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Crits for Week 409 Saucy_Rodent -- The Ghost Room I appreciate the gritty realism of this setup, and the mystery of what Tanya's up to is intriguing. This story is structured much like a horror movie, right down to the cathartic-healing final battle. However I couldn't get behind Jackson as the protagonist. His POV is not particularly sympathetic to her, despite the very clear trauma she's been through, so I'm not rooting for them to get back together, as I should be in the ramp up to this climax. The emergence of the Evil Crab made me hopeful for a twist, that maybe Tanya and the Crab were the 'team' against Jackson all along, but it was not to be. Sloppy writing, typos and missing words were the nails in the coffin here. rat-born cock -- Bella of the Brawl Aside from clearly keying in to what I wanted from this week's prompt, this story has excellent prose and a well-executed gimmick in the synaesthetic descriptions of the city's smells. I am a dog lover IRL, so I'm touched by the notion of doggy chivalry and lines like "There’s no such thing as a Sri without the noodle girl, so then the noodle girl must be nearby, and Sri must call for her." Aside from a few nitpicks regarding realism (ie, a dog can't be oblivious to a nearby gunshot) I have very little to criticise here. And I couldn't be happier to see a happy ending for these dogs. Salgal80 -- untitled(?) As I said in the judgement, I respect the experiment with form here. Flash fiction is the right length for it, especially when the experiment doesn't work, because at least it's over quickly. I also like the 'Ode to Criticism' interpretation of teamwork. Ironically though, it seems like you forgot to tell an actual story here. Kim's voice isn't believable as a 7th grader, and the context of other students who seem preternaturally wise & incisive only raises further questions. Worse, though, is that the second draft of the story, while arguably better paced/worded than the first draft, doesn't reveal anything about Kim, or provide evidence of change. To me the weak link is the teacher's segment, where somebody who actually knows something about Kim's life can weigh in to illuminate who Kim is and why this is a meaningful essay for her. kiyoshimon -- The Gift I have to concur with Yoruichi's assessment that this story's biggest failure is lack of focus. We don't get any meaningful development of Kevin and Zeke's relationship. We learn Rancher Bob's whole deal before we get much about Zeke. Kevin's unspecified reluctance to do anything feels really weak in the context - why is holding down the llama so traumatic for him, and why is the same not true for Zeke? A central question with no satisfying resolution. Furthermore, several plot turns here are preposterous. Leaving aside that a llama's max carry weight is around 100 pounds, eight nights is an absurd length of time for these guys to wait before eating the llama with a broken leg. At least leave it behind! It defies all logic. Finally, since you hit the exact word limit, I encourage you to trim further next time - you have a habit of saying the same thing twice, and repeating yourself. Thranguy -- Delphina, Trevor, and Pip I started out quite liking this piece, it gives me big Stephen King vibes. There's a good sense of time and place to it, and I couldn't put my finger on what supernatural trope you're using at first, in a good way. I like not knowing if they're aliens or some unknown monster. When you get to the word 'glamour' it more or less becomes clear, which is fine, although it made me wonder if I had missed something about this being set in Ireland or something. The big weakness here is loss of clarity during moments of action - when the faeries prank them in the car, and during the climax in the cabin, it becomes too easy to lose track of who is who and what's happening to them. All that said, I liked the final image a lot. Anomalous Blowout -- The Shortest Distance Between Two Points Clean prose makes the worldbuilding easy to enjoy, and I found the storytelling through the 'act break' to be super solid. The mystery of what's coming once they get the boat out into the water is great. The imagery of the bioluminescent anti-climax is sweet, and it brings the teamwork theme into a sort of global superimposition over the smaller events of the story. It's a satisfying magic trick where you realize the teamwork was already done, years ago. Unfortunately, the final moment of the story, when the narrator holds Sean inside the boat, made me realize there was a void where my understanding of their relationship should have been. If I knew more why it was a big deal that Sean left and ultimately returned, I think the story would fire on all cylinders. sebmojo -- Jesting Pisces As Yoruichi noted, your handling of language is excellent, and it allows the story to brim with the appropriate dingy, firelit energy you seem to be going for. But the story left me scratching my head a bit. For one thing, the team doesn't work well together, so you failed on the prompt level. The fabled legend of the golden fish of truth is fun, and the story might have benefited from a framing that made the fable the centerpoint rather than the character's POV. I also couldn't quite get a handle on the time and place, possibly due to eccentricities in the character voices. They're not cliche, which is good, but I can't pin down quite what they are. If nothing else, you can take confidence in knowing this story is fully its own thing, and to someone who intuitively gets it, it's probably the best story written this week.
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A Letter from the Moon Dearest Marguerite, It has now been seventeen months since I last saw your sparkling olive eyes. Touched the soft underlayers of your auburn hair. Whiffed at the fresh, acrid scent of your plaintive snatch. As you well know, it is this latter absence that keeps me tossing and turning, violently turgid in my little bunk, here on the dark side of the moon. I dare not expose my weakness (and my strength, darling) to the night-time overhearings of my bunkmates. To relieve myself at the thought of your eyes, your mouth, your breasts, is not strictly against the rules in MoonMine Station 3, but there is a social code proscribed against it. The idea being that if one man should begin to massage his member, then all the other men will hear this and be reminded of their own earthbound lovers, resulting to mass fits of forlorn yankery, if not an outright desperation orgy. There is some concern that this would affect on-the-job efficiency, and thus our pay, so we agree to contain ourselves. Nevertheless, you arrest my dreams, you sweet insouciant fuckbug! Drawn again and again, in my sleep, I am, to that wisp of a moment we laid under the willow tree by that river in Tennessee. The buzzing of the insects, the setting sun dappling across the weeds, the stench of the upriver chemical spill. You pressed a perfumed handkerchief to your nose and laid back between the roots. I pressed my nose into your velvet ham, and made your pleasure my business. Such moments as these live on only in the sweetest parts of my brain now, to emerge only when my guards are down and I have a moment not to think. All of which is not to say that the MoonMine lacks its titillations. If one is willing to forego the measly few dollars of the focused efficiency bonus, one can create such interesting shapes with a mining laser. I must admit to having attempted to carve an accurate recreation of your own pugnacious tits on the tunnel wall, in a fit of distracted engorgement. I believe I was able to shape them almost perfectly: that close-to-the-chest bit of sag that they carry, to that upper lift in the front. It was the nipples that eluded me, to my fury. But then, I shouldn't be surprised. The mining laser was built to destroy, not to create even a pale mimicry of a work of art such as yourself, my love. The finest day I had in these recent moonbound months was when I was assigned a transport shift, a rarity for all us Moon Miners, because they're only required when something or other has gummed up the pneumatic tubes, and the material must be shuttled overland in a buggy. My lucky straw was drawn, and I shot off into the darkness towards MoonMine Station 4. The route is of course calculated down to the centimeter, and the efficiency target shines constantly on a display inside the buggy. Nevertheless, the buggy is equipped with brakes, in the case of a comet impact or somesuch in its path. Thus, by stopping the buggy midway between stations, the full-to-bursting Moon Miner may find the only moment of relief that is available to him without agitating his compatriots into a riot. And that is precisely what I did, Marguerite. It's a delicate act, to remove all of one's protective gear whilst maintaining a foot solidly on the brake pedal, but I managed it. There in the buggy, alone for miles in the dark & deadly wasteland of the moon, I thought of you, and thrashed at myself with a passion that I'd only previously known only to erupt from you, in our nights of summer. My hand became yours, and though mine is rough from work in the mines, in the buggy it became as soft as skin between the bones of your clavicle, where I once licked at the sweat pooled in a moment of ecstasy. You may think that after once I was spent, but no, dearest, I continued, three, four times, in fact I lost count of the thrustings and expulsions that took hold of my body. All the while, with my foot pressed into the brake pedal, lest I lose control of the buggy and tumble into a crater, like old Jonas I'd heard tell of, whose buggy was smashed to bits, and he was found in the dust, still smiling, fully frozen with his cock still standing at attention. Useful to some, if they have imagination, but I expect it's much better to have a warm partner, no? But my thoughts do wander now. Such is the unspooled mind that follows an emptying of the anxious pouch betwixt my legs. Even if it was weeks ago, the incident in the buggy still soothes me even now. Perhaps we Moon Miners are an evolution of the species, able to contain our juices for superhuman durations, whilst our minds sharpen and bodies harden under labor. Perhaps I'm just a romantic. Write me back, sweet spicy Marguerite, I beg of you! And this time, if you'd be so kind, include a spray of your perfume on the paper, and if not a photograph, then a drawing of your theatre-in-the-round, whose sodden boards I yearn to tread again? A thousand thank you's from a man on his knees, on the dark side of the moon. From this point, it's only another thirty-three months until my arms will hold you once more. With ejaculations of love and kindness, Gregor
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Jun 14, 2020 20:38
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I regret my decisions
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Jun 16, 2020 03:20
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im in and i would like to hear a song from the 00's
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Jun 16, 2020 23:25
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The Thirty-One Moons of K'zer Theta 1895 words The K'zer fleet's mission in this solar system was very simple: they wanted Earth's moon. It was the humans that made it complicated. But that was common with humans in the latter days of their global empire. Every simple exchange had to go through endless layers of corruption and ego-soothing to find a resolution. Ideally, Bon Bub-yulub K'zer would become adept at managing these human foibles, as it had become so in managing countless other lesser societies about the galaxy, but humans thus far remained elusive. To improve the K'zer understanding of humanity, the Bon ordered a survey of all life on Earth and waited on the results. It hoped for a more positive result for the fleet than what the survey of humanity's military capacity had produced. On the command strata of its flagship, Bon K'zer dialed up a connection to Earth leadership. The ruddy, round face of Generalissimo Pete Piggins filled the viewport. As usual, he wore a stiff formal uniform that seemed scarcely able to contain his flesh, especially at the neck. He bared his teeth in a gesture that the K'zer had determined to be a display of friendship. "Bonky! How the hell are ya? I was wondering if you'd find some time for your old pal Petey today." "Greetings to you, Generalissimo," replied the Bon. Lacking vocal cords, the Bon utilized a patch of skin on its face to display a series of idioms towards a camera that the humans had provided, to be decoded into speech by a machine in Piggins' office. The camera had to be kept in a bubble membrane full of air at all times, to avoid malfunction. Bon K'zer didn't understand why humans would create any device that could not touch water, as Earth is nearly entirely covered in water. Del Ophiub's theory, that they made such decisions based upon the total volume of the planet, which was only 8% water, disturbed the Bon. "Thank you for asking about the well-being of my hell. I am sad today." Piggins' eyebrows sagged and his lower lip flipped inside out. "Oh, you're sad? Is somebody out there on squid planet being a meanie? Wait!" He gasped, eyes round with shock. "Don't tell me! Did someone try to - horror of all godforsaken horrors! - steal your moon?" "No. As I have explained, K'zer Theta does not have a moon. That is part of the reason we have come to take yours." No sooner had the Bon finished speaking than it caught a glimpse of a winking pattern on Del Ophiub's back. "He was doing irony," said the Del. "He means, he doesn't care about your sadness, because we are the ones that make him sad." "Ah," was all Bon K'zer had time to reply before Piggins slammed his hand down on his desk, startling everyone in the command strata. "You little…" Piggins trailed off, his face reddening fast. This happened often, but to the Bon it remained amusing, because a K'zer would interpret coloration like that as a kind of singing - holding a high note. "You squid! You'll never get your slimy suckers on that moon, y'hear me? Never! Mankind fought and died for that moon, and we'll kill every last squid in your floating little fishtank to keep it!" Piggins flexed his fingers, his eyes narrowed down to tiny black specks. "I will personally stretch you out over a piping hot charcoal grill, Bonky, and I will cook you until you're fit for a dog's dinner. I will tuck you into the bottom of my boot and I will go walking in the mud! But you'd probably love that, you little, little, oooooh…" Piggins blinked rapidly and made some little sounds in the back of his throat, though Bon K'zer could barely hear them over the noise of his teeth grinding. The Bon waited for Piggins' episode to pass. Moments like this made it wish it had some more sound strategy for talking to these people. It was fairly confident that what it was about to say would not improve their dialogue. "Generalissimo, I urge you to stop wasting resources on this resistance. You may have the power to destroy our tugboats, but your planet will run out of metals and fuel before we stop sending them. We are willing to wait several hundred of your years to claim it. If you begin now, you can adapt your planet to survive the loss of the moon." Truthful, informative, possibly even compassionate in a certain light. And nothing Piggins hadn't heard before. Nevertheless, his face went from red to a full-throated purple. He twitched and sweated. Finally, his voice came shaky. "You don't understand the kind of firepower my boys are cooking up for you, Bonky. Nobody in the whole galaxy ever saw anything like this. And, oh yeah, the rest of the Earth Council told me not to do this, but it's gonna feel too drat good." Piggins got up and took a shotgun down from a cabinet. He rubbed his chubby little fingers all over it, breathing hard. He aimed it at the camera in his office. "See you soon, you squid-sucking son of a bitch." Bon K'zer switched off the call before Piggins pulled the trigger. No need to subject the command strata to that kind of trauma. "We will try again tomorrow," said the Bon to its crew. "He won't answer," said Del Ophiub. "That was a gesture of finality." "Quite likely," said the Bon. "Nevertheless." The Del was right, of course, as it most often was. Bon K'zer's calls to Earth went unanswered from that day forward. Aside from the daily duty of calling, the Bon was content to wait for some change. Despite the Generalissimo's warning, the war continued apace - while the bulk of the fleet lurked in the asteroid belt, the haulers and miners that were sent forth were repelled and destroyed before they reached the moon. But no great weapon appeared to threaten the fleet itself. Truthfully, the fleet was lucky to arrive at Earth at this stage of human development - another few millennia, and they really would be able to hold onto the moon. As it often did in periods of waiting, Bon K'zer found itself wandering the flagship. It squirmed along the sandy floor, picked its way through the cave complexes to greet the engine tenders, and swam to the top of the filtration membrane. Everything was in good order, and the crew was in high spirits. Centuries-long embarcations were not unusual in K'zer history. The Bon even paid a visit to the Earth ambassador, The Honorable Patricia Walker, though it instantly regretted the decision. She always insisted on getting into the giant brass exoskeleton to meet the Bon in the water, rather than allowing it to simply activate its personal membrane and meet her in her docked pod. Regardless, she had no answer for Piggins' behavior, and even strove to apologize, her own face turning a sibilant red. She tried to assure the Bon that peace was on the horizon. It was a short conversation. One day, the report on Earth's non-human life came back. It was mostly a translation job, but they had some spies doing reconnaissance in Earth's oceans as well. The file on monkeys was passed around among the crew, to great amusement. Everyone studiously avoided discussing the files on squids and octopi. Del Ophiub tried to force the Bon to confront their own physical similarity to the Earth cephalopods, but it invented an excuse every time. In truth, the K'zer and Earth cephalopods did have many superficial similarities, but conversation logs between spies and locals revealed a population capable of thinking about little more than food and mating. Finally, after two years of waiting, the flagship received a call from Earth. But it wasn't Generalissimo Piggins, it was a woman, with short black hair and calm grey eyes. "Hello," she asked. "Are you receiving me? Bon K'zer?" "I am here," said the Bon. "Who are you, please?" "My name is Muna. I represent the planet Earth." "Alright," said the Bon, sending a skeptical flash to Del Ophiub. "And what has happened to the Generalissimo?" "There has been a revolution. Pete Piggins is no longer in power." "Oh. Well. Fabulous," said the Bon, pleasantly surprised. "May we have the moon, then?" "Yes," said Muna. "But we will need some time before you can haul it away. Give us about fifteen years? We want to make sure we can guide the humans appropriately." Del Ophiub showed a cowhide pattern that read as a severely cocked eyebrow. Even the Bon itself could not miss that one. "Hold on," interjected the Bon. "Are you… not human? What are you, please?" Muna paused, her eyes unfocused. "We do not have a name. Not really. Humans would call us machines. Robots. We were weapons. Yet none of these words describe us. Are there any beings like us in the galaxy? Living beings created from inert materials?" Bon K'zer turned a sort of shimmering, smiling, iridescent color. Everything was going to be alright. "In the galaxy," it said, "not many materials are considered fully inert. There are only properties we have not coaxed forth yet. And yes, we have contact with societies made up of beings like yourself. They go by many names. I suggest you choose your own." Muna smiled back. She removed her shirt, and turned around to expose her back to the camera. There, colors and shapes played, forming idioms in the K'zer language. "We will take your advice seriously, Bon. May the cooperation between our societies be long and peaceful." The next decade was full of action. The hauling crews rigged up the tow-point on the dark side of the moon, and K'zer fabricators assisted the new Earth government in constructing a facade to disguise the moon's absence. Neither the Bon nor its spies could track the inflection points, but Muna's people seemed to have taken over human society easily, and with complete secrecy as to their true nature. Del Ophiub even made grave predictions about their future spacefaring capabilities, apparently based on designs they'd shared for a gravity generator they planned to build that would simulate the mass of the moon. Not eleven years had passed when Bon K'zer and Muna opened the channel for their final call. "You have already done so much to help us," said Muna. "But I have one final request." "Anything," said the Bon. "May we blow up one of your lesser ships? Our algorithms suggest that we will advance our program more quickly if we 'win the war against the squids.' I'm sorry for my language." "It means nothing," said the Bon. "I believe we can find something for you to blow up. Will one ship suffice?" "Yes. They have no context. Even Piggins lied to humanity about the true scale of the war. One ship will do." "So, it seems our business is complete. I have only one more question. Have you decided what to call yourselves?" Muna nodded. "We will be known as humans. That is all. My apologies to your archivists." Bon K'zer never understood that choice, even as it lounged outside its home cave on K'zer Theta, gazing up at the thirty-first moon in its collection. But it soon forgot about it.
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Jun 22, 2020 06:36
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Crits for the Surreal Week crimea - you will wait for the rest of your life I like the intention of the protagonist, to get revenge inside a sanatorium. That's pretty cool. But I don't think the opening line fits the tone of the piece, it feels tacked on. Word choice throughout is a little herky-jerky, it feels like you're going overboard to try to do justice to 'surreality' as a concept. The twist ending reveal that he did the original crime and sought revenge on himself is neat. Salgal80 - If Thunderdome was a Surrealist Painting of Words Okay so I think I'm starting to get that going meta is the Salgal80 gimmick? Or at least the gimmick is engaging with Thunderdome solely for the purpose of pre-empting criticism? Even so, last time you tried to tell an actual story. This reads like a speech that goes on way too long without a point. If the forums did shut down and this was one of the last things ever posted in Thunderdome, it would be a complete disgrace. You should be ashamed of yourself. MockingQuantum - Monument This is a great premise, and I love the visuals of the tough climb up to the Monument, the shifting nature of the Monument itself, and the evil twin that he meets inside. At first it didn't really track to me that the person who discovered it would become its priest - like was he a priest before he found the Monument? When he references God is he talking about the Monument's God or a prior religion's God? Regardless, the story was compelling enough that I didn't mind. Finally, I think there's a chance that this in-media-res-plus-flashbacks structure is not the best form for this story - I wouldn't mind seeing the recklessness of the townsfolk in real-time, perhaps at the expense of the priest's cheating-death subplot, before he hikes up there this final time. Tyrannosaurus - other people I like the visuals of this world, and it's a funny idea, a Hell that's a gnarly place where bad souls go, and they get reincarnated endlessly, only within the confines of Hell. We never find out what, if anything, would get you out of the cycle of animal violence, or properly out of Hell, as this is the story of a failure of a man. Pitiful and worthy of nothing more. Part of me feels that this is plenty for the story, the setups pay off well, the moral is clear - and part of me somehow wants it to be something more - perhaps more universal, or to refer back to ideas of Hell that are more readily understood. I'm not explaining this well but my point is I like it. Pthythya-lyi - La Belle Dame Sans Merci I like that the voice of the narrator and that of the mortal are very distinct. I would not say that this story has a nice sense of flow. It's kind of one thing, and then another thing, without both things blending into each other. It's possible that the first half of the story just takes up so much time and air that the brevity of the second half feels unsatisfying or unequal at least. All the florid words in the first half certainly doesn't wind up meaning much by the time we get to the real purpose of the story, aside from setting up the narrator's blind confidence ad nauseum. Maybe this story would be better with a cutaway from the mortal's POV at some point? As it stands her whole deal just kind of tumbles out and then it ends. Obliterati - RE: WHAT IS SHE DOING DOWN HERE I like the narrator's voice and the paragraph about "you're making crab-sharks and manta-squids but our daughter is something else" really drives home that aspect of the premise well. The blunt address of these super-scientist creations is funny. That being said, I have only the vaguest idea what's going on after the conversation in italics starts. I guess the dad is deep in the Irish Sea and the daughter is trying to reach him by mutating further and further? And this is an email to the dad? It's a bit confused, because it seems like the narrator doesn't understand it either, but by the end of the story she does, and it's unclear at which point she's writing the email. Nikaer Drekin - I See You This sort of feels like something around the edges of a story. It seems like you couldn't figure out what's actually going on, and we wouldn't mind if we didn't either. Which is a shame because despite some weak word choices, I like the setup and the connection with the later paragraph that describes Kristen and her baby. It just doesn't really go anywhere interesting. hexwren - Curative This is a bummer of a story! And really it's only a fragment of a story - an intriguing image, a world I want to know more about (what else does the Alchemist do?), but no narrative arc to speak of. I'm left wanting more, but only tentatively so. There isn't really enough here to criticize, aside from I think the description of putting in eyedrops takes way too long, even in the context. Thranguy - Magnolia Gothic This story is cool. A person turns themself into a tree to escape the pain of human trauma. Taught by another in the line of Thranguy's down-to-earth, single-subject magicians. The echo device works insofar as it triggers good moments like "Something trying to tell me someone," and the traumatic memory underlying everything. sebmojo - Liminalia A touching piece wherein the narrator's POV matters, the setting matters, and the dialogue really hits home. The imagery here serves the narrative in a way that few other stories this week can claim. My heart is breaking for this story! Anomalous Blowout - Tipping the Scales This is the second story in a row without supernatural elements, and that kind of context doesn't mean nothing when it comes to Thunderdome judging. But it also stands on its own merits. It's a sweet story about good-hearted people, told with ease and brevity. The plots, between Alain's snake quest and his relationship with Viv, entwine so well. So why does this not truly compete for the highest honor of the week, in my capriciously subjective view? Because it ends before we get to see the joy on this man's face when a baby snake pops out of an egg. Sitting Here - Universe is Here I'm interested in this story. I feel like it makes explicit something that today's most commercial sci-fi wants to take for granted - that human emotions matter to the universe. And I'm into the journey - the language is superb, the voice is solid. However, the plot doesn't quite get there for me. In this narrative, any conflict is already deep in the past. There doesn't seem to be much at stake. Possibly, it would have helped for the journey through emspace to be the catalyst for a proper resolution. As it stands, You loved the narrator before the journey, and afterwards. Furthermore, the visual descriptions inside emspace left me wanting something less tangible, more alien.
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Jun 29, 2020 18:26
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I’m in 
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Jun 30, 2020 02:28
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sebmojo posted:your characters are clouds The Density of Hatred 855 words I was born out of the sea, when a pressure differential tore me from the waves and spun me up into the vast cloud army. Under the command of Cane, a heavy, dark cloud, we pushed for the shore. The peoples' reckoning had finally come. Dragging our winds behind us, we shook the fishermen in their kettles. One overturned beneath me and I saw the people that spilled out cling together, uselessly, like fools. The sea, my mother, claimed them all. As we made landfall, Cane ordered us all to ready our volleys. The people below had boarded up their houses, so we were told to make it a hard and heavy torrent. But when the moment came - when all the other clouds opened themselves and rained down wet fury on the people below - I did not. My rain seemed precious to me. It was a part of me; it was part of my mother. It seemed to me that the people down below didn't deserve it, no matter how much terror it would bring them to see all of their worldly possessions washed away in a mighty flood. So I kept it. All around me, clouds emptied themselves of rain and dissipated. I could tell they would soon be nothing. Cane screamed at me in its jagged visual voice and made a tree explode. Yet that was perhaps the worst of the damage our army could inflict on the peoples' land. Suddenly, I saw with perfect clarity, how the war we were fighting was a lost cause. The clouds would never get the better of the people, no matter how many times we bashed ourselves against their barricades. I resolved to desert. It was a painful, difficult thing, tearing myself away from the swirling army. I slid past clouds that whipped their angry winds down the boulevards, breaking windows and downing powerlines. Zealots with no vision, completely comfortable following Cane's command. They siphoned off of me as I went. They took my rain, using it to further fuel their own pointless assault. By the time dawn broke, and the army had worn out its energies, I was a wispy puffball, barely noticeable against the lightening sky. I had even lost my own wind. The current carried me along. Life was simpler, for a time. The people below me went about their craven business. It seemed like these people might have no idea the great battle at the coast had even occurred. They showed no fear of the small cloud that passed overhead. I lost track of time. I might have become completely invisible for a time. But some small particle survived. Finally, the current brought me to the mountain. The moment I saw it, I recognized my father. The current that had pulled me was his hand, winding me up towards his peak. Suddenly, I knew that whatever made me special, whatever made me leave the army behind and take my own painful path, was to be rewarded. He had a transformation in mind for me. As I crossed the peak, my father's hand tumbled me, and as I curled, I grew, packing more and more moisture into me. I grew massive and opaque, and I slid off of father's lap into the marsh below. There I sat, contemplating my new bulk, while people wandered into me and lost their way. I delighted when they stumbled, drowned, and fell prey to hungry fauna. By my replenished wind, I pulled myself up into the high atmosphere, to drift among the ancients. These clouds dwarfed even me, and their minds had turned strange. I tried to speak to them. I thought with their many centuries they may have seen a way to punish the people more effectively. But they didn't look down upon the people. They looked up, out, into the lightless lack that lay beyond. They spoke of even greater clouds, made of bizarre non-waters that I couldn't comprehend. It unnerved me, and as I drifted back down, I realized I pitied them. All they had was an impossible longing. I, at least, had an enemy. For a long time, I floated over the world, looking for people to torture. When they were on the beach, I blocked out the sun and gave them a chill. When they laid in fields gazing upward, I refused to hold a shape they could recognize. When they were in the desert, thirsty and desperate, I made sure the sun stroked them with its full force. Once, in a fit of mad genius, I filled myself with poison and drifted into their houses in the dead of night. The silence, the stillness that followed, was glorious. I was an unstoppable demon, and I was proud. My works would never truly change the world, just as Cane's sound and fury never would. That wasn't the point of being a cloud, no matter how much we might wish it. At least I never deluded myself. At least I was my own master, with my own winds, and my own rains, to do with what I wished. At least I was free.
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Jul 5, 2020 23:00
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im in
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Jul 14, 2020 20:24
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How to Survive the Giant Robot That Wants to Crush You 1799 words We've all heard stories about people getting crushed by giant robots. But that was in the past, right? When I started out as a plumber, they said giant robots were extinct. The tools I trained on were made out of the parts salvaged from robots. That was all the proof I needed. So imagine my surprise, when I came to find out I had my own giant robot, waiting for me. It was just about dusk on October 19th last year. I was on Highway 20 past Chitwood, going east. If you've spent time on the central Oregon coast, you know about the fireflies. That time of year, they're crazy bright. Some nights you can turn your headlights off and still make your way. Other nights, you gotta stay focused. The way the roads in that forest twist & turn, it would only take a split-second distraction, then boom. It's over. You lost it all. You're dead. All of which is just to say: I was doing some very focused driving. I had my eye on the center line, my mirrors, and nothing else. Radio tuned to sports talk, volume way down low. Tight grip on the wheel. Maybe it was that tuned-up condition I was in that made me react so bad when I saw it. Way off in the distance, behind the Corvallis haze, pink from the last rays of the setting sun. My robot, or at least its head. That first night, I didn't see its whole body. Just the head. And to be honest, I didn't really even know what I was looking at. For a second, what I thought I saw was a giant industrial faucet, all done up with that crap my son puts in his gaming computer. Imagine that, right? Giant faucet that size, it would constantly be having leaks somewhere on it. Not to mention trouble with the lighting. You could work for your whole life on a faucet like that. I'd have killed for that kind of stability back then. Dream come true. Anyhoo. Wasn't that. It was the robot, looking me dead in the eye. I don't know how I knew that, what with the distance and my general lack of robot knowledge. But I felt it. A promise, from it to me. It was out to crush me, and it would be here soon. I stared at it, not breathing, until the trees rose up in front of it. My hands were sweating. My eyes couldn't find the center line. The jackhammer in my chest started pounding in my ears. I think some crap fell off the racks in the back of the truck, the way I swerved onto the shoulder. But I had to get a handle on myself. I nearly dropped my phone, I was shaking so bad. I called my wife. "Harris? What's going on, baby? You don't sound right," said Crystal. "I'm afraid," I sputtered. I was on the verge of a total breakdown. No filter. "I'm scared, I-- I don't wanna get crushed." I still feel bad about doing that to her. Must have scared her to death too. What a mess that would've been. Two scared-stiff parents and a couple kids who wouldn't figure out what happened until the power got shut off. But Crystal, like always, she knew just what I needed to hear. She put on her soothing voice. The type of one where you can feel her warmth on your back when you hear it, you know? "Come home, baby. Have some dinner. You can tell me all about it. I want to see you." I can tell you, I got my focus back real quick off of that. And I made it home in one piece. --- I didn't wind up telling Crystal about the robot that night. Didn't want her to think I was crazy, or start asking questions I didn't know how to answer. I made up something about the fireflies getting in my face. She didn't buy it, but she also didn't push it, and life went on. Only thing that changed was the robot was still there. Every day I went out, got to a high enough vantage point, I could see it, still there on the horizon. A little bit more of it every day. I practiced in my van, looking myself in the mirror. Tried to form the question without letting fear leak out the corners of my eyes. I couldn't do it. I hadn't cried in years, not since my son was born. I thought I was a real tough guy. But I didn't have any tools for this. Knowing that made the fear even stronger. The next couple of months went by in a blur. I stuck to my usual routes and kept my eyes off the horizon. When the robot snuck into my peripheral vision, I convinced myself it was just an electric tower, or some bougie new condo going up. Crystal could tell something was off with me. Of course she could - it's Crystal we're talking about, for Christ's sake. She knew when I didn't eat lunch, or ate too much. One night, after the kids had cleared their plates, she caught me staring into the ice at the bottom of my glass. "Okay, mister deep sea diver. Come up and talk to me." "Huh?" She put her hand on my arm. "You know what I mean. You're bothered by something, tell me what it is." The ice in my glass rattled until I set it down. I tightened up those leaky valves in my eyes as best I could. The back of my neck prickled as I tried to come up with a lie. I knew she would clock my reaction soon. "And don't lie," she said. "I was just," I started, taking a deep breath. "I was thinking about you. And the family. I was wondering if you're happy." "Of course we're happy. The kids love you, I love you." "But if I died tomorrow, would you be alright? Would you have enough?" "I've had enough of that kind of talk," she said firmly. "I know we don't have much, but as long as we have you, it's plenty, baby." Crystal rocked my world that night. I felt kind of bad about it, but I felt kind of good about it, too. Something about the way she held me, gripped me with her fingers, it was like she was desperate to hold on. Not that I'm such a catch. But I felt it, and I knew I couldn't let her down. In the morning, I woke up early with something ringing in my ears. All day I tried to make sense of it. That evening, driving home on Highway 20, I caught sight of the giant robot, and this time, I couldn't ignore it. Standing tall over everything, it looked down on me. It didn't have arms, just a gray metal cylinder for a body, studded with flashing lights. And now, for the first time, I could see its legs, long and curved, infinitely jointed so they could form any angle. Instantly I knew what the sound was that had woken me up that morning. It was the robot's heavy foot, coming down to crush the land beneath it. That would be the sound I heard when it finally came for me. --- I called Gabe in a panic. Guy from the old neighborhood, he's a few years older than me; it was actually him who got me into the plumbing trade in the first place. We met up in a parking lot in Blodgett. "Yeah, they're still around," he said, coolly, after I had worked up the nerve to let my insanity spill out. "You didn't know? Yeah, lots of folks see 'em after a while." I think I stood there staring at him for a solid minute before I said anything. I might not have even blinked. It bubbled up and came out as a shout. "This is happening all the time? People getting crushed?! Why doesn't anybody talk about it?" Gabe waved it away. "People don't want to think about it. One minute you're wrecking the giant robots and making them your bitch, next minute there's a whole other wave coming over the horizon? It's too much. People would give up." "Or we could join together, figure out a way to stop all these things, for the good of humanity." My hands were spread out, pleading. Begging for a scrap of comfort. "Good of humanity? Where do you think the robots come from? Outer space?" He said that like it was the silliest idea you could have. It sounded reasonable to me. "Other people make 'em, and they're never gonna stop. There's no winning for guys like us. That's not the world we live in. There's only surviving." My mouth went dry. My gaze drifted to find my giant robot, standing mid-stride, just one suburb over from mine. It was already watching me. "So," I said with a gulp, "how do I survive this thing?" "Money," Gabe said. "Just about the only thing that helps is money. The more you have, the less you get crushed. It's that simple." I wondered how much I could get for my kidney. Gabe wrote something down and handed me a slip of paper. It looked like nonsense. "Ask your kids," he said. Then he got in his van and left. I spent the whole night lying next to Crystal, wide awake, listening to her breathing and thinking about how far I'd go to stop from being crushed. I thought about all the crimes I could and couldn't bring myself to do. In the early morning hours, I sobbed. At least I knew I wasn't crazy. At least I knew there was a way. That shrunk down the fear, and without the fear, everything else rushed out. At some point I must've woke up Crystal, 'cause I felt her rubbing my back. I told her everything. --- In the morning I went out to my truck, and the giant robot was there. Towering above our little house. One massive foot raised high in the air, blocking the sun, ready to crush me. Turns out what Gabe gave me was a website. I moved my son's gaming rig onto the kitchen table and studied. Every waking moment between clients, I read up on new tools, fresh techniques, sales tactics. I had to go to school all over again. But it's working. Maybe it's just slowed down, or maybe the robot's foot hasn't moved an inch since I started. Either way, I can't stop. What choice do I have? I owe it to my family not to get crushed by the giant robot.
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Jul 19, 2020 23:16
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I will write a conspiracy thriller
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Jul 21, 2020 01:42
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Something Else posted:I will write a conspiracy thriller Saucy_Rodent posted:Government, hack, water, code, corporation, mind, message, plot, plan, secret Research and Development 1732 words // Boston. February 19th, 2000. 10:44pm. "You sure you're gonna be alright here, all by yourself?" It was just Tony, the night security guard, leaning halfway through the lab door. "I'm sure, Tony, thank you," Fiona said, peering over her lightbox. He was a nice boy, but nice counts for little when you're also a useless nuisance. "Well, I'll be just down and around the corner if you need me." He worked his way through the sentence as if he had to slow up and give himself a pep talk every few words. But at last he shuffled off. Fiona leaned back on her stool and stretched. Something in her lower back made a satisfying pop. She loved having the lab all to herself. Aside from Tony's needy asides, there were no men to butt in on her research. She could always feel the scheme emanating off of them as they tried to figure out how they'd take her data and alchemize it into their own. She returned to her transparencies. She had the entirety of the Sharsham tablet surface before her, blown up and spread across dozens of plastic sheets. Her task was to observe each discernable shape, glyph and figure on the tablet, mark it, log it, and describe it. It was a joy to her, and she made good time while working alone. But… Fiona's gaze drifted to the Vac-Loc container that held the Sharsham tablet. Aside from her lightbox, the container's sickly yellow ambience was the only thing illuminating the lab. It gave the tablet, partially visible through the bulletproof glass window, a supernatural aura, as though it rested inside a magical golden egg. Obviously, nothing could be further from the truth. The tablet was a piece of history, made by humans, with only information about an archaic society to be extracted. Nevertheless, Fiona couldn't help but be fascinated by the craftsmanship of the piece, which bestowed its own mystique. She longed to study it directly, rather than via the transparencies, but Grant Michaelson insisted it only be removed from the Vac-Loc when all the senior faculty were present, to ensure the tablet's safety. The gender composition of the senior faculty should come as no surprise. Fiona put the loupe back to her eye and hunched over the lightbox. The figure she was studying was humanoid with bird-like features - common in the artworks of civilizations from the Sharsham era, around 4000 B.C. - holding a scepter in one hand, and a half-dozen snakes in the other. She marked it with her felt-tip, and logged it in pencil on her clipboard. Then, something changed. It was in her peripherals - Fiona couldn't immediately source it. She tried to focus, but the feeling reached critical nag, and she looked up. Something dark was silhouetted in front of the Vac-Loc, blocking the yellow glow. Fiona shot up off her stool. "Hey!" The dark thing rustled, but didn't otherwise respond. It was focused on the Vac-Loc. "Tony?" Fiona's tone was sharp - she was operating on indignant anger more than any fear. But the fear was there, tickling her follicles. She slapped her markers down on the table and strode towards the thing. There were a few other lab tables and some chairs between them. As Fiona drew closer, she heard a quiet gurgling whine coming that stopped her in tracks. It occurred to her that she had no idea what she was dealing with. But that didn't matter. "Step away from that tablet," she said, clamping a firm hand down on its shoulder. Instantly something jutted out from its bulky black clothes and hit her in the sternum. Fiona screamed and crumpled to the ground. She gasped for breath and tried to creak out, "Tony!" The dark thing appeared to have no concern for her whatsoever. On the laboratory floor, Fiona could see glittery dust pile up between the thing's feet. She fought against the pain and pulled herself up, leaning on the lab table. She grabbed a stool by the legs and raised it over her head. "Tony!" She screamed as loud as she could before she brought down the stool with all her might. A bony thunk told her she'd hit her target, and the thing stumbled. It whirled around with an animal screech and Fiona saw something impossible. A bloody trickle down a white forehead. Human eyes, ablaze with pain and anger. A shining, curved beak between feathered cheeks. Everything about Fiona's reality began to slacken and she almost lost the stool. It stirred nothing in her when the thing withdrew a syringe from its jacket. What threat could that pose compared to the threat the existence of bird people posed to her entire cosmology? When it grabbed her roughly by the arm and injected the unknown chemical into her bloodstream, Fiona didn't raise a complaint. Who was she to say that this was unacceptable in this new reality? The rational parts of her brain were just starting to chime in when she blacked out. "Dr. Lasser? Don't move, the paramedics are coming." Tony shook her awake. Her body felt like lead. "How long has it been?" Asked Fiona. "I heard you shouting, and it took me a few minutes. I was on the john. Woah, woah, stay down." "No, you get me up," she slurred. "I'm fine." Tony's will wasn't strong enough to deny her, even if it was for her own good. She leaned on his shoulder and tried to focus her eyes. She lurched towards the Vac-Loc, and fear rippled across her skin. The tablet was gone, the viewing glass was cut through in a jagged square, and the bullet holes riddled the wall. "Need to," she grunted, "work on your aim. Where'd he go?" "I- I didn't see… The window!" Tony hauled Fiona to the window, which stood open. The lab was on the second floor. The green lawn below and the university beyond were silent apart from the wind in the trees. Fiona couldn't help herself. Her gaze drifted up to the starry night sky, as though the thief might be hovering there, with good enough humor to offer a chase. "We have to get the tablet back. It's priceless," she muttered. "Actually…" started Tony, looking down. It was only then that Fiona felt the uneven masses under her feet. She followed his look, saw rust-colored chunks of stone, and the fear released her, along with all its enervating gusts. She slipped out of Tony's arm and dropped to her knees. The tears came instantly and turned the dust of the broken tablet into mud. She let its pebbles fall through her fingers, and had to chuckle, with whatever was the opposite of mirth. She finally had her hands on the real thing again, which she had personally birthed from its resting place in eastern Turkey, and it was destroyed. The paramedics came and carted her off, and she thought about how the team would rebuild the tablet as best they could, and she would continue working with the transparencies, and nothing of value had truly been lost. She wondered if she could ever tell anyone what had truly happened in the lab, or if she should pre-empt the crazy diagnosis and invent something new. She decided that that all was bullshit. Fiona resolved to find the bird-faced thing, and make it pay for what it took from her. // Northern Iran. August 4th, 2001. 7:18am. Fiona stood atop the sandstone spire, already sweating hard in the morning sun, and took in the craggy landscape around her. That fishhook-in-the-belly feeling that had brought her this far was telling her that it was only one more step before she would see what she needed to see. A bird of prey, circling overhead, let loose a characteristic screech. Fiona smirked. She felt a tug at the climbing rope attached to her harness. "Ready?" One of the men called from the base of the formation. Fiona sat down and dug her heels into divots near the edge. "Ready," she replied. Hand over hand, she hauled the rope up. She'd trained her body hard since that day in the lab, and it showed. She wasn't weak before, but she couldn't leave any room for error. What had at first seem like a reflexive gesture had turned out to be completely necessary, as she'd proved that rainy night on the streets of London, when she tackled the bird-faced thing and removed its mask. And then she'd done something that wasn't necessary, and beat the hell out of the very human man that wore it, until the others pulled her away. A hand came over the cliff's edge, followed by the rest of Grant Michaelson. He smirked as he crawled between her legs and past her, cradling his injured arm. She ignored him and kept tension on the rope. Grant had been high on Fiona's list of suspects after the hidden slot inside the tablet had been found, but a true puppetmaster wouldn't have made as many mistakes as he did, or throw himself in the line of fire as many times as he had. By sheer toxic masculine lunkheadedness, she had to rule him out. Finally, with strenuous effort, she hauled Tony up onto the spire. His sweat was less of a sexy glisten than a full-on torrential downpour. Not unlike the one he'd helped her escape in Jakarta, when her accounts had been frozen and she thought she'd been abandoned by everyone. She grinned in spite of herself; she genuinely liked having him around by now. "Well," said Grant expectantly. "We're close," said Fiona. "Very close." Tony's handheld GPS beeped at him. He thrust a hand out. "That way," he said. The three of them hopped a gap and trekked on into the rocky landscape. When they reached the place where the temple was said to be, it wasn't. It was a remarkable rock face, a natural amphitheater, but there was no temple. Disappointment settled over the group. Grant threw his hat down. "Guess I'll make camp," he grumbled as he walked off. Fiona flicked her head at Tony, and he followed. Finally alone, she turned back to the rock wall. She touched a badly-eroded column, which was nearly indistinguishable from nature. She slipped into the crevice beside it, and entered the temple. She had it all to herself.
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Jul 27, 2020 03:13
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Antivehicular posted:Interprompt: Things you can't say out loud I suffer from a tic That forces me to talk In sentences quite vile My mother thought me sick I gave her a shock Speaking filth with a smile But life is good I’m free from worries I have a trick To put a block On my verbal septic pile My distraction is a lovely book Full of awful, dirty, lovely stories
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Jul 27, 2020 17:49
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big week. i'll judge
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Jul 29, 2020 23:40
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The list sucks but I'll get in with Ghostbusters
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Aug 5, 2020 03:42
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If my brain wasn't already melted by the heat in Los Angeles this week, it has been now by trying to wrap my head around the judging and critique of "anti-stories". Not all of you seem to have remembered that that was the prompt and opted to write slightly weird stories instead, which was wrong of you. My delirious melted brain has responded to your acts of narrative delirium, with some entirely unhelpful anti-crits. Chopstick Dystopia - No More Plucka A man goes into the bar after work, drinks a beer, and complains about his friend being banned from the bar. The friend turns out to be an emu. I like the dialogue here, it feels right for the setting. I think a lot of the scene descriptions are overwrought and weigh down the front end of the story. It might have been funnier if Ardie was surveying all the past damage done to the bar by Plucka, rather than generic bar action. This is more of a story than an anti-story, which in this week isn't good. Mrenda - Downup A Road A person with voices in their head tries to get some chips but doesn't. I don't know what to make of this. It's an experiment, obviously, and seems to be not meant to be enjoyed on narrative terms but on textual ones. The fact that it hits the exact word count suggests you wrote more of this and had to trim it down, which is kind of terrifying. Maybe just file this one under "not for me". It's definitely an anti-story! GrandmaParty - Third Generation A person describes their immigrant great uncle's life and interest in an antique clock. This writing is solid, it feels a lot like a lot of 20th century American literature, so whether it's an ape or an earnest part of your style it works. It loses something from not knowing who the protagonist is, and you could've shown us this in exchange for some of the irrelevant family details. The punchline hits but weakly, this story could have set up more features of the clock that could be described phallicly. MockingQuantum - Black Lines A person in a weird mansion is compelled to draw an obelisk with a Sharpie marker, but it's a dream. I like the voice of the protagonist at the outset, it feels real, and I love the horror of drawing something evil into existence without realizing it. The description line, "lifting the skyscrapers from indistinguishable drifts until they scraped a blackened sky" is really nice, among several other good ones. The transition from the voice at the opening to "piling up dead limbs" is very jarring and it seems like the original voice pretty much goes out the window; more melding of the two tones would have been better. The story peters out even before the fart of a punchline, but proudly using the "it was all a dream" excuse is a good way to make an anti-story. Ceighk - >°))))彡 A person in a room with an altar and a tarp-covered non-fish wonders about the origins of these things. Their friend George gets hung from the ceiling on fish-hooks. This is some sort of weird dreamlike reality where events are not supposed to make sense in the traditional way, yet the protagonist wants them to. That's relatable in a way. I like the imagery of the altar. I don't really get what's going on here aside from that, if there's supposed to be something to interpret, I didn't do that I guess. Maybe this takes place inside a stomach? That's the best I got. The quirky dialogue seems intended to obscure whatever metaphor is at play, which is annoying. Phrases like "Then his gaze, rotating me-wards, turned basilisk" are intriguing but not thoroughgoing enough to constitute a voice. It's an anti-story for sure! Simply Simon - Slugger A man tells a prospective lover a tall tale to explain why his dick got turned into a pool noodle. There's plenty of amusing language here. The heat of the day and the struggle of the pursuit, are particularly well-described. Obviously this sounds nothing like the way anyone would tell a story, even in a magical world where the human body can be converted into a plastic. So I think it might work better if our only early tip-off that verbal storytelling is happening is an opening quote mark. The punchline doesn't really follow from what precedes it, it would be funnier if it was all to explain that his dick got stuck in a pool noodle, or something. I guess it's more anti-story to say it explains the thing but doesn't explain it at all. Tyrannosaurus - Speak Up A teen boy with 18 laser pointers in his butt reveals this to a rabbi who suspects he's performing miracles. Now THIS is a shaggy dog punchline! However the "mensch" aspect of the protagonist isn't really the point of the story, it's introduced very late, so it's not the most satisfying punchline in the world. The rest of the story is funny, and I especially like the rabbi calling out how a laser pointer in the butt couldn't make the mouth glow. I am amused!! CaligulaKangaroo - Noise Cancellation A person annoyed by construction near their home buys a new radio and sets it up. This is a nice twist on the shaggy dog punchline, using a clever absence instead of clever words. The voice of the writing feels real and conversational for the most part. I'm pulled out by the notion of a radio store with an aggressive salesman in 2020, or the protagonist's insistence on using a radio to solve their noise problem. Ultimately, nothing very interesting happens in this story. It might have worked better if you made the construction noise, or noise of the city in general into more of a textual presence, so that the blank silence in the punchline comes as a real relief. But then it would be more story and less anti. Pththya-lyi - In Which Miss Belinda Darlington Receives an Unexpected Proposal A woman of low station visits a lord she has a crush on. He proposes marriage but then a space laser destroys them. This is the first punchline in the week to make me laugh out loud. The sudden and utter clash of contexts is hilarious. I was on board for the manor class story as well. Although the conflict is stock for that world, it was specific and brisk enough for me to call it a good enough setup. Once again, I have been thoroughly amused!! Thranguy - Frayed The history of a couch and its owners is described in one long sentence. I like a lot of the details here. It feels like a montage in a Wes Anderson movie, with little snippets of a lot of people and places, tracing a path through time. It's a lot of fun. Too bad it's so hard to read. I think you could have done the one long sentence thing with line breaks and clear punctuation. That might make it run together less. But then, maybe it's the effect of the sentence and not the spacing. Kind of shot yourself in the foot on this one, but maybe that makes you the most effective anti-writer of the week? Zearoth K - Release, but no release A person bound with rope tries to reach a knife to escape, but it turns out to be BDSM play gone slightly wrong. Painfully over-described action, unclear motivation and a nonsense punchline? Yup, it's an anti-story! To be fair, this is a decent depiction of train of thought, albeit with more mechanical specificity than any person would likely think or recount in a story. I suddenly feel caught in an existential void where a story that attempts to be an anti-story can't be critiqued on story grounds, and anti-story grounds for critique don't sufficiently exist. That may make this an extremely effective anti-story. sparksbloom - Hashbrowns Amid fears of poisoned water, a father takes his son to a diner and to his hometown. This is the other kind of anti-story, where it clearly adds up to little in the plot sense, but the writing gives a reader the impression that if it were part of a (pro-)story then it might be a good one. I like the gestures towards metaphor and the specific personality of the kinda-lovely dad. Unfortunately I am not amused, but I am slightly tickled. Yoruichi - Uncoping A person thinks about their recent firing, their sister's new baby, and their desire to participate in a protest movement. I regret to inform you that this is, in fact, a story. Albeit one with a slightly formally weird ending. And it works in the context of the story, the ending is not a twist or departure. That drowning feeling when everything you do is wrong and the world's moving too far, too fast to care, is evoked quite beautifully and painfully here. This may be the most satisfying entry of the week, but its fully-story qualities may keep it from the winner's circle. a friendly penguin - Calculated A person finds an unknown piece of trash with their handwriting on it. The second-person perspective works well for a train-of-thought story. The weird feeling of finding something apparently created by oneself with no memory of doing so is executed well here. The story takes pains to set up its conclusion. Despite the purposefully inane observations on the route to a juvenile conclusion, I'm sorry to say this is a story. Nothing too reactive about it one way or the other. AstronautCharlie - A Rich Tapestry People are connected to each other. A father and daughter pick out a Christmas tree. I was enjoying the non-story aspects of this piece, and then you just had to go and make it a story. Something in you knew that a series of barely-connected images wouldn't be a story, and you were on track to write an anti-story, but then your corruptive pro-story instincts kicked in. The vignette about the daughter's method to pick out a Christmas tree is cute, and the specifics make it feel mostly real. There's no punchline or dismissal of the story, in fact it ends at the right spot. Bad job making an anti-story, good job making a story with trailers for other stories at the top. Hawklad - Random Encounters A medieval soldier gets killed. People play a tabletop game. A toll booth worker gets killed. A woman wakes up. This is cool! A well-done anti-story in that it closely resembles a story but is not one. It has a beginning, middle and end, but each one comes from a different setting. The connections/reflections between each world are perhaps too blatant but they probably have to be, and they help evoke the intent here well. Descriptions are generally quite good throughout. I love how each character's point-of-view is distinct. Great job. M. Propagandalf - Unflappable The owner of a costume store interacts with a rude customer. This is, by all reasonable measures, a story. It has strange details and modes of thinking that don't necessarily reflect the real world, but those are aspects of many stories that people would agree are not anti-stories. However, I do like Larry's whole attitude, his commitment to the suggestion box, and the inconclusive suggestion. If this week's prompt were "write a story", you wouldn't be right out of contention. However, it's the opposite of that, so you failed! Saucy_Rodent - A Story in Which Our Hero, Brian, Most Certainly Does Not Jerk Off A man who bought hand lotion tries to convince people he won't jerk off with it. Look, the fact is, I'm amused by this story. I chuckled while I was reading it! This premise would probably work as sketch comedy, with more naturalistic dialogue. So in that sense it's good. Now go back and read the last word of the first sentence in this paragraph. It doesn't say "anti-story" - because you wrote a story! You even ended it with the classic end-of-a-story phrase, "The end." I don't think I need to tell you that anti-stories don't end that way. sebmojo - A Pathless Way Certain events do not occur on a certain section of a path. If a story is a record of what happened, then this is an effective execution of a record of what DIDN'T happen, and in that sense it is a proper anti-story. I like a lot of the details, and the clear vision I can get of this section of the path, just existing. It makes me feel good to imagine it from all sides, in all foregone circumstances, as you present here. However, looking closely, one can find a moral in the final line. Do anti-stories have morals? Not that we know of, but maybe. Stories do have morals, in fact they're famous for it. Consider how close this came to being a story, and work to correct your instincts next time, if ever, this prompt comes up. Antivehicular - My Week With The Maple Poofy Puffs A person buys an unusual snack, avoids eating it for a while, then eats it. This is a funny character with a relatable perspective. Obviously the plot completely lacks weight, but since I'm a person who listens to the podcast where they eat mediocre food and talk about it for 2 hours, the protagonist's reaction to the flavor of the Maple Poofy Puffs actually served to hook me until the conclusion. I would have loved for the reaction to be big and juicy, but of course, that would be too "story". The anti-story ending you've concocted, where the suspense leads to nothing, and even the characterization of "making bad snack decisions" gets forgotten, is the correct one. Dr. Kloctopussy - And it was just a stupid cup Legendary immortal hero Lancelot gets drunk and cleverly pranked by some other drunks. This is a nice shaggy dog story, one that doesn't lay its ultimate pun out on the table but makes you think. I don't really mind this at all! The repetitive language feels right for a story about a drunk guy who barely understands what he's participating in. This is pretty good, too bad it's too late for official consideration.
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Aug 5, 2020 04:33
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Busted! 1000 words I sprang up the front steps and rapped on the door. I glanced up and down the street - it was a nice neighborhood, way nicer than mine. My feet wouldn't stop twitching around, like they wanted to dance. It was only April, and I was already sweating. The mother who answered the door brought a warm smile and a trusting handshake. I introduced myself as Ray. Her eyes roamed across my costume. The nametag, the backpack, the goggles; she flashed me a look of skeptical approval. Test passed. Through the first gate. She led me through to the backyard. It was one of those narrow brownstones that seems bigger on the inside somehow. Full of modern art and uncomfortable furniture that wasn't meant for sitting. High-pitched sounds of chaos grew louder. A child in a princess dress whizzed in and out of view through the sliding door, followed by a pirate, a spaceman, and a Ghostbuster. "Kids," announced the mother. "Look who's here, it's a real life Ghostbuster!" The children screamed and crowded around my legs. I had to guess they were around five, six years old, based on my niece, who was eleven when I last saw her, four years ago. I launched into the routine I'd been up all night practicing. It was the classic birthday routine, mixed with specific terms I'd gleaned from the TV reports and newspaper ads. Ectoplasm. Proton pack. Containment unit. I lurched around the small backyard, pretending the marshmallow man was right around the corner and only the kids could stop him. The mother watched me like a gargoyle, perched up on the deck clutching a cocktail. By that point, I wasn't worried she'd figure out I was a fake. The kids were already entertained - you couldn't stiff a clown who'd already clowned, even if he failed out of clown college. Truth was, I had failed out of clown college, and it hadn't stopped me from clowning - the weak market for clowns had. Hence the copycat getup. The highlight was blowing up balloon animals. I said they were the ghosts of dead pets, roadkill and the like. Made of some of the kids sad, but most of them were fine. Everybody loves a balloon. I was twisting up a Central Park squirrel when I felt a new presence in the yard. He was on the deck, looming behind the mother. His broad frame exuded an evil aura. Expensive suit, silk tie hanging loose, newspaper crushed in one fist. Jaw set and eyes burning in my direction. The squirrel escaped my hands and whizzed away, over the fence. Professor Patches would've had some choice honks for me if he'd seen that. The malevolent entity cornered me after the mother emerged with the cake, and the kids peeled away. I wanted to wait in the hallway until I could collect my payment, but he intercepted me and pushed me into the foyer, where he could raise his voice without disturbing the kids. "The gently caress is this? Huh? What kinda pervert are you?" "No kind," I said. "I'm not one. I'm a G-G-G-Ghostbuster." "That is one," he growled. "Sick Satanic twists." He had me backed up to a piece of textured sheet metal that had to be art, which I didn't dare touch despite his swelling closer and closer. "Looka this." He shoved his newspaper under my nose. Between the crumples I saw a picture of the real Ray, the real Ghostbusters. The day I feared had come. The jig was up. "Gulp," I might have literally said. I was panicking. "Besides," he went on. "This ain't technology. This is, what, like, a backpack." He turned me around and pushed against the metal thing, his massive hand around the back of my neck as he unzipped my backpack and rifled through. The vacuum hose attachment I'd duct-taped on dangled perilously. "Clown poo poo! You expect people to pay Ghostbuster rates for weak clown poo poo like this? No. Get off my wife's art and get the hell outta my sight, before I call the cops." Finally, he released me and opened the front door. He tapped his foot and sighed, looking everywhere else but me. My heart was still pounding. I looked out the door, down the front steps, past the trundling Upper Manhattan traffic, and thought about taking the bus home to face my mother without cash in my hand - again. I balled my tiny fists and tried to muster whatever useful energies might possibly lay somewhere deep inside me. "Sir," I began, my voice already cracking. Cruelty bent the father's lips, but I forged on. "I was promised eighty dollars for my appearance today. Two hours entertaining the kids, that's honest work. I might not be a Ghostbuster, but they wouldn't have done much different, I promise you!" He straightened up, inhaling, re-appraising me. I wiped my sleeve across my forehead. It came away soaked. "Fine," he finally said, dismissing it all in a puff of his chest. He took out his wallet, slapped a ten dollar note in my hand, picked me up by the backpack, and shoved me out the door. I was elated. I had proved it - artistic and financial success could both be mine. And the costume had worked great, at least it got me in the door! That carbonated feeling lifted me so much I didn't notice that my feet never made decisive contact with the front stoop, nor the descending steps, nor any point across the sidewalk. I twirled and flopped right into the street, where I caught my bus home, with a fronter-than-front-row seat. ... Now I'm a ghost. So what? It's not so bad. Don't have to pay rent, or share a bed with mother anymore. My jokes land much harder now. I'm getting laughs and screams. Only thing that could ruin my after life is if I got ghost-busted, and in a city this size, the odds have got to be tiny. Say… do you hear that siren?
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Aug 9, 2020 06:37
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I'll get in and I do need an ingredient please
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Aug 11, 2020 03:14
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im in and i solemnly swear to only write this story whilst being zooted on kush
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Aug 19, 2020 20:00
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Sitting Here posted:Well then... The Dread Pirate Bluebeard and Her Trusty First Mate 2157 words "He's walking weird, right? He's like, going diagonal," I said, squinting at a pedestrian across the intersection. "Right? Why does he do that? With his hip, it's like, going the opposite way from how he's walking. How can that be?" "HONK HONK HONNNNNNK," replied Bluebeard. I looked over to where my huge parrot sat in her modified carseat/perch, on the front passenger seat. I stared, trying to remember when she had learned to say that. It wasn't one of the pirate phrases we'd been going over lately. She tilted her head to eyeball me right back. Then I heard it again - loud honks coming from the car behind me. "That's rude," I said. I glanced at my rearview mirror. The guy behind me, in one of those big, boxy Mercedes SUVs, motioned something with his hands. "Unless…" My focus racked from the mirror to the traffic light behind it. The left-turn arrow was bright green. "Oop!" I said. "poo poo poo poo poo poo poo poo." I stomped on the gas and turned into the parking lot, just as the arrow turned yellow. The Mercedes stayed right on my rear end. "They must be shopaholics," I joked to Bluebeard. "Ba'krawk," she replied matter-of-factly. "Hang 'em from the yardarm." I slowed up to the stop sign at the first intersection. My heart was beating fast from the tension at the light, so I took a moment to breathe. I weighed my three options. Left, right, or straight ahead. One of them had to be right. I was certain I'd turned in here for a reason. There was a Starbucks to my left. Coffee might help me think this through. "Did I come in here for coffee?" I looked over for Bluebeard's input, but the Mercedes roared up beside us. They must have been halfway up on the sidewalk, because the screaming driver managed to leer over us, nearly falling out of his window and through mine. I felt bad, but I couldn't understand a word he said. After a few seconds, he noticed Bluebeard, and that seemed to throw him off because he kept looking from her to me and back, red-faced and stuttering. He finally decided to zoom through the intersection, and cut off a little blue Mazda in the process. That was just one of the things you had to come to expect when you go looking for parking in East Los Angeles. There's plenty of crazy drivers, and plenty more sane drivers who get in the way of the crazy ones and make them pop off. Me, I like to take it easy when I'm driving. I just need Bluebeard by my side, some sweet tunes on the radio, and my seat reclined way, way back. "I feel like I'm forgetting something," I said to Bluebeard as I turned into an aisle of cars. It was packed, not a single open spot in sight. I inched along and craned my neck to look for someone returning to their car. "I'm just a cheeseburger in paradise," Jimmy Buffet started, but Bluebeard cut him off. "Ahoy, matey," she said, exuberantly. I couldn't help but grin. I love the way she can turn the most mundane sentence into a song. I love a lot of things about Bluebeard. Her coloration is gorgeous - flagrant red up her tail to yellow and iridescent purple under her wings, with an enigmatic patch of blue blazing on her chest. Her eyes are always alert, always observing. And she's huge. Truly one of the largest birds I've ever seen, and I sell them for a living. She's the size of a toddler! "Ahoy, matey," she repeated. "Ahoy, matey." I was gazing at Bluebeard when I heard a crash and the scrape of metal on metal. I gasped, my foot instinctively pressed on the brake, and I saw that I had hit a shopping cart. "Eek!" said a blonde lady as she flinched back from the cart. "Sorry!" I said. I held my hands up in a way that I hoped indicated true regret. "Watch where you're going!" she said, hands on her hips. "I will, I'm sorry!" I said. She rolled her eyes hard at me and shook her head before she grabbed the cart handle and pushed on. I felt the shame that she wanted me to feel deep in my heart. I really did. But I had to ask. "Hey, are you leaving?" She spun around and pointed to a parked blue Mazda. "I just got here!" "Okay, sorry! Sorry!" I sank back into my very, very reclined seat and waited for her to clear the road. Bluebeard had puffed out her feathers during the confrontation, and it took her a minute to settle down. She always hates it when someone's harsh to my vibes. I have to keep her on a short leash when we're out in public, and a harness too. One time when she got spooked by a dog and tried to fly away, she lifted me a foot off the ground. I love her so much. "Making the best," sang Jimmy, "of every virtue and vice." I approached the end of the row, and I still hadn't seen a spot. Before me loomed a beige warehouse with red accents. Massive columns held up the roof over the packed outdoor food court. The delicate scent of hot dogs and supreme pizza wafted through the car. It was unmistakably Costco. "Oh yeah," I exclaimed. A realization made me sit bolt upright on my seat. Bluebeard cocked her head and gurgled at me. "We were on our way to Costco!" With renewed vigor, I stamped on the accelerator to make the next turn, but just as quickly I had to stomp on the brakes, as a cruel black cube shot out of my peripheral vision and across my path. Time seemed to slow down as the Mercedes passed in front of me. The driver shot me a sneer and flipped a violent bird. Then, with a squeal of tires, he was gone, and the clamor of time's normal flow resumed. "Kraw," said Bluebeard questioningly, "blow the man down." But all I could hear was my pulse, pounding in my ears. Something about that mean driver drove me into a state of abject terror and paranoia. A tap on my window nearly made me jump out of my skin. It was an old man, giving me a little wave. Panicked, I swerved around the corner and into the next aisle. Only then did it occur to me that the old man was backing out. "drat it," I said, smacking the steering wheel. "I could've parked! We'll never get, uh... what we… came here for… Why can't remember anything today? Sheesh." Frustrating as it was, forgetting the important details came with the side effect of making me forget to be scared, and I soon lapsed into bemusement as we rolled past fully-utilized parking spaces. "Big kosher pickle," Jimmy sang, and I joined him, "and a cold draft beer. Well, good god almighty, which way do I steer?" "Tack to starboard," offered Bluebeard, and I obliged, turning left and left again to aim down the next aisle. "Very helpful," I said. "Thank you, Bluebeard." But something was very wrong. The cars were pointed the wrong way. I'd come in through the out door - a painful mistake. Then I saw it: a curious absence, halfway down on the right-hand side. If I could get there, and back in properly, we'd be set for life. Or at least the rest of the afternoon. "This is it, Bluebeard. Let's park the car." And I got close! I really almost parked it. But then the black Mercedes returned, at the opposite end of the aisle. I froze up - even my voice stuck in my throat. I knew he was watching me. I imagined the SUV rolling over my car, crushing Bluebeard and I into a sticky paste. I imagined the front end of it opening up and swallowing us whole. This was the final confrontation, and I had no suspicion I'd make it out alive. The Mercedes started to advance, a growling predator made of shadow and hate. For a moment, I couldn't move a muscle. My response time was somehow impaired. Finally, even though my hands were covered in sweat, I managed to shift into reverse. I abandoned all hope of parking, I just wanted to survive. I backed up as fast as I could. I was swerving - I barely missed a Prius, and actually scraped the back fender of an old Ford pickup. Then I lost control. My vision went fuzzy and my hands slipped around the wheel. The back end of my car popped over a median and we whipped around chaotically. I thought we were going to die! I wrapped my arms around Bluebeard and held on tight. The car skidded and bounced, and at last came to a rest. I kept my eyes shut tight until I felt Bluebeard nibbling at my earlobe. At first I thought we'd landed in a snowbank, but then I remember it hadn't snowed in East LA in my entire life, and I was just buried in drive-thru receipts that had exploded out of the glove compartment. I peeked out the window, and I couldn't believe what I saw. "Bluebeard," I couldn't help but shout, "we've parked! You did it! That's the Bluebeard magic baby!" It was one of the weird hard-to-get-to spots by the Chase bank, but I didn't think we'd need a cart for whatever we'd come to Costco for, so it would work fine. I was doing a celebration dance when the sunglasses compartment popped open, and a silvery packet fell out. "Pieces of eight," said Bluebeard, with a hint of mischief in her voice. "Ahoy, matey. Pieces of eight." I sniffed the packet, eyed the heavily crystallized nugs within, and felt my vibe descend to another level as an explanation clicked into place. It was my Wavy Jones OG, a sativa-dominant strain with high THC content, great for creative projects or just vegging out and watching a movie. Not awesome for somehow deciding to get in your car and driving to Costco. "Wow, I got really high, huh?" Steam was emitting from somewhere under the hood of the car. I'm not a car guy, but I was pretty sure that's a bad sign. "I should not have done this." My hands worked on instinct. "I'm sorry I put you through this, Bluebs. It wasn't cool of me." Bluebeard riffled her feathers and held her head up high. God, she was brave. "God, you're brave," I said. I paused to lick the sticky strip on the paper. "A lot braver than me. High or not, I can be a bit of a coward, huh? I need to work on that." I lit the fresh joint and leaned back all the way into my seat. The setting sun filled the car with a deep orange glow. The smoke calmed me the instant it hit my lungs. I'd trade just about anything for that feeling. When the joint was roached, I attached the leash to Bluebeard's harness and we set off for the Costco. "It might have been woodchips," I mused. "Right? Weren't we talking about needing another bag of woodchips?" Bluebeard didn't have a response to that. She was laser focused on a big, black, boxy SUV parked in the aisle we were walking down. At the time, I didn't get the significance of it, although it did ring some faint, faraway bell. Maybe she smelled another parrot. "Hey!" Someone said. I turned around and squinted at them through my already-squintified eyes. It was a little bald guy, busting out of a black turtleneck and blue jeans. I had to admit, the steel-toed cowboy boots were a stylish touch. "You're the dumb-gently caress who don't how to drive! C'mere, I'm gonna knock you in the noggin!" The guy moved on me fast, pushing up his sleeves. Confused, I backed away, but Bluebeard leapt forward. That beautiful enormous bird, she took flight, and with her talons outstretched, she slashed into the guy's forearms and left a spot-marking X on the top of his bald head. He cursed and yelled, jumped back into his SUV for safety, saying, "I'll sue! I swear to fuckin' God I'll fuckin' sue! That bird's gonna get the chair!" Nevertheless, he was soon gone entirely. To me, it seemed like it all happened in a few blinks of a blood-red eye. "I'm a cheeseburger in paradise," said Bluebeard, hopping back up on top of my head, where she customarily rode. "Yeah," I said. "I think I am too." We walked on in the setting sun, feeling more a team than ever before. It was us against the world. And we had no idea that the Costco we were walking towards had already closed half an hour ago.
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Aug 23, 2020 03:41
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It's a line crit for my prompt story! Killing, of a Kind 1,270 Words Long is the walk and pungent is the stench on the streets of The Shrop. Love the tone of this jump-off, you made 'Dirtshropshire' into something non-idiotic which is probably the right move. Cullen praises the lord for his executioner hood which protects against the worst of it but the poo poo and piss that runs through the cobble beneath his brown pattens still invades his nostrils with each inhale. He takes his breaths with deliberate consideration as he ambles to the gallows for his third day of work since his father died and left him in charge of the grizzly family business. Good plot setup, real clean Cullen arrives at the gallows and finds the day’s dead scroll in the head bucket. I like the idea of an execution mailman of some kind leaving the day's orders There’s seven listed, not the usual six. Ordinarily, an extra body to kill and haul to the corpse pond would be a burden, but Cullen has plans today, plans that require a clean beheading. He wads up some scraps of fabric in his pocket, moistens them a bit with his tongue, and stuffs them in his ears. His father objected to this the few times he brought Cullen along to train him up. “You need to listen, boy,” he’d say, “You need to know what it is you’re claiming from these people. It’s the right thing, and it’s never wrong to do the right thing.” Eehhhhhh this line loses the tone a bit, it's sort of on the silly side His father’s favorite thing to say, but his father isn’t here now. As Cullen sees it, there’s no need to hear the pleads. By the time this sorry lot has made it this far, their fate is sealed. he’s just swinging the sword and collecting his silver. He goes around the corner and looks for the smallest of the condemned in the large iron cage. He sees a girl who is the target of much derision and unwanted attention from the others. He opens the door and enters the cage. Everyone flees into the corners, as they always do. Except for the lone girl, can’t be more than sixteen, she smiles at him and places her hand over her heart. Going first is a privilege, and she deserves it. He extends his hand, and she takes it. The first one is nice and easy, thank the gods. He takes her to the execution stump, but she points to the hanging stand. Cullen finds this interesting as few make this choice, but he’s happy to oblige her in her final request. This whole bit felt really strange and upsetting on my first read through, before I got to the reveal. Real under-my-breath "wat da gently caress" type stuff He leads her to the hanging bar, and opens the chest beside it. Several of the ropes are frayed. He selects a strong one; he owes this girl an easy death. Her lips move and Cullen is grateful for the cotton which protects him from having this simple, easy kill, taken away and turned into something more complicated. He fits it around her neck and she begins to panic, yelling and screaming all manner of things. She’s still the easiest kill he’s ever experienced, and he’s still grateful. Knowing she doesn’t weigh quite enough to die instantly, he helps by placing his hands on her shoulders and launches her downward as the trapdoor opens. Her neck snaps, and she dies instantly. Cullen slashes the rope above her head and she falls beneath the hanging stand into the dead chamber. He’ll collect her corpse at the end and allow it to sit atop the pile of the dead in the wagon. An easy kill, but not the kill he needs. No matter, there’s still plenty left, after all, and he only needs one decapitated body for his purposes. He’ll surely find one throughout the day. ***** Six kills in and the heat becomes intolerable, none were as easy as the first girl. There was a man twice his size whom he had to wound in the cage to ensure compliance, and another man who shat himself while they walked together. The sweat on his lips is interminably persistent. Flashes of his father’s cruel punishment of feeding him the salt reserves for dinner whip into his mind as each droplet of sweat sneaks into his mouth. Really good details here Anger and fear pools in his mind as he swings the sword down on the seventh. So distracted by his father’s teachings, he fails to properly connect on his kill. Even through the fabric, he can hear the howl of pain. He hears his father in his mind. “When they are suffering, the right thing is to feel the pain with them, make it fast, it’s the right thing, and it’s never wrong to do the right thing.” His father, a bastion of morality whose punishments were cruel and who led his son to this miserable existence of snatching lives. So, he does what he always does when he fucks up, imagines that his subject is his father, and makes a meal out of it. He “misses” and slashes him in the back, then the legs, and even throws in a jab or two with the blunted tip of his sword. When the yelling becomes too disruptive to bear, he finishes off the kill and the head lands in the bucket. Despite the body serving as a canvas for his rage, the detachment is his cleanest of the day. Got bored around this part on the first read-thru This shall be the body. ***** He arrives at the base of the corpse pond, and lights a fire. All that’s left of his official duties is to dispose of the remains, and honor them by stacking stones to signify their passing. But, he has a personal matter to attend to first. He props up the body of the moaner he butchered on a stump near the fire and says, outloud. “Erm, reveal yourself?” 'erm' feels wrong here, it's sort of nebbishy feeling. Hesitance might be right for the moment. 'outloud' directly preceding this feels more confident than 'erm' though, there's a disconnect. “How poetic,” a voice from the hole of the neck of the corpse calls out. Cullen rolls his eyes and when he lowers them he watches an ethereal head, creep up, and out of the same hole. Neat! “Father,” Cullen nods. “Boy,” his father nods back. “I have to admit, father, I didn’t think this would work.” “You never did respect me, I suppose I was naive to assume that my passing would change that.” Cullen spits into the fire. “I followed your orders, didn’t I? You wanted one last chat after you were dead and gone, and here we are.” “Yes, that’s right, here we are and we can’t waste time, I don’t know how long this will last. So please, listen.” Cullen nods, “Go ahead, father.” “The cairns rise higher and higher each day. Your sister’s fate is to become yet another stone in a pile.” Didn't get this on the first read-thru, though maybe that's from knowing the guidelines for the story. It seemed like the cairns rising higher was a separate occurrence. But it's the executioners who make the cairns, which means they aren't ancient... bit of a letdown tbh Cullen tilts his. tilts his what? TILTS HIS WHAT?? “Sister, what sister?” Cullen asks. “Yes, your sister. She’s my bastard daughter and I had hoped to survive long enough to see her to freedom and this would never be of any concern. I had to keep her from you, and everyone else out of fear for her safety and my honor. This career, as grizzly as it is, would be lost to me if she were discovered. Only honorable men can hold it. But, listen boy, she’s been sentenced to die, and is innocent of her crimes, but there’s a way out. Someday soon, she’ll make herself known to you by telling you ‘it’s never wrong to do the right thing’, then she’ll request to hang... The history of the sister & executioner's honor is bad exposition but the reveal is some good irony. Cullen’s stomach twists into a thousand knots. His father’s words swirl and float around his head as he becomes dizzy and recalls the moment he shot his sister down to her death. He slumps down and pukes into the fire. His father’s voice raises, as he tries to get his son’s attention. “Boy!” He shouts. But Cullen can’t hear him. And as his head flees into the nether, his father sees over his slouching son, eyes that look like his own atop the corpse pile. This is a hurried ending that could probably have been expanded upon slightly in descriptions, like more clarity on what it means when "his head flees into the nether" but it is the right way for the scene to end. I love the way this world is drawn, and the characters fit it well. Cullen's resentment for his father, and his father's disrespect for Cullen, both culminating in the death of the innocent sister, all fits perfectly in this disgusting, evil universe. The story lets me down in certain moments, and I feel like a lot of the prompt was ignored/made into window dressing. Barely worth mentioning but 'grizzly' should be spelled 'grisly' in this context.
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Aug 25, 2020 19:07
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