Terri waved the lighter, and smiled at him, and Krozsarsky felt something inside himself break. His cheeks were wet as he launched in with his deep baritone-- “ON A GLORY NIGHT…” Suddenly, elsewhere in New York, Santa tipped his head back and a golden beam of light shot from his wide-open mouth and eye sockets. He would never know what precisely had caused his sudden power surge, only that, somewhere in the city, someone was experiencing a joyous and unexpected moment of hope. Truly, it was a Christmas miracle. “What the gently caress,” said Terri, as a bright flash of light glowed around her curtains. Terri and Mr Krozsarsky rushed to the window. They stared, shoulders pressed together and necks craned, as Bob-Santa’s plasma cannon blasted open the night sky. The beam bent around the earth, re-entered the atmosphere directly above the illegally occupied North Pole, and bruzzurzzed straight into the heart of the ultra-orthodox Russian base. The elves rejoiced. And so that was how the war on Christmas ended, at least for Mr Krozsarsky.
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Dec 28, 2020 11:25
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