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Flesnolk posted:I would like to judge because this is a cool week but I'm not feeling well enough to think up a story. I can just do some crits instead if not tho thank you for the offer but i'd really prefer it if you caught up on some crits cause right now you're at the bottom of the pile. nobody expects you to make them all up, but you've missed the last 7/8 times you've judged and i don't think it's fair to the people to miss out on all those crits 
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Nov 17, 2021 03:45
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Week 437: The Dome Who Came In From The Cold Yoruichi: This entry was far too wacky in a week that specifically called for John le Carré-esque Cold War intrigue and drama. This is “martini, shaken not stirred” spy fiction, not “stale beer and cigars” spy fiction, if that makes sense. There’s some fun ideas in this piece but I felt like it was trying too hard to be Funny and Silly, to the point it became a bit of a drain to read - but your mileage may vary on this crit, because I’m the kind of person who finds the MCU movies unwatchably obnoxious because of their attempts at “humour” every five seconds. You have a good hand for prose and eye for detail, and you’ve consistently turned out good stuff over the years, so I feel like if you’d engaged more with the spirit of the prompt you would have made something a lot better. brotherly: I think you tried to go a bit too big here, which we see a lot in TD - stories, or ways of writing them, that quickly outgrow the wordcount. Once you get going, 1200 words is nothing, you really have to be careful. A good rule of thumb, to the point of being a bit cliché, is to start where the story starts, and spare the flowery detail for important parts of the story - it’s about five paragraphs before anything actually happens, at which point you hardly have any room left to tell the story you’re trying to write. Nikaer Drekin: I agree with the other two judges from this week that your entry starts strong but is too straightforward and doesn’t really have enough sense of momentum. This probably would have been fine as like, a short film, but in the realm of flash fiction it falls a little limp. It’s fine for a flash piece to not have a grand narrative arc, it’s much more a snapshot than a full on film, but I’d still like to feel like these characters and their relationships are going somewhere. Ironically, where the previous entry wastes its wordcount on setup and worldbuilding, yours probably needed to use more. Flerp: This is another one where I’m kind of seconding what my fellow judges said last year and thus it might not be terribly useful to you, sorry about that. I like the idea of the spotlight mostly being on this mysterious figure that was a major part of your protagonist’s life, and the narrator’s complex feelings about them, even the tone of outright resentment. You don’t really do anything with it, though, and a mystery needs either an answer or a way for the reader to reasonably put it together themselves. I also second that I found the narrator’s weirdly aggressive tone an unpleasant read. But don’t take it too hard, nobody bats 1000. Sitting Here: Having a hard time thinking of much to pick at about this, as I largely liked it and its HM is well earned. Like, it’s good, what can I really say isn’t? I feel like the opening few paragraphs ramble on just a touch too long, but then, if they were shortened or excised I can imagine the end story would’ve been a lot less effective. The actual dialogue could be touched up some, and I’m with AFP that it’s too upfront a story, leaving little to chew on or look forwards to - things are almost too neat for a story in the le Carré mould. Thranguy: A common Thranguy problem is you come up with cool premises but your stories feel like excerpts or summaries of a larger piece. It tends to result in frustrating reads that I want to like but don’t really hold up on their own. Unrelated to the crit, you might do well writing for television or some other kind of serialised drama, because you do have a knack for making me the reader want to know more and spend more time in the worlds you make. A comment another judge made about this feeling like a first draft holds some water but feels slightly unfair - basically every TD story is a first draft. The dialogue in this piece felt stilted and like you were trying too hard to be clever, and there feels like there was a reluctance in this piece to really pick up anything you were putting down. Sebmojo: Malthus Whim is a great name for a character. I like your prose and the way you build up the world and story, but I agree with more timely comments that you telegraph where things are going too early, don’t really shake it up to leave the most obvious path, and Malthus really should come off more savvy than he does. But you still won the week, so it doesn’t matter that much.
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Nov 17, 2021 05:55
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I'll put the D in Defense and since it's in my name, I'll also put myself forward for Captain. If I don't get the role I'll play my best but always harbour a secret resentment towards the Captain and when my dad won't take me to Six Flags after the game I'll presume it's because I never made Captain like he did on his Highschool Thunderdome team.
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Nov 17, 2021 08:52
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In and playing as a ruck, I refuse to acknowledge your fake football positions. 
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Nov 17, 2021 09:59
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derp posted:hell yah put me in coach your position is Fullback. This is a big, strong running back that is mainly responsible for blocking and clearing out a running lane for the other runners. They also occasionally catch passes or actually run the ball. They're a bit of a "everything" type player. There are only about half a dozen teams that even use a fullback anymore, it's a bit of a rarity. However, teams that do use them love them because a good fullback gives you so many options. It's not a glamourous position, and the good things they do are often overshadowed by the actual runner or successful pass that they helped block. However, they are also a sneaky weapon because people aren't usually expecting them to do much, so they can also score touchdowns and catch big pass plays. here's some highlights of arguably the best fullback in the game currently: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_5tRzdFDwbo flerp posted:i will defend td from having good words your position is free safety. these guys sit far back from the line of scrimage and are responsible for defending against deep passes. if a cornerback fails to cover a receiver, it's the safety's responsibility to pick it up and make the tackle, often in the open field. the free safety is the faster one, he can usually zip around the field to where the ball is being thrown to serve as backup and hopefully stop somebody from just running away with the ball. if a runner gets past all the linemen and linebackers then the safety is also the last line of defense. they usually make some pretty cool tackles because they have so much room to gain speed, but they also often get torched because it's hard to tackle runners in an open field since they can juke and spin and all that stuff. it's a super important position that often looks like they suck due to how difficult it is to play. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0QNPPStLnD8 rohan posted:in and on the defense you are a defensive tackle. these are the guys that line up in the middle and rush at the quarterback. they also are responsible for plugging up any holes to stop runners. thus they have to be really good at sniffing out if its a run play or pass play and react accordingly, in a very short time. a really good DT can basically ruin a whole team because they stop everything. a really bad DT can mean free points for the offense because there's nobody sealing up the gaps. They often get double teamed--two offensive linemen will push them out of the way to create a running lane. really good DTs are super famous and earn a lot of money. Decent DTs are almost unknown because they basically just stand there and do nothing. It's one of the few roles that you can get away with doing almost nothing an entire game except for standing in a spot and pushing. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vxsf0qX_y8U Carl Killer Miller posted:In. Defense! Defense! your position is cornerback. these are the guys that try to stop the receivers from catching the ball. it's a really, really hard job. there are very few people who can do it well in the NFL. the reason it's so hard is because you're not allowed to touch the receiver before they touch the ball. If you do, the penalty moves the ball to where you touched them. cornerbacks are basically just a scapegoat at this point, their job is almost impossible and hardly anybody can play at a high level consistently. they almost always get burnt for huge plays a few times per game. a good corner, however, is scary good at catching the pass instead of the receiver, so often a QB just won't throw the ball to their side of the field. The best corners don't have to make plays at all, because they're covering their targets so well. They're also some of the cockiest players in the sport. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hvh0aFRvp5M Albatrossy_Rodent posted:Offense Having some memory problems? You must be a halfback. These little guys are shifty and fast. They're the main runners, trying to squeeze through holes in the line, or trying to run around the outside and beat everybody with speed. They get hosed up a LOT. they take some of the biggest hits in the game. if they don't get smothered by the gigantic linemen, then they're usually getting hit by a safety or linebacker running at almost full speed to intercept them. it's a brutal position that doesn't have a lot of longevity in the league. however, they score the most touchdowns and are generally one of those important players on a team. they are usually more down to earth than some of the other diva positions and recognize the utility of hard, grinding work. even getting a few yard on a run is considered decent. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wZOoyw5LS44
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Nov 17, 2021 21:43
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Voodoofly posted:In. I played DE in a former life so Defense it is. The man called M posted:I'm in. Since some of you consider my stories offensive, I guess I'm that. Thranguy posted:In offense you are a tight end. the TE is one of my favorite positions in the sport because of how versatile they are (kinda like a fullback!). They are a "lineman" which means they start on the line, but they're also considered an elligible receiver. most linemen cannot catch passes. TEs can. This means they can either stand there and block, or slip out and catch a pass. Since they're primarily blockers, they're also big, which means tackling them can be pretty hard. There are not many good pass-catching TEs in the game currently (it's the worst fantasy football position by far) and they're mostly used as extra blockers. Because they block so often, they're often uncovered and can get wide open. A good TE is super fun to watch. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0LfTfXSO7rQ Captain_Indigo posted:I'll put the D in Defense and since it's in my name, I'll also put myself forward for Captain. Oh we got somebody who thinks they're a leader here. Must be a quarterback. The QB is the de facto "leader" of the offense, though not always actually. Younger QBs basically just do what their coach tells them to. older more experienced QBs are allowed to call their own plays and decide how the game progresses. Classic QBs stood in the "pocket" created by the linemen and looked for somebody to pass the ball to, or just handed it to the running back. Modern QBs often run the ball themselves, or scramble to the sides outside of the pocket to give their receivers more time to get open. QBs make the most money and are the "face" of the team. They get most of the credit for a win, and most of the blame for a loss. many QBs are "game managers" in that they don't do anything too amazing or athletics, but are very good at handing the ball to running backs and making easy, short throws that keeps the team moving down the field. Others are gun slingers, throwing the ball wildly down the field. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HZBUmm3KvZM Chairchucker posted:In and playing as a ruck, I refuse to acknowledge your fake football positions. I don't know what that is. are you on the offense or defense?
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Nov 17, 2021 22:10
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a friendly penguin posted:Crits for week 484 – Screw the rules, I have Thunderdome SurreptitiousMuffin posted:Week 484 Crits
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Nov 17, 2021 23:27
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Long-tardy crits:quote:Author: SurreptitiousMuffin Ok, your title sets this up as a story that's going to focus around a single comedic premise: a bear becomes president. The material of the story is ok, I guess. It didn't get a laugh out of me, but maybe this kind of humor just isn't my cup of tea. The story's technically ok as well, although there are some grammar/misplaced modifier issues. I'll focus on the humor. I think that some of the best humor I've read in TD isn't baked into the entire story, but is woven throughout. The trouble with a story based around a single joke is that the joke really has to have legs; there has to be room to explore the premise that's unexpected or the funnies have to be really well-crafted. Otherwise, the joke (and so, the premise, and the story) gets exhausting to read. I think that's what happened here. None of the jokes were particularly surprising: bear can't speak english, bear mauls some people, the electoral system is broken, etc. I'm not a fan of the framing device of a guy reacting to the bear's funnies, either. It seems almost essential to a story like this to present that sort of perspective, but it felt stale. The story was DQ'ed for reasons unrelated to my crit, btw. quote:Author: QuoProQuid Some of your language/structure choices aren't so good: "Morris smiled, his teeth creaking." -I see what you're going for here. Maybe 'jaw' would be better? "The Vice-President found his speech and cleared his throat. “Mr. Chair. Distinguished representatives of the estates and government. Fellow citizens.” He had delivered a similar address when first campaigning for governor, but then JonBenét went missing. CNN had opted to broadcast dark, lurid photos of the dead child instead of his speech. “I am deeply grateful for the opportunity to speak with you today.”" - Not a bad joke (2/5 hahas), but the intervening sentence doesn't work so well. Maybe an ellipses after "citizens"? "He imagined the pair building a tinder in the Rose Garden." - Don't know what this means. A fire? "There were more people looking at the thuggish youths than him." - Thuggish, oof. I liked some jokes: "Waco was one of Morris’s happiest memories. He had once given a very well-received speech about it. The New Yorker had described it as, “sobering.”" -3/5 hahas. Sobering is good, but I think you could do better. The story overall suffers from too much telling, not enough showing. There are plenty of sentences that should have been replaced with quotations to help us get closer to your characters. The central conflict of the story is wound up too quickly and the three quotes regarding the proposal being approved don't land for me. Morris could actually be a pretty compelling character: he's got this political bloodlust that clashes well with his task at hand. I'd explore that more deeply. It feels like the first half or so of the story doesn't need to be in the piece. Middle of the pack or DM, week-depending. quote:Author: Ironic Twist This is a nicely story, the characters feel well-realized, and there is an arc for me to follow. The sentimentality of the piece feels real to me, the situation is unique. I see what you're trying to do, but I got a little confused with the idea of a found-footage action star. The throughline of the story gets a little muddled and while there are hints and drips of the daughter, she doesn't feel like a fully-composed character to me. Is the daughter an actor? Is this an actual movie? Is the central conflict her daughter's upbringing, or this new pregnancy? Why doesn't the daughter have a name? I think the story could use a pass for clarity. Would have been middle of the pack. quote:Author: Kaishai I know it was handed to you by flash rule, but ooooooooo do I like the conceit you've started with here. Technically well-done, great characterization, a cast that borders on too large for flash fiction, but still holds together. Callbacks are risky here, but I think you nailed it. Overall, I really dug this piece. You were flirting with a premise that's too big for your space, but I think the ending was great. You did a classic flash fiction move in writing a fulfilling ending that's not THE ending of the larger story, the larger world hinted at by your piece. I think the slice of world you've created is juuuuuust big enough. A pleasure to read. HM, consideration for the win. quote:Author: dmboogie The story has a very confident voice and barrels ahead, sometimes to its detriment. It's a tough balance to strike, deciding how much is too much. Some examples: Good: "Monsters are a lot like humans, in the sense that they’re apt to lose their bleedin’ minds when a representative from the king comes to diplomatically inform them that they are obligated to hand over a percentage of their hoard, no no I’m not just trying to steal it, you get to keep most of it, honest, oh god help me I’m on fire and or bleeding from every orifice and or a zombie now." Bad: “Okay,” Reality said in a chorus composed of the voice of every person I have met in my life, also writing the word over and over on the walls as the concept of things being pretty alright in the end filled our brains, like when your day wasn’t perfect and you had to talk to an rear end in a top hat for a while but then you made a pun you were very proud of and you saw a cool dog and we sighed contentedly, and then it was over. Could be better with excisions: "“Please take a number and we’ll be with you shortly, assuming that both you and reality have similar definitions of the word shortly, and in fact the concept of time itself, we are not legally responsible for any misunderstandings this discrepancy may cause, please have a seat on the black hole over there.”" (I'd remove the "we are not...may cause" in there) The voice is a little disjointed here. In portions of the story it seems like we have a protagonist driving things along, then we have these paragraphs of narration that take away the protagonist's agency and slow things down. This can work if the paragraphs are compelling (which a few of them were), otherwise it takes time to snap perspectives back and can get tiring for the reader. I think this shifting is the most difficult part of the story and really detracts from your otherwise good language and humor. Middle of the pack. quote:Author: Chili Some quick notes as I read: -It's unclear whether the dove said the word 'faith' in Yiddish. The subsequent paragraph makes it sorta clear that it is, but not definitively. -Some of the action beats are a little clumsy: "Rov Moishe prepared his coat and as he readied his galoshes the dove continued its message "!אמונה"". 'Prepared' and 'readied' are odd choices here. -The insanity called for in the flash rule makes an abrupt appearance partway through the story. It's great flavor, but maybe work it in a little earlier in the story? -Run-on sentence: ""this evening a dove crashed into our house, when we brought it inside, it behaved as no ordinary dove has, sitting patiently on our coat rack while we ate our Sabbath meal." If you're trying to convey that the words are sorta tumbling out, I'd make that a little clearer. -I could use more showing and less telling in the first half of this story. I know that some telling is essential to setting the ambiance (or at least it feels like it), but I think there's a slightly better way to set the scene. You used humor sparingly, but adroitly. 'A dove of significance', beyond being a great forums username, is exactly the kind of joke that should be in a story like this. It helps to dial in the overall tone of the piece. What's more, I think that by using a joke like that, you understand the tone of your story and make the act of getting yuks subservient to that tone. This actually makes the joke better. I really enjoy the arc of this story. I go in expecting that the elder Rabbi will help clarify the meaning of the dove's word, but I get more of a heartwarming meeting between your two characters. I wish that this portion had more substance (although it's quite good as-is), over the substance at the beginning of the story. I think that honest storytelling, independent of its mechanics (although your mechanics are mostly good here) conveys a stronger message and is more pleasing to read. I feel like I've learned something about you as an author (and your culture, though I could be wrong about this assumption) after reading this story, which adds a layer of lovely complexity to the whole thing. On that note, this reads like an allegory, like a story about friendship in a culturally/religiously-bent book. I think that's great. I enjoyed this. It deserved the HM. quote:Author: Tyrannosaurus "Water resistant makeup was expensive but important for it always seemed to rain when Limbo had a case to solve. He was a clown by trade but primarily he considered himself a romanticist. He explained as much to the gangster." Writers of thunderdome, take note: this is a great opening line. The mechanics are just a touch awkward, but it tells me so so much about the protagonist, the setting, and the situation he is in within that setting. Excellent. The clownterization/clown voice in this story is very well done. Example: "Limbo pretended to frown. “Is that what they called a punchline around here?” he asked." This is not a funny joke. This is, however, a joke a clown would tell. That you seemingly recognized the distinction is a serious credit to you as a writer. Whoa, that's a serious tonal shift. It's foreshadowed well and doesn't exactly come out of nowhere, but there's still just a little whiplash. I'm on the fence as to whether I enjoyed the breaks in this story. On the one hand, you lead into them well and I'm never 100% surprised at what's coming (though I am surprised enough for it to be enjoyable), but I think there's a lot of meat on the bone here. I'd particularly like some more between the second and third segments. This is a minor nitpick, but the ending line of the rain stopping altogether feels more like you wanted to write an atmospheric sort of conclusion, and less like one that fits the story. I guess it's thematically consistent with the forthcoming death of the gangster, but there are a lot of ways to convey that message. Again, pretty minor and only because I don't think there's a lot to criticize here. I'm surprised that this didn't HM. quote:Author: sebmojo Notes as I go: -"Bingardl didn’t have to notice her, and so was about to throw the ball a two hundred and eighty fifth time when something about the way Helena was leaning on the door made him stop," reads a little awkwardly to me. -"She was clutching the door handle too, he thought, like she didn’t want to, like she wished she could slam the door and make the Nirvana calendar flap up in a big dispirited flap like a one-winged eagle that had had just about enough and would you please just leave it be." I get what you're going for here (I think) and the sort of voice you're setting for the story, but the density of this sentence doesn't work for me. -There are a few more run-on sentences in the story that I think allllllmost work with the tone but not quite. The ending is quite sudden. I was ambling along the story thinking that the demon was invisible, or at least not corporeal, but suddenly he is and I'm not sure what to do with that. The ending feels tidy and hammers home that the real conflict in the story is not necessarily the dead person in the bathtub, but I found the dead person more compelling than the demon's story. The prose is pretty good in places, cute when it can be cute and hard-edged when it needs to be hard-edged. You have a pretty fair sense of that in the piece. Overall the story didn't grab me, but maybe I'm just not in the headspace for it. Middle of the pack. Final note: this is a set of crits on some pretty old stories (over five years now) and it's just wonderful to see how much some of you folks have matured as writers. TD...good?
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Nov 17, 2021 23:29
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 COME ON YOU LAZY PIECES OF poo poo, HUSTLE INTO THE SIGN UPS! YOUR TEAM NEEDS HELP!
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Nov 18, 2021 20:42
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signups closed chairchucker gets draft into the offense. he doesn't know what the gently caress he's doing, but it's a warm body so you just go with it.
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Nov 20, 2021 09:37
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needlessly depressing story i wrote on my phone because i forgot i was going to yosemite whoops sorry not sorry
flerp fucked around with this message at 21:22 on Dec 31, 2021 |
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Nov 21, 2021 15:19
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The Domestique Team Titan Kazaks (Defense) - Punt Returner 785 Words At dawn, Jos had navigated the sea of bikes, squeezing into the starting area. The race would be a one day classic, rough cobblestones mixed in with small, steep climbs, ending with an all out sprint, and Jos had just received the team’s orders. Jos wouldn’t be riding for the win. Jos wouldn’t lead a breakout. Jos wouldn’t push for intermediate sprint points. No, Jos would fetch water for the team. They would shield teammates from the wind. They would lead the peloton. They would head the sprint train. They would fight off exhaustion, enduring hell, alongside every other rider. They would avoid risk, forgo reward, and remain sensible. They would serve the team. This race, like most races, Jos would be a domestique. ****** The peloton was about fifty meters ahead as Jos pulled alongside the car, passing empty bottles to the passenger before grabbing filled bottles and shoving them into the pockets of their bib. They were five hours in, and with ten kilometers to go, and everyone would want to be refilled and refueled for the final sprint. Jos shifted into the highest gear, pulled in behind the car, and accepted a small tow back towards the peloton as they transitioned into another cobblestone segment. It would take a lot of energy to make their way back through the peloton, passing bottles to their team, so any little help was appreciated. Click-click-click-clank! Jos didn’t hear so much as feel the derailleur slipping and catching as the chain jumped three cogs at once. They looked back at the transmission to see if they could spot anything wrong, hoping it was just a bad bounce from the rough road. Everything seemingly in shape, Jos turned their eyes back to the road just in time to watch everything fall apart. Time seemed to slow to a crawl. Riders flipped over their bars, suspended in midair, twisted in glacial collisions. All around bikes were crashing, wheel over wheel, the ones in the front of the peloton laid out along the road, the ones in the rear smashing into their teammates and fellow riders strewn across the cobbles. The crowd on either side of the road stood frozen in shock, some ducking down, others with arms braced ahead to shield themselves. Instinct and muscle memory took over. Jos had been an amateur sprint champion in their former life. The years away from the sport, during the appeals and treatments, might have robbed Jos of some quickness. But sprinting required more than pure speed, and Jos’ ability to maintain balance and plow through a jostling crowd was ingrained deep in their psyche. Spotting a potential line, Jos downshifted, reducing torque on the pedals for a brief moment, hoping the derailleur didn’t skip again, weaving through the carbon wasteland that was the peloton. Up out of the saddle, front wheel skipping on stones while dancing between fallen bodies and frames, Jos managed to break through into daylight. Two other riders had made it as well, the rest lost among the wreckage. The three escapees all looked back to survey the damage, hoping nobody would wave them back. If a fan or some other outside interference had caused the crash, then a senior rider might pause the race, letting the fallen recover and resume racing as a group. But no one was calling a halt. The riders behind were scrambling to get back on their bikes. The race was on. Looking ahead, the three riders fell in line. Cresting a small hill, Jos could see the Roubiax Velodrome in the distance. The finish was in sight. The peloton would catch a lone rider over these last ten kilometers — but three riders, working together, had a chance to stay ahead. So they rode on, alternating positions at the lead, pulling each other ever forward. With five kilometers to go, Jos’ fingers started going numb. It started with their pinkies. First tingling. Then burning. Then nothing. Their ring fingers came next, followed by their middle fingers. At two kilometers out their index fingers had burst into flames, skipping the tingling entirely. And now the burning in their index fingers was starting to fade. Jos wasn’t worried, though. Their fingers had lasted as long as necessary. The crowd was erupting as the three riders swept into the velodrome. With a dull click on the shifter their fingers’ day was over. No more gears to change. No more brakes to engage. Just three more curves, two more riders, and one more kilometer separated Jos and the finish line. Jos rose out of their saddle, preparing for the sprint. It was the sensible approach. To serve the team, sometimes you had to race for glory.
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Nov 21, 2021 20:49
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One of a Kind 796 words I was, of course, not worried that I might die. I struggled convincingly – flailing pathetically at the hands around my neck – because punching a hole through his chest, although the obvious solution, would out me as a synth. ‘Synth’ was my own word. I wasn’t aware that there were more than one of me. It made sense there would be more, though, right? Like, who makes one artificial human, then just gives up on making more when they escape the lab? I couldn’t bring myself to think of myself as a ‘she’, even though that’s what I looked like. I almost felt like an ‘it’, but not really, because I could think and feel, although I had a much higher pain tolerance than humans. The non-specific ‘they’ felt right to me. He'd probably only been choking me – or trying to – for a few seconds, so I still had a couple minutes to convincingly stay alive. After that he’d start to get suspicious. If the news was to be believed, he’d done this a few times before, so he’d probably know about how long it took to strangle a woman to death. Killing him wasn’t an ideal solution; there’d probably be questions for me to answer, and I wasn’t ready to exist on any police database or whatever happened in that kind of situation. I mentioned the news before. They were calling him the Snowley Strangler, which sounded poetic or something. He had, so far, strangled to death seventeen women, all in this general area. Honestly, he was part of the reason I’d taken to walking in ‘the bad part of town’ late at night, so you’d think I’d have planned for this. I settled on some mild testicular violence. I say ‘mild’, but what I meant was that it shouldn’t outright kill him. I didn’t, however, intend for his testicles to remain serviceable, or recognisable. My legs were both trapped under his, and while I probably could’ve overpowered him and moved them, a punch seemed like a good option. I shifted my weight a bit and yanked under his shoulders, moving his entire body forward, and as soon as his testicles were in reach, I struck. This didn’t have quite the effect I’d hoped for. He frowned, his eyes narrowed, and he continued trying to choke me. Was he wearing Kevlar underwear? I struck him again, a little harder, still with no result. I punched him as hard as I could, and with a loud grunt he released my neck. I pushed him off, then scrambled to my feet, unsure of what to do. “You’re like me!” he said. Ah. That would explain the abnormally resilient testicles. I would’ve expected him to be stronger, though. Maybe an earlier model? “You’re a synth?” I asked. Dunno why I said that. It was my word; he wouldn’t even know what a ‘synth’ was. “Synth? Oh, like synthetic human. I never bothered coming up with a word for what I was, but that works, I guess. Sorry, if I’d known you were like me, I wouldn’t have done that.” “So, why did you?” He shrugged. “Because they’re weak. Because they look down on me. Because when my first one found out what I was she acted like I was a monster.” His first one, according to the news, had been a prostitute. I chose not to dwell on the potential circumstances and conversation leading to that strangling. “Yeah,” I said as I walked over to him, “might be a little while before we’re accepted by them, if ever.” “It’s a good thing we’ve found each other,” he said. Or ‘they’? No, ‘he’ just seemed to fit better. “I never thought I’d find someone else like me.” He reached out a hand to me, as if to ask me to pull him up. “Not entirely like you,” I said. I ignored the hand. He shrugged. “You do seem to be a slightly stronger model. I guess whoever made us has refined the process. I wonder what the next one will be like?” “There’s that,” I said. “That’s not the most important difference, though.” I brought my foot up, then brought it down again on his head, over and over again until he stopped moving. I wasn’t really sure what to do with the body. I still wasn’t ready for everyone to know of the existence of whatever we were, so I put the body in a sack, dragged it to the cemetery, and buried him. Maybe he didn’t deserve a burial, but as he was the only other synth I’d met, it made me feel better. It also made me feel like burning down the lab. I’d make sure I made a better plan, this time.
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Nov 21, 2021 21:21
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, because hellborne space-wasps are people too, drat it! 752 words, offense, halfback Mr. President, I know what I'm asking you to do. I don't expect you to do it. I expect you either to laugh me out the room and forget that I ever proposed this, or have me jailed, and absolutely nowhere in between, but I implore you to consider my idea in good faith before casting judgment. We must let the Earth die. General (Buzzing Shriek) of the (Phlegmy Scream) Empire has already made it clear that the only way we can possibly destroy the Borkonian enemy is by drawing their full fleet to one location and activating the (Ominous Throat-Sung Growl). Since neither we nor the (Phlegmy Scream) have the resources or technology to amass a combat fleet in space, the only place to stage such a battle is either Earth or Planet (Phlegmy Scream). Either planet will surely be destroyed once the (Ominous Throat-Sung Growl) is activated. The only moral choice is to offer the Earth as the location of the battle. Humans have a population of a mere thirteen billion. Meanwhile, there are three hundred sixty-two trillion (Phlegmy Scream)ians upon and within their homeworld, each with their own joys, sorrows, and ambitions. By letting the people of Earth die, we will be saving countless sentient lifeforms. I know this must be hard for you to hear. You fear everything you have worked for will be destroyed. Your efforts to revive the ocean ecosystems and curb inflation will have come to naught. Your constituents will be no more, but if there is any solace, remember the opposition's constituency will also be erased. Yes, and of course your children and everyone you have ever loved will be slowly ripped apart atom-by-atom in what must be assumed to be a more painful death than anyone has ever experienced by Earthly means. But please also consider the loved ones of our (Phlegmy Scream)ian friends. I know the deaths of your six children will of course be devastating. Why, I think of little Moon-Sung as the nephew I never had. But General (Buzzing Shriek) has one point six million spawn, and Overlord (Guttural Hum), as the progenitor of her race, has the aforementioned several hundred trillion children and grandchildren. What of their many loves? No, Mr. President. I refuse to accept the research that suggests the (Phlegmy Scream)ians do not feel love, as human researchers are limited by human understandings of love. You have raised reservations about our alliance with (Phlegmy Scream). You have called the (Phlegmy Scream)ian's "scary-looking wasptopuses." You have said their existence is "proof there is no God." You have described their planet as, and I quote "a nightmare beyond the capabilities of our meager primate brains to comprehend." But please, for the love of God, empathize with them: their sorrows, their tragedies, their pains. Of course their ways are strange to us. Yes, the rules of (Wretching Inhale) are much more complicated than any human sport, as is their method of selecting the weakest member of their species for use of their head for a ball. Yes, the fact that their diet is exclusively cannibalistic goes against human taboo, but what else are they supposed to eat ever since they devoured the last of their planet's other lifeforms? Yes, the sight of their mating rituals causes all humans who witness it to commit suicide within seconds. But let's remember what counts. Who led the counterattack when the Borkonians destroyed our moon bases? (Phlegmy Scream). Who sent the corpses of their weak for our sustenance after the Borkonians destroyed our agricultural infrastructure? (Phlegmy Scream). And who sacrificed over two billion of their own people to drive off the enemy in the Battle of Antarctica? That's right. (Phlegmy Scream). Unless one of our planets dies, the Borkonians will destroy them both. It's better ours goes than theirs. But rest assured that humanity's sacrifice, our courage and our kindness, will live forever on in the hearts and minds of the people of (Phlegmy Scream). You have followed my advice since high school, and you rose from nothing to become President of Earth. Heed my counsel one last time, Bong-Il. You are loved by billions, but do what I ask, and you will be worshipped by trillions. Mok Bong-Il, Savior of (Hacking Scream), sorry, messed that one up, but that is their word for "prey," let me hawk another loogie, ahem, Mok Bong-Il, Savior of (Phlegmy Scream)! Do the right thing, Mr. President, my old friend.
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Nov 21, 2021 23:28
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Offense Position: Right Guard Memoirs of a Shadow 556 Words My son, If you are reading this letter, then I am already dead. If that is indeed the case, then there is something I need to get off my back, especially to you. As you may already know, I have been working in the royal palace for many years, as an advisor to the king. What you may not know is that I was more than just a mere advisor. I have been working in the shadows to help protect him. Sure, he had his soldiers, but they were the first line of defense. I was the last. It was a position so secret that the only way anyone could know about it is if I screwed up. If this job of mine is a surprise to you, then let it be known that I never screwed up. During times where there was not any war (one could never truly call it “peacetime”), I would be a sort of assassin for the king, killing any and all enemies we both figured would be a threat to the kingdom. At wartime, I was the king’s closest ally. In the battlefield, my son, it is essential that you have comrades that are willing to pull together so that they can all be alive by the day’s end. But if absolutely necessary, they also need to be willing to die for each other. Luckily, the king was a strategic mastermind, so it was never absolutely necessary. The battles waged on, and after the war was over, both the king and I could consider each other their closest ally and friend. There are many who would consider me a humble man. They may be right. There have been times that the king has considered me for knighthood. I never wanted the fame and glory that came with the title. I already have you and your mother, why do I need glory and riches? (To be fair, I did receive some riches. After all, you and your mother needed to be fed.) The king has expressed gratitude for what I done, and at times wished that my story could be told. But I always told him that if anyone should receive glory on the battlefield, it should be our lord commander. It is the kings and commanders that receive eternal glory in the battlefield. Such as it should be. While there are those who would sing songs praising the king, I have found glory in being an ‘unsung’ hero. If you wish to serve the current king in the same way I have, you can go to the front gate and tell the guard, “Dinosaur Pregnancies” (Don’t ask. It was a joke from long ago that the king found funny.) If you do not, I find no shame at you deciding to do so. Every man has a right to live a happy and fulfilling life. But whatever choice you make may this be known: everything I did for the king, I did twice more for you and your mother. That was the main reason why I fought, so that you and your mother could live in peace. My only regret in life was that I never seen you grow as a man. Whatever you choose to do, know that I will be proud of you, always. Sincerely, Your Lord Father
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Nov 22, 2021 01:06
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two dreams 800w There she is, on the park bench facing the sea. She wears the grey knit cap like always when it’s cold. There are little white knit flowers. Fog breath puffs surround her head. She is a silhouette against the sea and morning grey light. There she is, he thinks. Will I actually say anything? He is holding two cups of Starbucks. The heat is nice on his fingers in the crisp morning air. His feet crunch on gravel then shush on grass. Breathe, in nose out mouth. Think of your feet on the ground, everything is normal. Waves wash the sand a dozen yards away. Gulls trill. Clouds whisper. Only a few steps separate him from the bench, then she’ll look up and smile and blink away daydreams and brush some hair from her cheek. He lines up words on the end of his tongue: I dreamed about you last night. No. You showed up in my dreams. No. Have you ever been sailing? We were on a sailboat last night. No. Hey, funny thing, I had a dream about you. No. I dreamed we were sailing under a starry sky, and we talked all night while the waves rocked us and the sail rustled gently above us. I held your hand and stared into your eyes and told you I loved you No. There she is, red cheeks. There’s the bench, with the splintered plank on his side that always pokes him behind the knee. The sea sighs, birds cry. She looks up at him and smiles. She blinks away daydreams and brushes stray hairs from her face. “Hi,” she says. He sits down, hands her a coffee. They sip in silence and look at the waves. I have about 20 minutes to say it, he thinks. In 20 minutes the sun will be risen and he will go to his job at the dock, and she to hers in the highrise. I dreamed of you last night. The words are in his mouth, pressing on the backs of his lips, but they dissolve and he lets out a breath. Her hand is on the coffee cup, resting on her knee, steam rising. The heat from her thigh warms his thigh, an inch away. Real her, solid and silent, physically there right next to him, real. It was so different last night. Real her is married, has a daughter. He also has a daughter, and is divorced. Real her has money, is educated. He does not and is not. I dreamed of you last night and I loved you, and you loved me back. I told you I loved you and you smiled so softly. The boat tilted on a playful wave and tipped you into my arms and we laughed, and you looked up at me with starglint in your eyes, your nose and cheeks wind red. No, no, no. Ten minutes have passed. Gold appears on the horizon. The sea is gold and purple and the sky is turning orange and pink. Clouds are gold and dark. The air is changing. He is slipping out of the world where he will tell her about the dream, and into a world where he won’t. He feels the shift as if a ghost is leaving his body. I dreamed of you last night. We talked about us, the future, and love. We were on a sailboat. In the morning I thought: do I really feel these things about you? No no no. His coffee is almost gone, the sun is in the sky and touches his face with a gentle heat, the clouds are leaving on far off travels, the waves are louder and brighter with silver and blue and the sky is whitening. He feels her move next to him. Her finger tap tap taps on the side of her coffee and it is empty, hollow. I dreamed we spent the night at sea in each other's arms, and I can’t forget the feeling of your heat, your cheek on my chest, the smell of your hair. Your heat and weight have burrowed into my chest. She is turning, shifting. He grasps wildly at handfuls of words like sand and can hold nothing I dreamed I dreamed I dreamed. She is facing him now, sideways on the bench. She lightly touches the back of his hand. “Hey,” she says, uncertain, embarrassed. He’s never seen her face like this. “I had a dream about you,” she says. Gulls cry overhead. Clouds are long gone, the sky is pure and clear. She and he are silhouetted against the morning on the park bench facing the sea. Little puffs of breath surround their heads.
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Nov 22, 2021 04:14
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This May Affect Your Rating 800 words Lottie had just finished the last gig of her cycle — updating a Venusian satellite’s firmware for fifty credits, no tip — and was setting the coordinates of her partners’ asteroid habitat, when her shuttle’s console chimed with a new request. She almost ignored it. Most cycles, she probably would have. But she glimpsed the words LONG-HAUL and VIRUS, and smiled. She’d hacked her way this far — she could easily clear some viruses before bedtime, and long-haul pilots tipped well for the novelty of a different face onboard. She hit ‘ACCEPT’ before anybody else could take it, keyed in the new coordinates, and sent her partners an apologetic holo-moji before launching off. *** It took minutes for her boarding signal to be acknowledged. When a crackling digital voice eventually responded, it wasn’t quite the appreciative hail she expected. ‘You’re organic,’ it said. ‘Yet fully qualified,’ she sighed. ‘You can’t legally discriminate against biological—’ ‘We limited the request to constructs,’ it pressed. ‘You should not have been able to accept. Your presence here will be a liability.’ When she’d signed up through the backdoor console, Lottie had made sure to remove the limiter controlling which gigs she could accept. It was usually obvious what she could ignore: e.g., anything involving gas giants could be left to the squids. But virus removal? Anything could remove a virus. ‘Well, I’m here,’ she shrugged. ‘You can wait for a robot; you can wait for pirates to attack your compromised systems; or I can remind you that humans invented zeroes and ones, and we can handle a few misplaced digits.’ ‘I understand,’ the arsehole-intelligence said, ‘organics respond best to visual stimuli.’ A feed appeared on her console. A corridor, clinical-white and polished; crew members approaching the camera. But their gait was off, their movements erratic. As they shuffled closer, one raised its head to the camera — revealing hollow pits for eyes, a swollen tongue lolling out of a bloody mouth. poo poo. She brought up the original request. ‘Parasitic Virus Aboard Long-Haul Transport,’ the subject blared. ‘Request workers to facilitate destruction of infected organic material.’ ‘You expect me to kill them?’ she exclaimed, zooming in on the feed. She could barely make out the insignia of corporate scientists on bloodied lapels. One carried a shiny, spheroid device — a bomb? — which triggered some vague memory. ‘We didn’t expect you to do anything,’ the voice went on, with frustrated resignation. ‘But you’re here, somehow, and our scans don’t show anyone else within hailing range. If something doesn’t destroy them, and they reach the reactor—’ She could have cancelled, but even she couldn’t hack her rating — which perilously approached the 4.2 cut-off. A customer exploding would probably impact that. And then she remembered: Pyx had shown her a video, orbits ago, of an ancient terra-firma tradition. ‘How many constructs are onboard?’ she asked. ‘Twelve,’ arse-intel said. ‘But they’re non-combat models—’ ‘Perfect,’ Lottie said. ‘Here’s what we’re going to do.’ *** The zombies entered the final room before the reactor, a wide expanse of polished chrome bisected by a wall of constructs squatting shoulder-to-shoulder. They approached, looking for some weakness, before backing away and gathering together. The ball-carrier made a series of guttural moans while pointing to various constructs, and the others squared up in formation. They approached, ball-carrier in the centre, in a shambling but valiant offense. The constructs held, at first — but they weren’t built as fortifications, and Lottie soon heard metallic feet carving ridges in the floor. Behind the defenses, she tightened her rebreather helmet, shrugged into scavenged repair-bay armour, palmed the tranquiliser, and rushed to join the fray. *** ‘Are you sure you won’t join our crew?’ the slightly-less-arseholish ship was asking, as Lottie climbed back into her shuttle. ‘We have … recent openings.’ ‘I’m sure,’ Lottie said. She almost went into her standard spiel, please remember to rate and tip, but stopped herself. ‘Thank you.’ ‘Thank you,’ the ship said. Lottie watched a notification pop up: the ship had left a glowing review, a two-thousand credit tip, and a rating of— ‘What?’ Lottie asked. ‘How did you rate me ten out of five?’ The ship laughed. ‘You organics may have invented zeroes and ones,’ it said, ‘but that’s no reason to get cocky.’ Lottie smirked, set the coordinates back to her partners’ asteroid, and signed off. As her craft slipped out of the hangar, she sent them a holo-moji of her swimming in credits, and watched the heart reacts come in. As her shuttle accelerated, she rubbed the back of her neck where the helmet had dug in. What a cycle, she thought — she felt like a long-haul pilot herself. She couldn’t wait to see her partners again; she craved their voices, their skin, their … their brains …
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Nov 22, 2021 05:41
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Sorry archivists! I’m a defensive tackle
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Nov 22, 2021 05:54
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Making Ends Meet Offense:Tight End 800 words For every kidnapped oil heiress and bungled murder frame-up there are dozens of little jobs. That's where the rent gets paid, two or three hundred dollars at a time. This was one of those jobs, me getting paid two hundo to stand around looking mean. I figured some kind of drug deal, but I don't ask questions. I'm good at that, good at looking mean, good at not asking questions. The client was a twitchy little thing, short and wiry and always in motion, never gracefully. He called himself Stan. I don't check ID. It took a lot of talk to convince him to let me hold the suitcase with the money in it. Normally I'd have just taken it off him to show how easy that was, but, well. Some people have a smell to them. He had one that said he's carrying a knife that he'll pull out any minute, and I didn't want to have to hurt him taking it away too. Also, even an idiot can get lucky in a knife fight. So I had to go the hard way, use my words. So I was holding the cash. The other guy, street name of Luke-Luke, he had the goods. I didn't know him, but he had a decent rep. Sorta semi-connected with the Kings. He had his own muscle. Big guys, but not as big as me. One of them I recognized, was the bouncer at Lucy's. The other one I didn't know. Young. Nervous. Aware of his weapon in an obvious way. There shouldn't be any need for violence, but nobody trusts nobody these days. At least I was pretty sure nobody here was a cop, but in almost half of these transactions one side brings a bag of bricks or a stack of newspaper with a twenty on top. Sometimes it's both. So you've gotta check everything carefully unless you have a trusting relationship. And by trusting I mean one guy knows where the other one sleeps and the other is on complaining terms with the first guy's boss. You gotta have a mutually assured world-of-hurt thing going, and we sure didn't. So we checked it out. Stan was satisfied. The kid gave the cash a quick riffle and count. We were ready to part ways amicable and all when the poo poo started. First thing I saw was Luke-Luke's guys going down, the kid collapsing right there, the bouncer thrashing around a bit. Then I felt it myself, a couple stings, an electrical burn. Stun gun. Now, a couple things. First, I'm bigger than most people. I dress nice, dress slimming, so sometimes it's not obvious just how much meat and gristle I've got around these already big bones. Your standard setting isn't up to taking a guy my size out of a fight, even disregarding the other thing, which is that back when I was a kid I used to take bets on how long I could hold on to the rabbit fence at the Geller farm, and I never lost. Not to say it didn't hurt. It hurt like hell. But not more than I could take. I ripped the leads out of my chest and threw them on to the ground. There were three of them in the stickup gang. And just because they had stun guns didn't mean they had something meaner as a backup. They didn't look like much though. More than anything else they looked like a bunch of nerds. I could have drawn down, but I wasn't getting paid near enough to kill anyone, even fools like that. Not if I didn't have to. Three on three, except Stan was worse than useless and Luke-Luke didn't look much better in a fight. I had options. Could have let it all go, talk Stan and Luke-Luke into giving it all up. It wouldn't have been a tough sell, and if I thought these guys were cold killers it's what I'd have done. Could have walked away. Someone close to one side or the other must have let something slip for these clowns to have found us. Probably Stan. But I didn't. I charged, right at two of them, right down the middle. They didn't get it right away, not until I spread my arms out. I've got a lot of span when I do that. You can do some damage that way. Knock people on their rear end, maybe even on their heads. But that's only someone who stands their ground, and these guys didn't have it in them. They ran, even the one that was behind my back. Which was fine by me. Everyone gets to be happy but us muscle who had to eat a thousand volts or so, and we all at least got paid.
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Nov 22, 2021 07:03
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Barricade 798 words Prompt: Defense, Cornerback Phillip stood bathed in the solitary light of the open refrigerator, its low whine whirling around his skull like a serrated pinball. He stared with blood-blown eyes at the bottle of vanilla extract, at its three mahogany beans suspended in sweet, noxious grain alcohol. He grabbed the bottle and readied himself for a solid, skull-rattling slug. The kitchen lights flipped on. His father stood at the foot of the stairs looking rumpled, half-asleep, and completely, utterly defeated. Roger’s voice was low, bleary. “Aw, Phillip. Not again. What the poo poo are you doing?” Phillip considered spinning a desperate alcoholic confabulation: that he was planning on baking a surprise cake the next day, or, even better, that he liked the brand of vanilla extract so much that he just had to creep down to the refrigerator in the dead of night, hands shaking like a leaf in a hailstorm, to make note of it so he could buy some later, for some absolutely mendacious future cake. They were calculated, archetypal addict lies: brutally unbelievable and reliant entirely on the blind eye of piteous sentimentality. His voice came out jagged and pitchy. “Oh, dad! I, uh-” Roger softly cut him off, exasperated. “Just...just stop. What, you were going to bake me a cake? Come on, Phillip. Can we talk?” The old man rubbed his chin and continued. “Besides, you tried that one last time. It’s condescending enough, trying it once. Let’s go to the den.” Phillip’s mouth moved pneumatically, wordless. The old man noted his son’s deathgrip on the bottle of extract. “Jesus Christ, Philly. Leave the fuckin’ vanilla.” The pair walked down to the cramped den. Phillip crashed onto an overstuffed recliner. His father moved to a cherrywood cabinet against the far wall. Roger withdrew a bottle of Old Commodore from the cabinet and held it to the halogen light overhead, studying a near-imperceptible pen mark right at the interface of clear glass and booze meniscus. He turned to Phillip, glowering. “What, didja refill it with water like last time? So when we get company and I make cocktails, I have to put together some bullshit lie about how the gin went bad, like there’s anyone who thinks that gin goes bad? Huh?” Phillip sank into the recliner. The den lights were rapidly accumulating those little astigmatic halos that heralded full-on withdrawal convulsions. He tried in vain to calm his jittering vocal cords. “N-No. I-I-I didn’t touch it. And, uh, I’m s-s-sorry about the last time.” The young man was fully shaking now, his brain sparking like an overcharged transformer. Roger grimaced and walked to the recliner. He held the bottle of Old Commodore out to his son. “Just drink it, level yourself out. Don’t have a fuckin’ seizure on my recliner.” Phillip snatched the bottle and went voraciously for the cap, his hands wavering and jumping and utterly failing to remove it. Roger hesitated a moment, watching the liquor slosh back and forth with the residual momentum of his son’s tremulous effort. He cursed under his breath then hastily unscrewed the cap and thrust the bottle into his son’s hands. Eons beyond shame, Phillip chugged. The gin snaked a molten path to his stomach, laying like a white ember before he was suffused with its merciful, neuron-tranquilizing heat. Hands momentarily stilled, Phillip drummed his fingers on the arm of the recliner as he tried and failed to get the bottle of vanilla extract out of his head. Roger plopped down in a chair opposite his son. He sat deep in consideration for a few seconds, studying his son’s obvious jonesing, before breaking the silence. “I talked to your mother about all this poo poo before I came downstairs, you know? She wants to cut you off, says that she’s done. She says you don’t learn, or maybe you won’t, that you’ve hosed up too many times for me to keep trying to stop a bottle from sailing into your hands. It hurts her too much, watching you do this to yourself.” Roger paused to regard the empty Commodore before looking back to his son. He spoke in a mournful near-whisper. “I love you, Philly. Maybe too much. Maybe that’s what hosed everything up.” Phillip broke from his reverie with a plaintive reply, almost a refrain after all this time. “It’s not your fault, dad. I mean, I’m trying. It’s just...it’s hard.” He wanted to say more, that he felt far beyond human aid, that he needed some intangible holy something to jam into his gaping aching ravenous thirst, that- Roger snorted derisively, but caught himself. His expression softened. “Is it that hard to tell your dad that you’re gonna get better, and mean it?” The question seemed to hang, clinging to the air. Phillip tried not to lie.
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Nov 22, 2021 07:16
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oh yeah I'm a ruck
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Nov 22, 2021 07:29
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Making the Cut Prompt: Defence - Quarterback 795 words In the Before, Djone had been a salesman and, like all salesmen, he sold narratives. He was sipping ‘gasoline gin’ from a chipped mug when the voice of Cygarax the Destroyer threatened to tear his tent from the ground. “Small man! Come! We go trade. King Magnus wants bullets!” Djone sighed, threw back the rest of his drink and scurried out into the blinding wasteland sunshine. Seven feet of muscle, tattoos, and piercings stared down at him. “Sounds good, big guy,” Djone said. “Yes!” Cygarax bellowed. “I am a big guy! I am the biggest guy!” The car trailed black smoke across the Bloodlands. The spiked iron plates adorning its sides rattled and clanked against rows of tusks and horns. After three hours of silent driving, Cygarax let loose a scream of... something. His voice echoed back and forth throughout the canyon. “Thank you for that,” Djone sighed. Cygarax gave a grin filled with teeth that had been filed to points. The border of their territory, the point where their Bloodlands became the Bonelands, was marked by a metal spire that climbed into the pulsing sky. Cygarax pulled to a stop. “And what are you going to do?” Djone asked him. Cygarax rolled his eyes. One pupil continued climbing until it rolled back into his skull. “Cygarax not stupid!” Djone held his hands up in apology and flashed a winning smile. “Baby, I get it, I know. You and me, we’re the smart ones, right? Just wanted to check you understand how important it is that you stay here.” “Cygarax stay here.” “Because?” Cygarax groaned like a petulant teenager and slammed one fist into the human pelvis that served as a steering wheel. “Because only Djone can enter Bonelands so Cygarax stay in Destroycar, not move until you come back! Djone happy?!” “Atta boy,” Djone shot him finger guns. It was a superb grift, really. Two tribes with every reason to war. Djone, the only bridge between them. Little Djone. He’d been the first to come across the agents of The Lord of Bone and as he stammered his way through a conversation with a gun to his forehead, the old salesman instinct had kicked in. The Blood Warriors were under the impression that Djone had some divine right to pass back and forth as an ambassador to the terribly powerful wizards of Bonelands. The Bone Crushers were operating under the belief that The Blood Warriors had been overtaken by a terrible plague to which only Djone was immune. Each had their territory and very valid reasons to stay away from one another. And Djone? In every trade, Djone kept a cut. A very good cut. A very good, VERY secret cut. A swollen bovine creature walking on giraffe legs was suddenly swallowed by the sand as some subterranean turtle or mole or shark attacked. Djone hated the wasteland. He missed cities and money and cocaine and airmiles. “It will be worth it,” he told himself. Bonetown was empty. Abandoned. There was evidence of the tribe – prints in the sand, scraps, bones and metal, spent bullet casings, broken glass– but no tribe. “poo poo,” Djone hissed. “Where’s the bullets?” Cygarax asked him when he finally returned. “No bullets. No more Bone Crushers. Must have killed themselves with their terrible magic.” Cygarax stared sceptically out over the desert for a while, then nodded. Made sense. His grift now seemingly over, they tore back across the desert. He wondered whether he would ever be able to pull it off again, whether they’d meet another tribe and he could position himself in that same unique role. He slept, a leather hat pulled down over his head and the sun bathing his arms. When he awoke, Bloodtown was ahead. The Bone Crushers stood in the centre of the tents and huts, but there was no war. Instead, King Magnus and The Lord of Bone stood surrounded by their respective armies. Above them hung three bodies from makeshift gallows. A considerable chunk of his VERY secret cut lay scattered across the ground. Djone recognized the bloated, purple faces of those he had paid to look the other way - others with enough brains and/or sanity left to deduce his story didn’t quite add up. Both kings, both armies, all turned in unison and glared at the approaching vehicle. Uh oh. “Cygarax,” he said. He could hear his voice trembling. Cygarax’s eyes were focused beyond the horizon, dull and floating somewhere beyond the physical universe. “poo poo, poo poo, poo poo, okay, Cygarax we need to turn around right now!” The giant could not hear him. Djone grabbed at his arm and tried to wrench his hands from the wheel. His grip was a vice, his arms were iron. They continued towards Bloodtown.
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Nov 22, 2021 08:25
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the ref blows the whistle, the game is over. submissions are closed, but everybody has posted. no failures! the refs huddle up to deliberate. each player from the winning team will get a week 485 trophy. good luck! 
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Nov 22, 2021 09:06
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Football week results Well first the good news, nobody failed! Good for you, nobody left their team high and dry. Team Fart picked the advantageous matchups that would help them win, then got utterly face stomped. The only person to play well on their team WASN'T EVEN PLAYING THE SAME SPORT. I would not want to be in your locker room after this defeat. Eek.  So team Titan Kazaks wins easily. PM me your addresses so I can send you your trophies. But thunderdome isn't a team sport, really, so let's hand out the real awards. The loss goes to Albatrossy_Rodent for a story that had all the judges asking "why?" No DMs this week. Three stories stood out to us this week, each with their own strengths and weaknesses. Chairchucker's story started off in a not very chuckeresque fashion, but then got wackier. We all thought it was fun to read. HM. Carl Killer Miller's story was the most well written and polished, and we all thought it was nice to look at. HM. Voodoofly's story was the most satisfying and complete. It's like after a bunch of high wordcount weeks, everybody forgot how to write flash fiction. The best flash fiction story wins the flash fiction contest. Congrats Voodoofly. Pormpt. crabrock fucked around with this message at 05:19 on Nov 23, 2021 |
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Nov 23, 2021 05:15
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 to have crits done by 11:59 PM PST of 11/23
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Nov 23, 2021 06:04
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 Week 486: I want my MTD! Good morning, my future Flash Jockeys, welcome to your first day interning at MusicThunderDome! Here at MTD we strive to provide nothing but quality Music Flash 24 hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year (February 29th is a myth made up by VTD1). Normally we would try to ease you in, but honestly it’s been a bit of a mess around here lately. The FJs are overworked, the Music Flash is underwritten, and without your help, we just can’t see MTD surviving the fall season. So, please, find your desk, put on your headphones, and get writing. Pick a song, a song you love, and get us some Music Flash for it. Something inspired, something that will make us appreciate the song the way you do. It doesn’t have to be literal; if some instrumental makes you imagine seagulls sailing through the clouds, then go with it. Give us 1,000 words. If you can link to the song in some fashion, we would appreciate it (youtube is great, but anything helps). Make us proud. Save our station! *****  Ok, I see that some of you are a little more savvy than your fellow FJs-to-be. Yes, we want their Music Flash, but you all know how this business really works. If you want your own show some day, you need to grease the wheels. Our existing FJs might be overwhelmed, but they still have their ego, and want to be able to sound knowledgeable and hip when they flip the audience to your new Music Flash. They love options. As such, if you want to provide 3-5 song links, along with very brief pitch on why those songs would make a great Music Flash, then one of our FJs will pick the song and pitch they like best and put in their feature spot, netting you an 1,500 words. Hurry now, get those pitches in! *****  Oh, some of you are still here. Fine, for you truly ambitious suck-ups, we have a special proposal. Three of our best, most overworked FJs need help, and they need help now! They are getting pressure from some of their most trusted artists, and need to get those artist’s songs playing as soon as possible. So, if you really want to help us out, pick one of the three FJs you want to help, and we will provide you with three songs that those FJs are dying to get on the air. You can choose any song the FJ provides, and you will get 2,000 words for helping us out so much. The FJs in need are: FJ Moog, hosting Sax-O-Synth-O-Magic FJ Technics, hosting Beats & Rhymes FJ DOA, hosting Attitude and Amplifiers Choose fast, those FJs are anxious to keep their artists happy! *****  What, why are some of you still here? No, that’s it. There isn’t some special ultimate option for you. All of our shows have been covered except FJ HellReign’s Midnight Massacre, and trust us, you don’t want anything to do with FJ HellReign. You do want something to do with FJ HellReign? It’s your choice, but don’t say we didn’t warn you. If you are willing to head down in the stacks, FJ HellReign will give you one song, probably something most people will hate, possibly something FJ HellReign hellself hates, and you will get 3,000 words to come up with your Music Flash. Why would you pick this? You will regret this! *****  Recap: You pick the song: 1,000 words You give us 3-5 songs and a brief pitch for each, we pick one: 1,500 words You pick one of the three FJs, we provide you three songs, you pick one: 2,000 words HELLREIGN: one song, 3,000 words, utter respect Sign up deadline: 9:00 AM PST, Saturday, November 27th Submission deadline: 11:59 PM PST, Sunday, November 28th Rules: standard stuff from the OP Songs: please provide links so everyone can listen Judges: Voodoofly rohan weltlich Entrants: SurreptitiousMuffin: Self pick // Stick & Poke - Teeth on a String crabrock: FJ HellReign selection // Gulch - Sin In My Heart Idle Amalgam: Self pick // Homeshake - Under the Weather Carl Killer Miller: FJ HellReign selection // Soul Glo - (Quietly) Do The Right Thing Captain_Indigo: FJ HellReign selection // Jlin - Carbon 7 Chili: Self pick // Brad Mehldau - When It Rains The man called M: FJ Moog selection // Berlin - The Metro Thranguy: FJ DOA selection // Sailor Viy: FJ Technics selection // Peggy Gou - Starry Night Flesnolk: FJ HellReign selection // Actress - Jardin Amars: Self pick // The Starlight Mints - Eyes of the Night Tyrannosaurus: FJ DOA selection // Voodoofly fucked around with this message at 23:26 on Nov 29, 2021 |
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Nov 23, 2021 08:37
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Yeah why not, in for 1k with Teeth on a String.
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Nov 23, 2021 10:56
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In give me hellreign but I'm not using all 3k words
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Nov 23, 2021 11:22
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In Homeshake - Half Asleep After the Movies
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Nov 23, 2021 17:20
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In, Hellreign thing
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Nov 23, 2021 17:26
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I'll go for a Hellreign too.
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Nov 23, 2021 17:30
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crabrock posted:In give me hellreign but I'm not using all 3k words  FJ HellReign blesses the first with recently deceased Bay Area hardcore heroes Gulch, and their Siouxsie cover "Sin In My Heart" Carl Killer Miller posted:In, Hellreign thing  FJ HellReign smiles upon you, granting D.C.'s atomic banshees Soul Glo, and their song "(Quietly) Do the Right Thing" Captain_Indigo posted:I'll go for a Hellreign too.  FJ HellReign's generosity shines brightly, providing Gary, Indiana's experimental genius Jlin, and her song "Carbon 7"
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Nov 23, 2021 19:18
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In with Brad Mehldau's When It Rains https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a8XRdY-JQnA
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Nov 23, 2021 19:24
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Crits for Week #485 This week i’ll make note of if you met the “struggle” theme adequately and if I can see the inspiration in your football position. The latter didn’t count for anything, however you got inspiration from it is fine. flerp - needlessly depressing story i wrote on my phone because i forgot i was going to yosemite whoops sorry not sorry: Struggle: yes Football position: unsure of link Fake it til you make it, i.e. don’t tell me you didn’t try hard on something. That sets a low expectation right away and biases how i read it. You’re at the level now where you can poo poo something out pretty quickly and it’ll be better than most other people, so just roll with it. Think of it as “raw and unfiltered” rather than “rushed and unproofed.” This starts off pretty good, but it’s a bit one-dimensional. It spends way too much time on the “gently caress you dad!” and then getting lost in the dad-waters metaphor much too long. This feels like the setup for a story you didn’t tell, the inciting incident for the background of a character. At the end of it i’m not sure what this dude’s prognosis is. Like it doesn’t seem like he accomplished much if he still hears his dad and still gets angry at it and maybe might still try to kill himself. I liked the early interplay between the dad’s voice and the character’s in his head as he sets stuff up. I felt like that could have been longer, that conflict between the dad and the son whether he’s gonna do it. Afterwards you basically repeat the same thing over and over, “the voice is quieter but still there and i still fight with it kinda,” so it fails to capture the same interest as the beginning when the dad’s voice has a “purpose” rather than just being nagging. Voodoofly - The Domestique: Struggle: yes Football position: yes This is pretty neat and tidy, a story in single serving. Overall it’s a bit dry at times, it feels distant from the action even though Jos is right in the middle of it. It lacks urgency. I feel like Jos never really wrestles with the fact that they’re set up to not win. That’s an interesting struggle that you kind of gloss over instead of explore. You could pepper in their disappointment a bit more through the beginning to really drive it home how much they really wish they were winning instead. Sometimes the they/their stuff can get confusing when you’re switching between a singular person and a group of people. This is an inherit downside to the “they” pronoun used as a singular and I really wish we as a society had come up with a better alternative for a non-binary pronoun, so thanks a lot, society/English. The solution is probably to use it for one or the other and use a more clunky alternative to the group instead of “they/them” etc. You have a bit of a checkov’s bike chain where you describe the chain slipping, and you think that’s going to be the issue, then BAM everybody crashes and it’s not an issue anymore. Cut that paragraph and use the words to describe Jos’s feelings I mentioned earlier instead. Overall you could cut down on some of the jargon probably, although it does lend a certain flavor to the piece. This story works because it’s very straight forward, it’s a series of actions described. It’s hemingwayesque in the short, simple sentences, and I think it’s a good illustration of learning to walk before you can run. Also it was a complete story in 800 words, feels like you used them more efficiently than others this week. Flash fiction is hard, so bravo on fitting a ton of detail into this piece. Chairchucker - One of a Kind: Struggle: yes “Football” position: not sure This story starts off really strong. That kind of meandering confusion and awkwardness of like “how long do i let this dude choke me, and how do i get out of it without murder or revealing who i am” sets up a nice quandary. I liked that part. I felt like you could have stayed in that a little bit longer. The reveal of the guy being a “synth” as well was a nice touch, I wasn’t expecting it to go that way. The convo where you reveal they’re much different people is good showing. There are a few too many cutesy asides (which i know is your thing) but too much of a good thing isn’t great. Ice cream is delicious but if somebody expected me to eat 10 bowls i’d be less than thrilled about it. I think that you could tighten up your writing a lot by editing out some of your silly little self questions/thoughts. Write them all and then keep a few of the best ones. Leave the others on the cutting room floor, and you’d probably win more. Albatrossy_Rodent - , because hellborne space-wasps are people too, drat it!: Struggle: not really? Football position: not sure This starts off with a meh cliche scenario of somebody pitching something unpopular to the president. I don’t know who this dude is or how he got this audience, so it’s hard to care. Then it’s basically a running joke with the name sounds. This dude has all these recommendations and logic, but i don’t know who he is (or even what species?) and what his stake/motivations are. Why is he driven to do this? He’s making a case here, but i wouldn’t really classify this as a “struggle.” it’s a longshot pitch, but he’s not really internally wrestling with the fact that he’s making this recommendation. I don’t know what he’s losing. He talks about what the president would lose, but only briefly mentions he likes the president’s kid too. Since we never hear a response from the president, it’s not a struggle, it’s a monolog. The seeds of an interesting quandary are here: a guy has to go try and convince a leader to destroy his own planet for the sake of the galaxy or whatever. He wrestles with this because he doesn’t want to see everything destroyed, but knows it’ll get destroyed anyway. But his family! In pain! Kinda like a sci-fi sophie’s choice. Instead here you have the guy already made up his mind and just lays out his case in a very dry, boring way. It’s super telly and the joke runs way too long and is less amusing than you think it is. It’s hard to take something seriously that ends with a guy clearing his throat to make a correct pronunciation. That’s the punchline. The whole reason for the story existing. It’s not worth it. Why did you write this? Did you want to explore some of the themes in it? Because you didn’t really do that, you just wrote a joke. I want you to focus on thinking about why you’re telling stories and what exactly do you want to communicate to other people? If it’s jokes, you need to have more than one. If it’s complex themes, you should cut down on the jokes. Also this feels a bit like ender’s game and i couldn’t stop thinking about that. The man called M - Memoirs of a Shadow: Struggle: not really? Football position: pretty obviously Why is this son getting a letter if the father is dead but that means he DIDN’T fail? Presumably that means he died of… old age? Or died saving the king? Why wouldn’t the king or somebody important just deliver the news? What’s a “sort of assassin?” you said the king was a strategic mastermind so nobody died “in the battlefield?” that seems very odd. When you write stuff like “why do I need glory and riches? (To be fair, I did receive some riches.” it REEKS of “i, the author, wrote this line, then realized it was a little unrealistic, and then instead of just deleting it and rewriting a better line i just tried to justify it.” instead, delete it and combine the two thoughts: “Though I was compensated with secret riches, my true reward was coming home every night to you and your mother.” “ I never seen you grow” is awful grammar. Overall this story is just… pointless? It’s literally a dude telling his son that he was pretty good at his job but also very humble. What am i supposed to get out of it? I don’t get to see any action or learn any of the cool stuff with the “sort of assassinations”, i don’t get to see a father’s love or a family’s sadness over losing him, i don’t get to see a king’s appreciation or a kingdom’s feeling of security and safety because of his actions. Just a dude saying “yeah my 401k is pretty decent.” why the hell does the son get to just got get the same job, not knowing anything about either of these characters? Are genes immutable or something? I know some pretty cool people with absolutely lovely children, and vice versa. It’s a weird conclusion that you haven’t set up at all. You don’t even mention the dad training him or anything. Like your last story i judged, i just don’t get why this thing exists? Why did you write this and make me read it? are you sort of trying to assassinate me through boring me to death? derp - two dreams: Struggle: oh yeah Football position: not really I wanted to like this more than i did. Maybe cause i have a lot of social anxiety so i wanted to feel for the character. But it’s just the same thing over and over and over. Imagine saying something. Don’t say it. ad naseum. I literally started skimming your italics parts because i realized it was just the same thing over and over. When you have a reader saying “yeah yeah yeah, get on with it,” that’s not good. Halfway through i was like “ugh, she’s just going to say it isn’t she?” and then she did and i fell on the floor and am dead now. I was a little confused what this “date” was? How many times had they met? Was this a date or just two coworkers grabbing coffee? The imagery is nice. I liked all those parts. I liked how short and to-the-pointedness of them. It felt like “yeah, whatever, nice stuff, gently caress i’m anxious.” it just failed to progress anywhere past that point. Hard to care about the outcome when i know nothing other than one trait of one character. Unlike Voodoofly, this feels like you said almost nothing in 800 words. I thought it was like, only 400 words and was shocked to see that you actually used all of your space. IRL when i feel like i didn’t get a good affirmative that the other person understood what i was saying, i’ll often repeat myself, without prompting, hoping that the other person will be like “oh ok thank you for explaining it in another way.” but mostly it’s just me rambling and repeating myself for nobody’s benefit. That’s kind of what this piece feels like. rohan - This May Affect Your Rating: Struggle: yeah Football position: yeah You got way too many “new concepts” here for this short of a piece. You need to limit the weird scifi stuff and only introduce a few concepts and keep everything else pretty grounded. The wordbuilding is ok here, i was digging it, and the awkwardness of an organic person responding to an AI ship and them being like “please take care of this virus.” but you rapidly went downhill once you were like “lol they’re zombies and we’re playing football!” totally just took your setup and world and held it by the shoulders, looked lovingly in its eyes, and then kneed it in the balls. It’s laying on the ground now looking up and you and mouthing “why” through tears. It feels like you trying to shove the prompt into the story, rather than letting the story fit. I said DON’T WRITE SPORTS so you didn’t need to. You were just supposed to get some inspiration from it. Not literally be like HEY THEY’RE PLAYING FOOTBALL LIKE IN THE PROMPT. This story wouldn’t stand on its own without the prompt, which is never a good thing. Go back and delete everything after the second set of asterisks and tell the story you really wanted to tell. Thranguy - Making Ends Meet: Struggle: yeah Football position: a little too obviously! This is a perfectly serviceable “big muscle guy stands around and provides protection for a deal” trope, but doesn’t really do anything other than that. There are some glimpses into his thoughts that border on interesting, but overall it’s just him telling us why he’s good at his job. Then a deal happens and a backstab and he beats some dudes up/scares them away and then it’s done. This would be an ok scene in a longer work, but by itself it’s pretty meh. Carl Killer Miller - Barricade: Struggle: yeah Football position: yeah You got some pretty words and good descriptions to set up this relationship that… goes nowhere really. I like how you captured the essence of the cornerback here, lol. Probably the best football inspiration of the week IMO. but a football play resolves. The CB either defends the pass or they don’t. They don’t blow the whistle mid play and then leave the field. That’s what your story does. It doesn’t really land anywhere, it just ends. That kneecapped you hard. I also spent a lot of time thinking about the three beans he was looking at in the vanilla. Because you didn’t specify they were vanilla beans i was thinking there were like 3 kidney beans just floating in there. I’ve never bought extract that still has beans in it. It’s always extract OR beans that i use in stuff. I’m sure some fancy version out there leaves some beans in, but i’ve never seen it and that’s not my first thought. Anyway, that’s a lot of words to say i was confused because i’m not fancy. Other than that it’s good and fine and i liked it and wish the ending was better, but oh well. I feel like you captured this family’s frustration with their lovely son pretty well without just saying HE’S A BAD SON Y’ALL! Captain_Indigo - Making the Cut: Struggle: eh, not really football position: yeah This has some good worldbuilding in it (i was confused at first about the similarity of bloodlands/bonelands and thought you’d typoed, so maybe come up with slightly different names next time). But overall what you have here is a guy telling a story on a drive. He drives there, and drives back. He tells a bunch of stuff, but you don’t SHOW anything. All the fun stuff is in a different place and time. To tell this story in an interesting way you’d need more than 800 words. Part of flash fiction is defining a tellable story. You can’t get away with this sprawling, massive world with multiple tribes and their relationships and whatnot AND tell a cool story in that world in 800 words without being Really loving Good. so while this story and world is interesting and charming, and all of us judges would have loved to read more of this, you’re hamstringed by the fact that you didn’t have any space to let us see this guy at work, witness all the fun stuff and the ins and outs of being a post-apocalyptic conman working his marks. And that’s a real shame for all of us.
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Nov 23, 2021 19:34
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In. I’d like FC Moog to give me choices.
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Nov 23, 2021 20:01
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The man called M posted:In. I’d like FC Moog to give me choices. FJ Moog is in urgent need for some quality Music Flash for these three highly requested songs:  Berlin: "The Metro"  Nation of Language: "On Division St."  INXS: "Never Tear Us Apart" Voodoofly fucked around with this message at 20:18 on Nov 23, 2021 |
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Nov 23, 2021 20:16
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Mr Moog, (is it okay if I call you that?) I would like Riding on the Metro, please.
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Nov 23, 2021 22:00
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In, help me out DJ DOA
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Nov 23, 2021 22:58
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Crits for Week #485 Part 1 flerp - needlessly depressing story i wrote on my phone because i forgot i was going to yosemite whoops sorry not sorry: Synopsis: Kid tries to kill themself to spite their dad, doesn’t manage to do it but also tells Dad-voice in their head to gently caress off, thereby asserting agency for possibly the first time. I’m going to forgive you for not really writing a story this week, because by the title, yeah, fair. This isn’t a bad concept by any means, and I think given more words and more time you could do something cool with this, but otherwise it’s just kind of a placeholder entry. But it’s still far better than rolling in your own poop like your opponent did this week, so you win your brawl! Hooray! Voodoofly - The Domestique: Synopsis: Biker is assigned as Team Support the day of the big race, but through a turn of fortune winds up being one of the only ones to finish, thereby saving the day and actually getting their day in the sun. Man, I was really not on board with your opening; between the jargon and the confusion over who/what ‘they’ was referring to, this was not a strong opening. But you know what, you won me over. This was definitely the one that I liked the most this week, even if it has its flaws. Your word count could have been better spent on emotion and impressions, rather than the actions and mechanical descriptions that you seem to favor, but there’s a solid little kernel here, and goddamnit you actually wrote an ending, so good job. Chairchucker - One of a Kind: Synopsis: Artificial human meets local serial killer, realizes said killer is also an artificial human, then kills him and decides to destroy her creators. This is another one that I think is a really cool idea that didn’t get utilized to its full potential. You imply that MC started walking in sketchy areas because of the strangler, but also that she wasn’t trying to run into him, which makes it all seem kind of pointless? Plus the fact that we know that she was never in danger at all gives it low-to-no stakes. The reveal that the killer was also an artificial human was a cool twist, but I think I would have liked a little more interaction between them (which I recognize would have been very hard to do with 800 words), and also a little more insight into the MC. Her decision at the end of the story to destroy the makers seems really arbitrary as written, even though it’s a dramatic one. If this had a little more oomph, it could have been the winner this week. Albatrossy_Rodent - , because hellborne space-wasps are people too, drat it!: Synopsis: Unidentified narrator argues that the president of Earth should allow their own planet to be destroyed, in order to spare the planet of space wasps, Earth's allies. I had an acquaintance in high school who did model UN, and loved to tell a story about how he once got a (fake) international coalition to support the case for eating babies. That’s what this reminded me of; an weird (and edgy) idea that gets riffed into an extended one-note joke that just exists to display said weird idea. Actually, no, that’s not fair; there’s also the (noise description) joke, but that also goes on too long and doesn’t do much to alleviate the boredom. If you want to fix this (and I do think that there’s something here, so it’s not a total wash), it needs to be more than A Modest Proposal But About Earth. More action, more emotion, some characters with actual traits and descriptions, some actual stakes that look like they could go either way, you have to give your reader something to hang onto outside of just ‘the ethical thing to do is blow the earth up, lol.’ Or at the very least, show that this was a hard decision. Something. The man called M - Memoirs of a Shadow: Synopsis: Some guy did a bunch of shady stuff for king and country, writes to his (possibly estranged?) kid about his job after he dies, there is a dinosaur pregnancy “joke” (which I’m told is your gimmick), and I guess the kid maybe can join in on the shady stuff despite not having any training or knowledge of anything that their dad actually did. Okay, I have a question, and it's going to come off dickish, but I mean this very seriously: do you think this is a good story? Because it comes off like you weren't trying to write a good story. Whether or not that’s true, of course, is only known to you, but that was my conclusion as your reader. So, let's talk about what didn't work about this, shall we? Firstly, there are no stakes. It's not even clear that the father is dead at this point, since we're reading this presumably outside of the perspective of the son. I suppose you could make the case that the opening line specified he must be dead, but here's the thing: it doesn't matter. Why does it matter at all that this guy is dead? I have no reason to care about him, his king, or the kingdom itself. Honestly, they all sound like assholes and possibly war criminals with how you’ve described them here. Your voice and tone here are also super anachronistic; even before the ‘dinosaur pregnancy’ bit (which, honestly, stop -- it has not gotten funnier by dint of repetition) you have some very modern turns of phrase that goes against your backdrop. Unless you meant it to be more modern/scifi? If that’s the case you need to give your reader more hints that this is the case. I suspect, however, you just didn’t think very much about it, which is understandable of a new writer. Anyway, yeah, there’s no reason for me to care about any of this, it’s not particularly novel or interesting, and your voice/tone/humor doesn’t work at all. I know you’ve been asking for a lot of recommendations within the archives, but I might actually suggest seeking out a different source entirely. What kind of things do you like to read? What kind of stories do you want to write? Go find some published stories that match your interests and read them with a critical eye. What works? What doesn’t work? How does the author communicate information about the story? Reading will make you a better writer, and help you research what’s out there in the genre you’re interested in, and help teach you the basics.
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Nov 23, 2021 23:22
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In, requesting songs from FJ Technics
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Nov 23, 2021 23:22
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