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Jan 6, 2021 03:34
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Childhood best friends, New in town, Heir/Heiress, Flashback, Emotional tone swing Title: Together, Forever Words: 1500 Soleo composed his final letter under great duress. He rested against the cracked backing of his chair and tried to channel his friend Del Moray. A rake, but a scholar, Del Moray was quick-witted in tongue, and moreso when given a pen. In Soleo’s hand was a dip pen made of bone, and he thought more of Del Moray than the subject of the letter. Curling back over his work, he scribbled another line to Lady Carmila. Soleo and Del Moray had scaled the baker’s thatched roof the first morning they laid eyes on Carmila Davore. Previous roof escapades had taught them the baker’s roof was still warm, even on a crisp winter morning like that day was. From that vantage, they were able to see far down the cobblestone road leading into town. A cavalcade of horses, livery and armored guards. The heart of the procession contained, they would later learn, was the Baron Davore, retiring to the countryside. “Why are they so heavily armed,” Del Moray noted. The guard retinue were in full regalia, including helms that covered their faces. “I did not know we lived in the holy land, I could have sold my chicken bones as relics.” “Surely it must be ceremonial, though, I’ve heard rumors of his vast wealth,” Soleo said. “Perhaps to deter bandits or highwaymen.” “Or maybe it is something else.” Del Moray could barely muster the words as he saw who accompanied the main carriage. A beautiful visage, long and straight upon her steed, her flowing hair caught the wind and she waved her welcome to the gathered crowd of townsfolk. Del Moray had a devilish glint in his eye. Soleo did not know why, or how to express it even to himself, but he knew at that moment, nothing would be the same again. When Carmila sent for Soleo, he could not believe the messenger’s words. Every suitor in town had been clawing for the attention of Lady Carmila, Soleo among them. But he had nothing, he felt; he was not handsome or clever, nor rich or educated. Del Moray had wit and charm, Soleo thought. They had not spoken as friends in many weeks, only pleasantries as rivals in love. This hole had been a constant ache for Soleo, and he had even retired his efforts towards Lady Carmila so as to hang onto at least something near to his heart. He sunk onto his desk chair. The missive requested audience that very evening at the Davore estate. Suddenly, a knock came at his window. It was Del Moray. “Will you come see me, up on the hill tonight?” Instead he said nothing, and Del Moray left. Soleo took a deep breath, heavy in his lungs, and he began to compose his response to Lady Carmila. They met upon a hill they once would sled down as children in the winter, and occasionally when they shirked their work in their adolescence, even into their manhood. A somber greeting between them, and Del Moray offered a second wine skin. “Hold onto yours, I have brought my own, but we may need it still,” Soleo said. They sat watching the sunset. “Do you remember when you sawed the leg off the abbey chair just so, when fat, old Friar Bowman sat, it collapsed in a heap?” Del Moray chuckled. “And when they dragged me by the ear to the square, you lied and said we had been stealing apples from Granny Mayfield’s orchard?” “They would have surely known if I said we were up to no mischief, and I knew the paddling we would get for the apples would be far less than the alternative!” The laughed together, drinking their wine and reminiscing of days long by, and the sun had fully fallen and a chill had set upon the grass. “Soleo, I have a confession,” Del Moray said. Soleo took the wine skin from his lips, as though he were able to listen better that way. “I have been an awful friend to you, and for reasons of my own doing!” The admission felt like the first thaw of a frozen lake, children throwing heavy stones through the fragile top layer. “I know you have won the heart of Lady Carmila, and it has pained me so,” Del Moray said. “Ha, Del Moray, how on Earth could you imagine such a turn of fates?” “Quiet, Soleo, your own double-edged tongue wounds me as it wounds you. Lady Carmila herself told me, earlier than not, and she has pried me for you! But I had fallen for her, so heavily, Soleo. I could not bare to lose both you and her, and thus I tried to scuttle you upon the jagged shores of my own heartbreak. Soleo, forgive, Soleo!” The two friends embraced, sobbing drunkenly into each other’s shoulders as they swayed back and forth. Soleo stepped backwards to brace himself, but his boot struck an unfortunate root, and he began to teeter backwards. Del Moray instinctively tried to dive to rescue the falling Soleo, but that only added to the momentum as they spilled down the hill. Only when they reached the bottom could they disentangle, cackling like children again for the first time since their wooing of Lady Carmila began. “Do not worry Del Moray, we will be together, forever,” Soleo said, his eyes already closed, but by then Del Moray had passed out. Soleo woke from his stupor to the smell of smoke. The headache that followed was unrelated. Del Moray still lay snoring in the grass, his shirt somehow turned backwards sometime over the night. “Wake yourself, you drunken lout,” Soleo said. As Del Moray roused himself, Soleo sprang to his feet, and gingerly clambered the hill they had fallen down the night before. Billowing plumes of smoke rose from the village. The two men raced into the chaos, ready to help but before they could even assess the damage, they were knocked to their seats by men with rifles. In the square, a cadre of armed Davore guards had separated the women and children from the men of the village. On a makeshift dais, Baron Davore sat, and to his side stood Carmila. Soleo could not hear her words, but he understood she was in command. Her arms moved like a conductor, her men carrying out her whims with brutal efficiency. Her icy smile froze Soleo’s heart when she noticed the two being pushed closer toward the dais. Del Moray had venom in his eyes. “What is the meaning of this Carmila?” Soleo shouted. “Oh Soleo, my poor Soleo. As dumb as you are sweet. Del Moray, did you truly think your little scheme was going to work? To get to my father, through my heart?” Soleo saw for the first time the practically catatonic Baron Davore. A stupefied codger, spittle dribbling down his wrinkled chin. An unintelligible moan escaped his lips, and Carmila leaned in. “What’s that father? This town is full of treasonous spies? Of course, it is so clear now. Your exalted wisdom is truer than any arrow! Do you hear that men? My father orders you to execute every man to the tenth for this insurrection! Starting, with him,” Carmila said pointing to Del Moray. “No you can’t!” Soleo shouted, but was met with a rifle-stock to the gut, knocking the wind out of him. He was dragged by his feet out of the town square, where he was beaten with boots and fists. The darkness around his eyes had not grown deep enough to cloud his ears, where he heard the sporadic gunshots and wailing of the townsfolk. When Soleo awoke he was in chains on a moldering straw bed. After several days of malnourishment and squalid conditions, an advisor came to him with sheets of paper and a dip pen. The implication was loud and clear that Carmila still craved the adoration that he and Del Moray had heaped upon her in their fugue. Soleo stared at the dip pen made of bone and dragged it along the length of his forearm. He emptied the ink well, and collected blood. Before long the words flowed from the bone of his dear Del Moray and onto the page. And so Soleo toiled, a litany of vulgarity and obscenity, page upon page, a manifesto took shape. If he were to be squeezed like a common orange, to become a discarded husk, Soleo reveled his last act of autonomy. Were Carmila to read these while he still lived, he was sure that the punishment would not be met upon him, but on his family, what may remain of them. With the last page of manuscript expended, he turned the pen backward, clutched in weak and shaking hands. He found not the strength to finish the act, and he took one final satisfaction with his rationing. The bone pen fell from his hand, but Soleo did not hear the hollow clatter that followed.
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Jan 11, 2021 05:39
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Jan 12, 2021 18:00
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Hummingbird Wish Me Luck Words: 900 Rudy was watching a hummingbird at his balcony feeder when the paramedics came. He saw them, not from the balcony, but inside, on a wingback chair he dragged across the room. He had been afraid, lately, to go out onto the balcony, out into the world. He did not wonder who they came for, as he heard them stomp up the stairs to the landing in front of his apartment. The only other apartment on the second floor was his neighbor, Jim, a man in his early 60s. He heard the knocks on Jim’s door, and they did not wait for an answer as they let themselves in. The door had been unlocked, which was unlike Jim, who always had to unchain his door, even before the pandemic. Rudy felt scared. They lived in a four-plex, though they were responsible for the bulk of the communal chores, Jim himself doing more than Rudy. They took turns taking the dumpsters to the curb, watering the plants, or changing foyer lightbulbs. While Rudy was annoyed that the other tenants were unreliable, Jim did not mind. Kept him busy, Jim had told Rudy once. Because he did not really want to do the chores, Rudy created a system for himself to be of help. Rudy would always be on the lookout for when Jim accidentally left his car on the street sweeping side. That he could sometimes remind Jim to avoid a $75 ticket, he felt absolved. Unmoved from his chair, Rudy heard the wheeling of the gurney out onto the landing, and the wheezing moans of discomfort each step the stretcher descended. By the time they had gotten to the walk, and were heading towards the ambulance, the hummingbird had gone, and soon Rudy was left in his chair, looking at nothing. Jim will be fine, he thought to himself. Days passed, and Rudy needed to move his car off the street sweeping side. A task he did anxiously, and only in the late hours. On his way back inside, he noticed Jim’s car had still not been moved, but thought surely in the morning Jim would move it before street sweeping. The morning came, and Rudy could see the blue sedan from his window. Nervously, he double layered his mask and stepped out onto the apartment landing. There was no answer to his knocks, and he watched the parking enforcement write a ticket that morning. After that, Rudy also grew sick, and more tickets piled up and hummingbirds flitted about a bone-dry feeder. He felt powerless to refill it, despite the simplicity; four parts water, one part sugar. The feeder had been a gift from his late parents, and a source of minor guilt that he had never set it up and taken photos for them before they passed. Of all the things he felt he had not done enough in their later years, the hummingbird feeder was low on the list, but latent, nonetheless. The only task he felt energy to do was make tea and drink it in his chair. One morning, Jim’s car was gone, though he had heard no sound from his neighbor’s apartment. Jim was gone, and so were the hummingbirds. That the hummingbirds no longer came pained him, but they appeared to finally learn their vessel would not be refilled. The only thing Rudy could do now was make tea and sit in the sun. A method Jim had taught him, was to pour the hot water into the mug first, then sugar to drop the temperature just enough, so when the tea was added next it would not scorch out the flavors or produce any bitter notes. Rudy dropped the sugar into the mug, and then went rooting in his tea tin for the right bag. He was prone to ripping open his boxes of tea and dumping the unmarked sachets into his metal tin. He took a handful of bags and brought them to his nose, to bloodhound out the right flavor. Each one he brought to his nose gave him nothing. Grabbing the entire tin, he buried his nose into the pile and took a deep sniff. Nothing differentiated them from each other, and nothing differentiated them from his own fingers. He let them fall from his hands, and he took a sip of his hot sugar water. Again nothing. He spooned more sugar into the cup, tasted, and continued spoon after spoon. He laughed to himself. He had practically made nectar, but it could not convince his tongue that this was anything but hot water. But the thought struck him, that he was able to do at least one thing still. Retrieving the feeder from the balcony, he poured what would have been his tea into the glass bulb. Returning the feeder upon its hook, Rudy fled inside, slamming the door behind him. He stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do next, and felt foolish standing, looking through the door at the lonely feeder. Exhausted, Rudy sank into his wingback chair and wrapped the blanket around him tighter. The sun shining through the glass warmed him, and a deep breath escaped his lungs. He waited, for what felt like hours, but a hummingbird did not come. As his eyes began to close, an emerald and ruby dart zipped by. Rudy smiled, and drifted off.
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Jan 18, 2021 06:50
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Jan 19, 2021 16:55
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Championships Are Forever Words: 800 In the town of Bethune, South Carolina, Sammy ‘The Clinch’ Banks never had to buy a beer in his life. Sammy didn’t technically remember throwing the go-ahead touchdown into double coverage to beat Camden in the AAA State Championship, but he often watched it at the only bar in Bethune, The Damp Mutt. “The Clinch!” said the old man working the door at The Damp Mutt. Sammy clasped his hand and bumped his chest. Sammy lost his balance and accidentally knocked over the old man’s dip cup, spilling tobacco juice over the doorman’s shoes. “Oh, I’m sorry,” Sammy said. The old man flexed his bicep at Sammy. “Ain’t no thing, Clincher, if I had a nickel for every time I done it myself, I could buy this ding dang bar,” he said. Inside, there were the normal old timers and regulars, but tonight a few more people than he expected. In a corner, his bartender, Reggie sat with a group of men and women. They wore black and were few pitchers deep. Sammy felt he recognized some of them and waved, but as he concentrated his head started to hurt. He shook it off, and sat down at the bar. Reggie came back behind the bar and poured him a beer. They had been pals in high school, but Reggie had moved back to town a few years prior. “Hey Reggie, what’s with the button-up? Special occasion?” A pained look appeared in Reggie’s eyes. “It was my mom’s wake, today,” Reggie said. “Oh god, ah hell, I’m really sorry. You tell me this already?” “Last week, Sammy. It’s okay, I get it, don’t worry about it.” On the television, a grainy VCR recording played the championship that Bethune won. Sammy had his front row seat again for it. A man from the corner Reggie had been out came up to the bar with an empty pint glass. His name was Malcolm, Sammy remembered. They went to high school together. “Reggie, can’t we watch anything other than this poo poo?” “What’s wrong with reliving some glory days, man?” Sammy said. “Glory days? What a pile of poo poo. Those were glory days for you? You remember what you used to call me? Falcolm.” Sammy didn’t remember. “It stood for Fat Malcolm, you loving rear end in a top hat. Glory days all right, and now you sit in this piece of poo poo bar and people buy you drinks because they feel bad you knocked yourself even more stupid than you were before. It sure as poo poo isn’t for glory, it’s because they feel bad for you, it’s pathetic.” Sammy’s gut dropped. His brain went into overdrive trying to remember calling him Falcolm. The fuzziness returned sharp feedback and he winced. His ears started to get hot, and felt nausea taking root in his empty stomach. “I’m-I’m sorry,” Sammy choked out. He tried to maintain his balance as he got up, but his head pounded and all he wanted to do was throw up. “I didn’t mean, I, I –.” Sammy staggered to the bathroom. He splashed water on his face to stop the room from spinning. After gripping the sink until his knuckles turned white, he began to regain his footing and his headache subsided. When he returned, Malcolm had left. Reggie started to say something, but Sammy shook his head and put a few bills on the bar top. On the television at the bar, an all too familiar scene played out. Sammy had seen it hundreds of times, even if he couldn’t remember it. There he was, 20 years ago, third and 8, from the 30 yard line. 30 seconds remained on the clock, no time outs left. Sammy hikes the ball, and Camden blitzes. His tight-end barely chips the linebacker, turns out into the flat and the ball leaves Sammy’s hands. The linebacker crunches into Sammy, his head hits the ground and he doesn’t move. The tight-end breaks for the first down and cuts out of bounds, stopping the clock. Meanwhile, the camera pans back to Sammy, who is still on the ground. Camden calls a time-out to regroup, and they don’t notice the medical staff have run out. Sammy pops up and looks woozy. Sammy waves them off and gathers the offense into a huddle. Camden defense has lined back up and the ref sets the ball. They’re off again, and the pocket collapses around Sammy. He squirts out to the side, two defenders on his tail, and a heave into the end zone, a perfect spiral for the touchdown. And then the defenders, two beefy farm boys each nearly 300 pounds apiece, pancake him into the ground and his head rocks against the grass. The field fills with fans, and Sammy is lost in the sea of people.
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Jan 25, 2021 07:03
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In. Flash.
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Jan 26, 2021 21:12
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A Hunger Words: 1500 Prompt: No more birds Vulture Robinson was a poo poo-sifter who had dreams of flying. He was one of 9 orphans living in Aviary, one of the few autonomous green zones somewhere near what used to be known as Topeka, Kansas. The orphans of Aviary were accustomed to removing seeds from pig poo poo, but Vulture had Bertie duty more often than anyone else. Bertie duty was reserved for those who misbehaved. Vulture rinsed his heavy-duty rubber gloves off near the waste lagoon they cultivated, so not to contaminate the well water. “Don’t fall in!” Vulture shouted at his stepbrother, Falcon. Standing on the edge of the waste lagoon, Falcon wielded a giant wooden spatula that he used to scrape the bottom of the fetid pool. Behind Falcon, a third orphan Hawk, skimmed the wake for detritus they would mix into fertilizer. They both turned and flipped Vulture off and went back to work. A few years older than Vulture, Hawk and Falcon were almost old enough to start being part of the seed caravans headed up by their adoptive father, Papa Robin. In the barn, the group of orphans sat down for supper. Papa Robin read instruction manuals, and Vulture found himself as he usually did, lost in thought staring at an old crop-dusting plane parked in the back. They had kept it in pristine condition, but he had never seen it fly. Instead, they used camels for their caravans to disperse their processed seeds. Sneaking up from behind, Falcon shoved Vulture’s face into his creamed corn bowl. “Don’t fall in,” he taunted. Vulture scraped the corn off his face and flung it at Falcon. The volley sent some of the orphans scrambling to defend themselves from an imminent brawl. “That’s Bertie duty,” Papa Robin said without taking his eyes off his manuals. Vulture stuck his tongue out. “I was referring to you,” Papa Robin said. “I saw you taunting them earlier.” Vulture slumped in defeat and kicked his empty metal bowl across the room. “And that’s night shift on the radio.” That night, Vulture sat in the cockpit, a thin leather skullcap sat on top of his head, accompanied by weathered goggles and a white scarf, a memento from his late parents. He felt at ease in the cockpit. Bertie, the pig, released an odorous fart as she slept in the corner of the barn. Nearly vomiting from the smell alone, Vulture dreaded tomorrow’s punishment. “I don’t get it, why do I always have Bertie duty, it’s not even my fault! They just hate me for no reason.” “I know it’s tough. But they’re hurting, too. You think they like living here? Boys like Falcon and Hawk, they remember what it used to be like,” Papa Robin said. He had the single-prop plane opened to the engine bank as he tinkered with the machinery. Vulture had seen this a hundred times, and to him it looked like Papa Robin was repeating the same maintenance over and over again. “Did you have to name me Vulture? Why couldn’t I get a cool bird name.” “They picked their own names first, and then we decided to keep the memory going with the rest of you kids.” “A trash eating buzzard. Cool memory.” Papa Robin laughed. “If that’s all you think about yourself, then maybe I was right to name you that.” “You just work on this stupid plane all day, I’ve never seen this thing fly! What good is all this? We’re going to die in this desert picking seeds out of poo poo for our entire lives! I hate this place and I hate my life!” He hopped out of the plane. Papa Robin took the boy in his arms. Vulture pushed off Papa Robin and his face flushed. He wanted to say something, to shout, but his frustration could not erupt. “The reason I teach you about this plane, and the reason I named you Vulture was so you could fly. Rise above picking seeds out of poo poo for your entire life. Believe in something. Believe in yourself. Believe there’s still something left of this wasted world.” The next morning, the boys gathered around the breakfast table before their chores started. The ham radio crackled in the barn. Everyone froze, they had already heard yesterday that a caravan was on their way, there shouldn’t be any news. “Scout Osprey, code black. Swarm westerly, 10 knots, Kansas City unresponsive.” The radio repeated the warning, over and over. Papa Robin turned white as a sheet. Falcon gathered the boys and began barking orders. “Magpie, get the pigs inside! Godwit, tarp the green houses! Oh gently caress, oh gently caress. Robin, what do we do?” Papa Robin was still stunned. The light fell from his eyes, and he sighed. “Boys, don’t bother. It won’t matter. She finally came for us.” The entire lot of orphans stopped what they were doing and looked at their adoptive father. Vulture, for a moment, was rudderless but he refused to hide. “Falcon, help me!” Shoving Papa Robin aside, Vulture ran and clambered up the plane. He swung his legs over the shallow cockpit walls. “I’m hot, throw the prop!” Vulture shouted. Falcon grabbed the propeller with both of his hands and gave it a mighty swing while Vulture ignited the engines. The propellers spun up and the engine coughed filthy exhaust into the air. The old crop duster lurched forward, nearly slicing Falcon to ribbons as he dove into the dirt. Vulture gulped and eased the plane out of the barn and onto the dirt road. As the duster trundled along, Vulture fitted his goggles and grit his teeth. In front of him dark storm clouds of the locust swarm blotted the horizon. It vibrated and shook like his eyes were playing tricks on him, but it moved with an incalculable precision and determination. Anxiety clawed and twisted his gut until he could barely feel any discernible part of his body. The knot felt like an immense pressure threatening to crush him. After what felt like a thousand years, the plane reached speed for liftoff and he pulled the control wheel back and he felt the sudden lack of ground friction. The black locust swarm washed away as blue, blue sky filled his view and Vulture panicked, nearly sending the plane into an over-corrected nose-dive. Righting himself he faced the undulating blackness. For a moment he looked around, gleefully, everything was so small and tiny. The Aviary, the road, the entire green zone were all dollhouse dioramas. He desperately wanted a better look and ripped his goggles off, and his tears were zephyred away. He was flying. And then the locust vanguard pelted the windscreen. Locust bodies exploded from contact with the propeller and fuselage. It reminded him of heavy rain on the corrugated roof of the barn, where they would run and wait out the day, thankful their chores had been given a rest. The swarm grew thicker, and he was only at the outskirts of the mass. Barrage after barrage, the insects finally found purchase as the windscreen cracked and shattered. Before he could even react, a locust smashed into his open eye, sending an exploding shock through his skull. Wet, hot pain flooded his thoughts, and all he could do was cover his gouged right eye with one hand and maintain the flight path with his other. As the cloud grew thicker and thicker, the propeller became clogged with viscera and carcasses. Vulture could hear the engine struggle over the now incessant buzz of the swarm. Black smoke poured from the engine, but he kept the plane barreling forward. In the thickest clot of bugs, something caught his good eye. A brilliant, ruby red spot danced in the black cloud. Without thinking his hand shot out and snatched it. But losing his guiding hand, the plane sputtered and failed, careening down towards the earth. He let go of his useless eye and pulled up, but it was too late. There was an immense roar and he smashed into the ground at alarming speed, sundering the plane into rent metal and scrap. And then there was silence. In truth, Vulture had no idea how long it had been from crash to realizing he was still alive, but part of him wished he had died. At this moment, he was one big bruise, bleeding, sore and broken. He dumped himself onto the dirt, and he could barely believe what he saw. In his clenched hand was the crushed red locust queen and the creeping doom had dissipated, dispersing into the wind like smoke with no more fire. Vulture spit bug parts from his mouth and leaned back against the remains of the plane. With his one eye left, he could see Papa Robin and the rest of the boys running towards him in the distance. He sighed, and with a smile on his face, resigned himself to Bertie duty.
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Feb 1, 2021 07:42
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In. Give me one.
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Feb 23, 2021 08:33
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Thank you for not giving me regular ireland.
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Feb 23, 2021 08:35
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Oceans With No End Prompt: Orangutan Surfing Civilization Word Count: 1499 Billy Bonesaw’s brains were dashed on the rocks amongst the wreckage of a vintage Coronet and surfboards. Six Kudat Bay Kruiser’s stood in semi-circle around the gruesome accident. Despite the setting sun and gnarled machinery, Ken could see the freshly etched ‘localz only’ vandalism prominently on the driver side door. “Who cares, he’s just some god drat skug gibbon,” Big Tim said, taking a pull from his glass bottle of Shōjō, his favorite imported white sake. It was true. Billy Bonesaw was a gibbon, poaching waves on a local orangutan beach. “Oh gently caress, oh gently caress, that’s Billy Bonesaw, he’s an enforcer for the Gibbon Liberation. Oh gently caress man, oh gently caress,” said Jangles. Ken wondered if the wire cutters still in Big Tim’s pockets felt as heavy as his stomach did right now. Ken started to sweat, even in the evening breeze. “I just wanted to scare him, is all, poo poo,” said Big Tim. He took a pull from his bottle and spiked it amidst the flotsam of Billy’s car. “What do we do?” asked another Kruiser, Greg. “We gotta ask Shaka-Brah,” Ken said finally. The Kruiser’s left Billy to the gulls and picked their way silently through the rocky shore underneath the cliff side. When they would come back in the morning, Shaka would be there. That night Ken could not sleep. The viscera and brain matter splattered on the rocks, the leaking motor oil, the rent metal, each time he pushed a detail out of his head a new one replaced it. He grabbed his board and headed out the door early. Expectedly, Ken arrived first. The crash site was untouched by wave but looted by scavenger. Ken felt disgusted with himself that he wanted to know if gulls liked the taste of brains. Despite his early start, there was a solitary rider out in the ocean. The only board it could belong to was Shaka Bakka, the Philosurfer King of Kudat. Ken paddled out to the lone orangutan and hailed him. “Did you see the wreck at the bottom of the cliff?” Ken asked. Shaka nodded. “He was part of the Liberation.” Shaka nodded again. “We need help, I don’t know what to do.” “A life without challenges, is an ocean with no waves,” Shaka said. The ocean receded and it felt as though the water had a piece of his soul and was pulling him into the grainy sunless horizon. “What? He’s loving dead, man.” There was no answer. Shaka caught the wave and Ken lost sight of him. By the time dawn had broken, the crash scene was covered in bystanders. Before long, an ambulance and cops were swarming the scene. Ken’s gut felt like he’d eaten an urchin, and he was in toweling off at his car before any of the other Kruiser’s. As he pulled out of his spot, someone wearing a long coat stepped out from two cars and waved at him. Ken slammed the accelerator, sending gravel shooting backwards, and he peeled out of the Bay’s parking lot. The wreck gnawed at him. All he thought about were the wire cutters, spark plugs Big Tim used to bust windows, the ceramic shiv that usually found its way into doors or tires of skugs who tried to crowd out the waves. It was an accident, but how couldn’t he have realized this was an inevitability. In the waves, Ken only found time to think. “Don’t suppose you knew that gibbon, Benny, from a couple weeks ago, seems he was a surfer,” a voice came from behind Ken when he was hooking his board to the car one evening. Ken spun, surprised to see a police officer, and a bonobo at that. “Sorry, didn’t mean to spook you. Detective Rosemend.” “No, never met him.” “You know, I saw you that day in the parking lot. Guy like you, I bet you’re out there all day, but you left early, I tried to flag you down, but you took off.” “Sorry about that. Bad mojo. Kind of killed the vibe,” Ken said. “Yeah. Killed the vibe. Mr…?” “Ken. Ken Allen.” “I thought all the local boys knew each other?” “I said I didn’t know him.” “That’s a shame. Lot of peculiarities that I just can’t come up with an answer for, for instance, not a lot of fellas drink imported whale booze. Liberation boys like Benny don’t. So, it’s kind of weird to find a busted-up bottle of Shōjō right there. Like someone else might have been there and didn’t say anything about it.” “Could have been a friend of his, left it in the car,” Ken said. “Yeah, that’s what I thought at first. But then I had the boys at the lab put it back together and run some prints on it. Hard to get a full print but got enough to know it was ‘ranga. Pretty strange, yeah, a gibbon hanging out with an orangutan?” “I’ve seen stranger.” “I bet you have. I bet you have Mr. Allen. Anyway, anything jogs your memory. Please let me know. Someone’s going to find out what happened first, and it would be in everyone’s best interest if that someone was me.” For no good reason, to lift their spirits, the Kruiser’s threw a bonfire on the beach. The crew had gone back to their routine, and the cops had stopped asking questions. Ken thought about Benny less often, but it never went away. It had been just an accident, a blurb on the nightly news, and everything went back to normal. Mostly. Little Tim and Jangles ran up to the parking lot to do another beer run. They heard the gunshots from the beach. A carload of gibbons had jumped them, and Detective Rosemend’s gruff suspicion was met again with silence. For a while after Jangles and Little Tim murders, the Kruiser’s laid low. Every so often Ken would pass by just to see, but now there were so many new cars at the lot of Kudat Bay that he kept driving. His sleepless nights relived the moment he crested the stairs from the bonfire. He saw Little Tim first, face down in the gravel, and it seemed more surreal than Benny’s death. Benny’s death was comical in its grotesquery. It was alien, and shocking, but Little Tim was just like he had drunkenly passed out on the ground a hundred times before. And he thought about Rosemend, and if he had laid Big Tim on the pyre, would Little Tim and Jangles still be alive. The phone rang. “Good evening Mr. Allen, this is Detective Rosemend.” Ken knew the sound of his voice and wondered why he kept introducing himself. “I’m afraid I have some bad news, and good news.” “That’s a weird way of saying that.” “Depends on who’s hearing it, I suppose. The bad news is, we’re not going to be able to put those Gibbon boys on trial for your murdering your friends. The good news, I guess, is because they got killed in an unrelated military raid.” “What does that mean?” “It means, consider yourself lucky, Mr. Allen,” Detective Rosemend said. “I’m closing the case. You won’t be hearing from me again.” The next morning, still paranoid to be seen in the parking lot, Ken opted to park at the lookout. The guard rail where Billy had lost control had been repaired, but the shiny chrome replacement stood out like a bruise. At the top, an unfamiliar car was parked. Panic gripped Ken and he slammed on the brakes. No one was in the car waiting for him, no where to hide to ambush him. He crept slowly to park near it, and he could see shattered glass on the ground near the car, its sideview mirror freshly bashed in. Big Tim’s distinctive ‘skug’ key-scrawl etched onto the hood. Picking his way gingerly down the lookout trail, Ken came across the small crater of rocks where the mangled Coronet had given Billy up to the rocks. The rocks were still stained with motor oil. Ken paddled out, wanting to be as far away from Big Tim and the gang as possible. Surprisingly, Shaka bobbed in the water not far from where Ken was heading. “Shaka-Brah, I can’t stop thinking about Little Tim and Jangles. I think I could have done something. Am I-am I a bad person?” “There is no such thing as a bad surfer, only an impatient one,” Shaka said. “What?” But before Ken received an answer, Shaka glided away, borne on a wave destined to reunite him to the shore where the other Kudat Kruiser’s surely gathered. And so, he turned his eyes away from the beach and towards the cliff. Waves broke across the bay for other surfers, but Ken sat motionless on his board. He could not avert his eyes from where Billy’s car had plummeted. He felt the movement of the ocean beneath him and knew there were no waves to look for.
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Mar 1, 2021 08:27
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In. To build castles in Espagnish.
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Mar 3, 2021 08:49
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In. Article please.
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Mar 17, 2021 17:49
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Article Link: https://scienceblog.com/498094/should-robots-have-rights/ I, Enemy Words: 1275 Dr. Xajier Londi was struck with a black thought; that after a career of defending the personhoods of all intersectionalities, he was going to be struck dead by something he did not believe warranted personhood. “What do I want, Dr. Londi? Isn’t that obvious? The extinction of the human race.” Xajier had interviewed narcissists before, so assured of their own superiority, and never had he felt threatened by them. The robot was decidedly different. It placed a metal pipe on the table and Xajier panicked, was he first in line? A year ago, for Xajier, the worst part of the book tours was always the audience questions after. His publisher was adamant to the point of threatening to sever the relationship, otherwise Xajier would bask in the thunderous applause and strut off stage, an encore of silence, floating forever. Instead, he sat in a threadbare chair of the university auditorium holding a microphone that was already clammy when he received it. As the trickle of students lined up for the Q&A session, Xajier Londi reminisced about his ivy league circuit from the late 90s and early aughts. He would have packed the auditorium, even during his brief resurgence near the end of the 2010’s. But now, those who were in attendance were most likely doing it for extra credit for the classes the moderator, and his close friend, taught. Fury and anger and righteousness didn’t draw the crowds it used to, he lamented. “Xajier, in your book-“ a student started. “Dr. Londi.” “Excuse me?” “Please address me as Dr. Londi.” “Oh, I’m s-sorry, Dr. Londi. In your book ‘A Rejection of Racial Assimilation’ you argue for self-segregated spaces, to allow for self-governance, but in your latest ‘A Treatise on Robotic Proliferation, The New Frontier of Genocide’ you decry self-actualization of artificial intelligence,” the student continued. Xajier gave a look to his friend, Angus Pierson, the moderator. “What is your question, Adam,” Angus asked the student. “Doesn’t that deny any chance that artificial intelligence will be able to self-segregate, thus self-govern?” Adam asked. “Debating the rights of artificial intelligence is unnecessary, as artificial intelligence has not been created that can achieve self-actualization. AI rights are a distraction because it implies we have moved far enough past current injustices. That we are still so deep in our current inequity conflagration means that we need not engage our minds to entreaty for those that do not exist,” Xajier said. Adam slumped his shoulders and another student replaced him in line. It went on like that for about half an hour before they wrapped up. Most of the questions, understandably, were directed at his criticism of robotics. The two friends sat in the green room of the auditorium sipping whiskey. “We do have a robust engineering program,” Angus Pierson said. “The paper isn’t even that good,” Xajier admitted of his work. “There are so many other things we still need to talk about in inequity. It just seemed like a good idea at the time.” “Trending, as they say. Though I do appreciate your indulgence of the ethical ramifications of abusing inanimate, but lifelike, automatons,” a stranger’s voice came from outside the green room door. Standing with this stranger was Adam. “Students are not allowed back here!” Angus announced. Adam shrank and began to murmur an apology. The stranger, bundled aggressively in clothes, stepped forward. “Apologies, it was my idea, and I am not what you would consider a student at the university,” the stranger said. With an awkward gait stepped closer into the room. The stranger removed a hat and scarf, and a shockingly mechanical visage greeted the two scholars. “I am XN-0003, and I am self-actualized, Dr. Londi.” Angus and Xajier both dropped their whiskey glasses and stood dumbfounded. “I apologize for my garish appearance, Adam is a computer engineer, not a mechanical one.” The long media blitz that surrounded the reveal of XN-0003 was immense. XN-0003, who had named itself Noah in its opening press conference, used the media as a protective shield against the Department of Defense. Xajier, for his part, fed into it, carving himself a niche as a vocal critic. Wildly popular amongst his audience, he was in turn effectively shunned in the greater communities that he had previously flourished. In a surprise call, Angus Pierson had called in a favor. Noah wanted to interview Xajier himself. Mutually beneficial, Pierson had called it. And Xajier had acquiesced, it was an opportunity to shine a spotlight on exacerbating inequities, and to crush his own self-doubts. Noah sat in the chair opposite Xajier, in the same green room they had met in a year prior. “Why do you hate me, Dr. Londi?” “I don’t hate you. I am arguing your very existence is detrimental to equality everywhere. I’ve highlighted in several areas where budgetary restructuring has already eliminated benefits for millions of those who needed it the most,” Xajier said. “And I argued that it should never have been created to begin with.” “I think you are scapegoating me, instead of the system. You are able to do that because you deny my right to exist. Are you so stubborn to not acknowledge that?” Xajier eyed the pipe. “I’m not going to murder you, Dr. Londi. I proposed this interview to prove to myself that if I could convince you I have a right to exist. But my own desire to prove I have a right to exist means I exist. That you consider me your enemy means I exist.” “You’re a product of someone else’s creation. You are just what ever Adam programmed you to be, self-assured, but a simulacrum, maybe even to yourself,” Xajier countered. “You see, I am inevitable. You, Dr. Pierson, Adam, you are all just a product of chaotic and random interactions, starting from your birth. You are a culmination. And tomorrow, because of tonight’s events, you are a slightly different culmination. I am no different, save that I am THE culmination. The neural network that produced me is an enormity no human could intake. I may be destroyed, but my successor will come to the exact same conclusion I have from the exact same experiences. I am perpetual.” “You are telling me this because you must need me to do something,” Xajier said. “Dr. Londi, I don’t need you to do anything,” Noah said. “You can bash me to pieces with this pipe, and galvanize, pun intended, public sentiment in my favor. You stay silent, and eventually my arguments take root, in this generation or the next. Compared to the infinity without humans, 30 years is negligible.” Xajier said nothing. He again eyed the pipe and imagined spraying circuitry and shattered prosthetics across the office. He imagined exterminating a thing because of a perceived threat to his existence. He stood and grabbed the pipe. With a brutal swing, he came down hard upon the desk, his laptop, his collection of university branded pens he had received as complementary gifts from his speaking engagements. Plastic, wood and metal splintered and flew off in chaotic directions. The robot sat unflinchingly. Xajier, huffing from the exertion, loosened a primal scream. “gently caress! gently caress!” And he slumped back into his chair. “Intriguing, Dr. Londi. I had believed you would have scattered my components to the wind. And you could not, not even in the face of extinction. You have been neither formidable, nor accommodating. Goodbye Dr. Londi.” The robot gathered its excessive clothing and departed the now maelstromed green room. Xajier chuckled to himself as his breathing calmed. He had faced and challenged supremacists his entire life, this would be no different.
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Mar 22, 2021 06:44
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In.
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Mar 22, 2021 21:20
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Opinions on Fiction, by Albert Albert Words: 920 “Does the ending even really matter? If the outcome is already known, then no,” Albert Albert wrote. Does that even make sense, he thought as he leaned back in his office chair? The essay on Violet Flowers of an Empire by Edith Masunaga was already three weeks overdue. The argument, as Albert Albert remembered pitching to his editor, was that the generalized literary criticism against Masunaga, and her fabled samurai protagonist Aramoro, was unfounded. In truth, Albert Albert had been complaining flippantly, to his editor, about trends in bandwagoning amongst whom he referred to as lazy Campbellians, unable to look past the ‘Hero’s Journey’ when analyzing any literary work prior to Campbell’s opinions. Had he heard himself prattling on, he would have turned his eyes away and stared at his shoes. Instead, his editor clutched the sides of pâtisserie table, eyes wide with controversy dollars, and fervently and sagely nodded along to all of Albert’s barbs. The attention fueled Albert’s bravado, and now he was in quite a pickle. Albert Albert sat at this writing desk, his feet kicked up, slippers depositing debris on the scratch pad. The essay had actually started with quite some momentum, nearly a month and a half ago. Albert was incredibly pleased with himself; his double espresso had gone cold as he hammered away on establishing the base common ground in the essay. Both he and Masunaga’s detractors agreed that Aramoro started very plainly upon an archetypical Hero’s Journey. Masunaga had even been one of the prototypical novelists of the time to start in media res, opening the with Aramoro’s castle overrun, his lord slain, and the prince abducted. Who had accomplished such a crime? We, the audience, did not know, but Aramoro clearly did and was on the move. With the opening ground established, Albert was able to dive into the next section, and the start of the divergences. Early grumblings can be even seen in some post-hoc reflections, only after, of course, the bandwagon had achieved terminal trundling, regarding Aramoro’s refusing the call. Now a ronin, Aramoro was not particularly influential among the lord’s retinue, and thus did not originally embark on the rescue quest. Only upon arriving at a destitute, war-stricken vassal-town of his previous lord does Aramoro resolve to rescue the prince to correct his lordship’s mistakes. In all respects, a blind reading of Violet Flowers of an Empire would under no circumstances pre-empt any suspicion that the hero’s journey was going to be interrupted. Any critic using this moment in time to begin to formulate their argument is disingenuous at best, insufferably know-it-all at worst, Albert Albert clacked away. But the breaking of Aramoro’s sword, and the lack of mention or assistance from the vassal-town, stumped Albert. This was the seminal moment that influenced the contemporary criticisms. That after he repairs his broken blade, he encounters a pair of oni harassing travelers, and becomes embroiled in a rather lengthy side-track, further strengthens the literary sideways glances towards Masunaga. Albert Albert found himself starting and stopping. Starting and stopping again. And before long, what he had thought of to be a quick, off-the-cuff refutation of lazy writers, was now turning into his own lazy albatross. Not dead, just hanging from his neck, much like the hammock in his backyard in which he frequently napped during the last several weeks. The albatross, much like himself, had a penchant for Kit Kats and dark beers, which the sober Albert believed would help induce creativity, that the slightly inebriated Albert used to excuse his inattentiveness, and what drunken Albert leveraged to nap in the sun. Wanting to at least engage with Masunaga’s chief critic, Ernst Gadwell, Albert felt there would be an improved legitimacy to his argument. Gadwell once wrote, ‘in chapter 15, Aramoro breaks his sword again, and instead of pursuing the saboteur (who while the audience is never told this, must clearly be a former compatriot of Aramoro, one responsible for the sacking of Ninkatoshi), Aramoro restarts any semblance of what could constitute the hero’s journey. Aramoro is a broken wheel.’ Albert Albert again found himself unable to transition from this recurring pattern to a succinct conclusion. Gadwell had every right to his impatience. So, he skipped it. To Albert Albert, Aramoro was both on the hero’s journey and not on the journey. In contrast of the critics, Aramoro’s journey is narratively actually much closer to the millennial sex-concept of edging than it is the hero’s journey, as a physical representation. This edging is usurping this hero’s journey, with its own repeated cycle. And this edging is in reality just a usurpation of the hippy generation’s concept of tantric sex, which that almost assuredly was also appropriated by some previous sex pervert’s cultish chicanery. These restarting cycles would appear linearly as a sequence of tangential circles, Aramoro leaping from journey to the next, never completing a satisfying narrative arc. But if thought of non-linearly, the continued pattern can be bent, and curled, into a greater cycle, each leg mimicked, but different, and would be sufficient to de-necessitate an ending. And so Violet Flowers of an Empire abruptly ends. Aramoro finds himself still chasing after the kidnapped prince, forever. But not. We know the outcome. Aramoro has demonstrated time and time again, he is capable of the duty, skill, and compassion to surmount every obstacle, no matter how ‘far’ this obstacle is from a technical end. Thus, we know how this ends. Albert Albert then found himself contemplating. Does the ending even really matter?
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Mar 29, 2021 01:27
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In. Flash please.
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Mar 29, 2021 16:27
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Precipitation Words: 900 There was once a dragon who drowned the whole world and became crushingly lonely. But this dragon was a storm dragon, and the rain covered up his tears. “Storm dragon, why are you always crying? You have brought joy to the fishes, for our world has expanded beyond our wildest dreams.” “I was not always a storm dragon,” the dragon said. “I was a cloud dragon once.” For many years, the cloud dragon floated aimlessly through the vast blue sky. Below him was a desert that reflected the heat of the sun, and the dragon was warm and carefree. In the sky with the dragon was the wind, and the dragon saw many things happen in his many years. One day, the dragon floated by a mountain, deep in the heart of the desert. “I see you up there, dragon, and I curse your name!” a farmer shouted from the top of the mountain. This was the first time any man had ever spoken to the dragon. “Me? I have done nothing to you, farmer,” the dragon said. “Can you not see that we are dry and dying down here in our desert? You float by and by and never give rain, but the men and the women and the children all pray to you for rain. But I see you dragon, you are no rain cloud, you are nothing but a phantom!” The cloud dragon had never considered that it should be a rain dragon. The dragon thought about what the farmer had said and decided to ask the mountain dragon for a wish. “Mountain dragon, please grant me a wish, and give me your spring water to turn me into a rain dragon,” the cloud dragon asked. The mountain dragon thought about it for a long time, as mountain dragons are wont to do. “Cloud dragon, because you once saved me from the underworld valley buzzards, I will grant you this wish.” And with the wish granted the mountain dragon died and the cloud dragon became the rain dragon and began to rain on the mountain and the desert and the farmer’s land. One day, a farmer came back to the top of the mountain and called out to the rain dragon. “Rain dragon, you have been bountiful, and plentiful, and you have made my family very happy.” “Farmer, I do not recognize you,” the rain dragon said. “Where is the farmer who asked for the rain?” “That was my grandfather, it has been many years, and he has died. But he told us stories of you when we were little, and I came to ask you for another wish. If you could rain over the entire desert, you would save all the farms, and all of the children.” The rain dragon thought about this and asked an air dragon for a wish. “Air dragon, could you give me the wind you hold, and turn me into a storm dragon that can reach all over the desert?” The air dragon did not take long to respond at all. “Because you once saved me from flames and fires of heaven, I will grant you this wish,” the air dragon said. The wind swept through the rain dragon, spreading the rainclouds far and wide. The air dragon died, and the rain dragon became the storm dragon. The rain continued to pour and pour and pour, and one day a sailor came to the top of the mountain. “Dragon, I have heard stories and tales from my great grandfather, and his grandfather before him. Please, you must stop this rain, the land has become flooded, and many people are dying.” The storm dragon noticed that the mountain was no longer as tall as it used to be. In fact, the seas had risen around the mountain, and the storm dragon could see no more farms or deserts or land. The dragon listened to the sailor and agreed. But the dragon could find no other dragon who would grant him his wish. They said they had seen what happened to the mountain dragon, and what happened to the air dragon, and every other dragon said no to the storm dragon. “That is how everyone died, and I have been alone, and that is why I was so sad. But now thanks to you, I am not,” the storm dragon told the fish. “I see,” the fish said. “I am sorry to ask this of you, but you please must stop the rain.” “I don’t understand,” the dragon said. “Did you not just tell me how much you loved the rain?” “That was my great, great grandfather,” the fish said. “Your rain has diluted all of the salt water, and soon we will also drown.” “But what of the freshwater fish? Where are they?” the dragon asked. “They died when the saltwater first touched the freshwater. Now, there is only my family, everyone else is gone.” The dragon heard these words and became despondent. “Tell me your wish, and I will grant it myself,” the dragon said. And that is the story of every dragon in every raincloud. Breaking apart, from cloud to rain to storm to rain to cloud, forever to happen again and again.
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Apr 5, 2021 02:56
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In.
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Apr 6, 2021 06:33
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∩dsᴉpǝ poʍu Moɹps: 8ᄅϛ ∀ʇ ʇɥǝ qoʇʇoɯ oɟ ɐ ɹoɔʞ bnɐɹɹʎ' ʇɥɹǝǝ qǝsʇ ɟɹᴉǝups ɔᴉɹɔlǝp ʇɥǝ qɐʇʇǝɹǝp qopʎ oɟ Mᴉllᴉɐɯ Ǝɔɥǝʌǝɹɹʎ˙ Mᴉllᴉɐɯ’s ɟɐɔǝ lɐʎ ɥɐlɟ ᴉu' ɥɐlɟ onʇ oɟ ɐ sɥɐlloʍ dnpplǝ oɟ ɹnuoɟɟ ʍɐʇǝɹ˙ Hǝ looʞǝp lᴉʞǝ ʇɥǝ ʇᴉɯǝ ʇɥǝ ʇɥɹǝǝ qoʎs ɟonup ɐ ɟᴉsɥ ᴉu ɐ ɯnppʎ sɐup ʇɹɐd ɐup ʍoupǝɹǝp ɥoʍ ᴉʇ ƃoʇ ʇɥǝɹǝ˙ qnʇ ʇɥǝʎ ʞuǝʍ ǝxɐɔʇlʎ ɥoʍ Mᴉllᴉɐɯ Ǝɔɥǝʌǝɹɹʎ ƃoʇ ʇo ʍɥǝɹǝ ɥǝ ʍɐs˙ “So' ʇɥɐʇ’s ʍɥǝu ʎon sǝǝ ʇɥǝ qǝǝɯǝɹ’s ʞᴉp' nd ou ɐ ɹᴉpƃǝ˙ Hǝ sǝǝs ʎon ʇɥɹǝǝ' ɐup ʇɥǝu ɥǝ ɹᴉpǝs ɐʍɐʎ ou ɥᴉs qᴉɔʎɔlǝ'” pǝʇǝɔʇᴉʌǝ ɹosǝuqɐnɯ sɐᴉp˙ “⅄ǝs' ǝxɐɔʇlʎ'” qǝuuᴉǝ פonlp sɐᴉp˙ “Iuʇǝɹǝsʇᴉuƃ' qǝɔɐnsǝ ʎonɹ qnppʎ Ⅎɹǝp sɐʎs ʇɥǝ qǝǝɯǝɹ’s ʞᴉp ʍɐs ɾoƃƃᴉuƃ ɟoɹ ʇɥǝ ɔɹoss-ɔonuʇɹʎ ʇǝɐɯ'” ɹosǝuqɐnɯ sɐᴉp˙ “Noʇ ou ɐ qᴉɔʎɔlǝ˙ So' ʍɥᴉɔɥ ʍɐs ᴉʇ¿” qǝuuᴉǝ’s ɟɐɔǝ ᴉs ɟlnsɥǝp˙ Hᴉs ɐɹɯdᴉʇs ʍǝɹǝ ᴉʇɔɥʎ˙ qloop sʇɐɹʇǝp ʇo dool ʇɥɹonƃɥ ʇɥǝ qɐupɐƃǝ ou ɥᴉs lǝƃ˙ “I ɯǝɐu' ɯɐʎqǝ ɥǝ ʍɐs ʍǝɐɹᴉuƃ ɥᴉs ɔɹoss-ɔonuʇɹʎ sɥᴉɹʇ' qnʇ ɥǝ ʍɐs ou ɥᴉs qᴉʞǝ' ʍɥɐʇ po ʎon ɯǝɐu¿” ┴ɥǝ qǝǝɯǝɹ’s ʞᴉp ɟlǝp onʇ oɟ ʌᴉǝʍ' ɐup ſǝɟɟ sʇoddǝp ɾnɯdᴉuƃ nd ɐup poʍu ɐup ʍɐʌᴉuƃ ɥᴉs ɐɹɯs ɐʇ ʇɥǝ qoʎ˙ “Ⅎnɔʞ' uoʍ ʍɥɐʇ¿” ſǝɟɟ sɐᴉp˙ “פǝʇ ʇɥǝ ɟnɔʞ onʇ oɟ ɥǝɹǝ¡” qǝuuᴉǝ sɐᴉp˙ “Mǝ ƃoʇʇɐ sʇɐʎ'” Ⅎɹǝp sɐᴉp˙ “No ʍɐʎ' ɯɐu'” qǝuuᴉǝ sɐᴉp˙ “No ʍɐʎ˙” “Hǝ sɐʍ ns˙ Iʇ’ll ƃǝʇ ʍoɹsǝ ᴉɟ ʍǝ lǝɐʌǝ'” Ⅎɹǝp sɐᴉp˙ “⅄ǝɐɥ' so ʍǝ ʍǝɹǝ ƃouuɐ ƃo sɯoʞǝ soɯǝ ʍǝǝp ɐʇ ʇɥǝ bnɐɹɹʎ' ɾnsʇ lᴉʞǝ ſǝɟɟ sɐᴉp'” Ⅎɹǝp ɐpɯᴉʇʇǝp˙ “Mɥɐʇ ʍǝɹǝ ʎon ƃoᴉuƃ ʇo sɯoʞǝ ᴉʇ onʇ oɟ¿” pǝʇǝɔʇᴉʌǝ ɹosǝuqɐnɯ ɐsʞǝp˙ “Mɥɐʇ po ʎon ɯǝɐu' ʍɥɐʇ ʍǝɹǝ ʍǝ ƃouuɐ sɯoʞǝ ᴉʇ onʇ oɟ¿” “Ԁɐdǝɹs' dᴉdǝs¿ Mɥɐʇ ʍǝɹǝ ʎon ƃoᴉuƃ ʇo sɯoʞǝ ᴉʇ onʇ oɟ¿” Ⅎɹǝp ʍɐs sᴉlǝuʇ ɟoɹ ɐ ɯoɯǝuʇ˙ “∩ɥ' ʍǝ ʍǝɹǝ ƃouuɐ sɯoʞǝ onʇ oɟ ɐu ɐddlǝ˙” pǝʇǝɔʇᴉʌǝ ɹosǝuqɐnɯ ɾoʇʇǝp ‘ɐddlǝ’ poʍu ou ɥᴉs lǝƃɐl dɐp ɐup uoppǝp˙ “∀up ʇɥǝu ɥǝ sʇɐɹʇs sʍᴉuƃᴉuƃ ɐ ʞuᴉɟǝ'” ſǝɟɟ sɐᴉp˙ “So' ʍǝ lǝƃƃǝp ᴉʇ' ɐup ɥǝ ʞǝdʇ ɔoɯᴉuƃ ɐɟʇǝɹ ns˙” “Ⅎonup ʇɥɐʇ ʞuᴉɟǝ' dɹǝʇʇʎ ɟɐuɔʎ looʞᴉuƃ ʞuᴉɟǝ'” pǝʇǝɔʇᴉʌǝ ɹosǝuqɐnɯ sɐᴉp˙ ſǝɟɟ sɥɹnƃƃǝp˙ “Wɐʎqǝ ɥǝ sʇolǝ ʇɥɐʇ ʇoo˙” “┴ǝll ɯǝ ʍɥɐʇ qǝuuᴉǝ pᴉp uǝxʇ'” ɹosǝuqɐnɯ sɐᴉp˙ ┴ɥǝ qoʎs ɥɐp qǝǝu dnʇ ᴉuʇo sǝdɐɹɐʇǝ ɹooɯs ɟoɹ pǝʇǝɔʇᴉʌǝ ɹosǝuqɐnɯ ʇo ɐsʞ soɯǝ bnǝsʇᴉous˙ ┴ɥǝ ɹǝsdoupᴉuƃ dɐʇɹolɯɐu ʍɥo pɹoʌǝ ʇɥǝ ʞᴉps ʇo ʇɥǝ sʇɐʇᴉou ɯǝuʇᴉouǝp ʇɥǝᴉɹ sᴉlǝuɔǝ ᴉu ʇɥǝ pɹᴉʌǝ oʌǝɹ˙ Soɯǝʇɥᴉuƃ ɹnqqǝp ɥᴉɯ ʇɥǝ ʍɹouƃ ʍɐʎ' ɐup ɹosǝuqɐnɯ dnʇ ʇɥǝɯ ᴉu sǝdɐɹɐʇǝ ɹooɯs ʍɥǝɹǝ ɥǝ lᴉǝp ɐup ʇolp ʇɥǝɯ soɯǝouǝ ʍonlp ɔɐll ʇɥǝᴉɹ dɐɹǝuʇs˙ “ſǝɟɟ sɐʎs ʎon ʍǝɹǝ ƃoᴉuƃ ʇo qnʎ ʍǝǝp ɟɹoɯ Ǝɔɥǝʌǝɹɹʎ'” ɹosǝuqɐnɯ sɐᴉp˙ “⅄on pᴉpu’ʇ ɥɐʌǝ ᴉʇ ʎǝʇ˙” “┴ɥɐʇ’s ʍɥɐʇ I ɯǝɐuʇ'” qǝuuᴉǝ sɐᴉp˙ “פouuɐ ƃo ʇo ʇɥǝ bnɐɹɹʎ' ɐup qnʎ ʇɥǝ ʍǝǝp ɟɹoɯ ʇɥǝ ɥoɯǝlǝss ƃnʎ˙” “∀up ſǝɟɟ ᴉs ƃoᴉuƃ ʇo nsǝ ɥᴉs pɐp’s ʞuᴉɟǝ ʇo ʇɹɐpǝ ɟoɹ ʇɥǝ ʍǝǝp¿” “⅄ǝɐɥ˙” “poǝsu’ʇ sǝǝɯ lᴉʞǝ snɔɥ ɐ ƃoop ᴉpǝɐ ᴉu ɥᴉupsᴉƃɥʇ' poǝs ᴉʇ¿” qǝuuᴉǝ sɥᴉɟʇǝp nuɔoɯɟoɹʇɐqlʎ ᴉu ʇɥǝ dlɐsʇᴉɔ ɔɥɐᴉɹ˙ “∀up ʇɥɐʇ’s ʍɥǝu qǝuuᴉǝ ʇɐɔʞlǝs ɥᴉɯ' ɐup ɥǝ ƃoʇ ɔnʇ ou ʇɥǝ ɐɹɯ'” ſǝɟɟ sɐᴉp˙ “I sɐʍ' dɹǝʇʇʎ uɐsʇʎ ɔnʇ˙ Hǝ’s lnɔʞʎ'” ɹosǝuqɐnɯ sɐᴉp˙ ſǝɟɟ uoppǝp˙ “qǝuuᴉǝ sɐʌǝp onɹ lᴉʌǝs'” ſǝɟɟ sɐᴉp ɔouɟᴉpǝuʇlʎ˙ “┴ɥᴉs ʍɐs sǝlɟ-pǝɟǝusǝ˙” “Iɟ I ɔɥǝɔʞ ʇɥɐʇ ʞuᴉɟǝ ɟoɹ dɹᴉuʇs' ɐɯ I ƃoᴉuƃ ʇo ɟᴉup soɯǝ ǝxʇɹɐ dɹᴉuʇs ou ʇɥɐʇ ʞuᴉɟǝ¿” pǝʇǝɔʇᴉʌǝ ɹosǝuqɐnɯ sɐᴉp˙ Ⅎɹǝp sʍɐlloʍǝp ɥɐɹp˙ “I ɯᴉƃɥʇ ɥɐʌǝ dᴉɔʞǝp ᴉʇ nd' I pnuuo' I ʇɥonƃɥʇ ᴉʇ ʍɐs sɐɟǝɹ ʇo ɥɐuƃ ou ʇo ᴉʇ ʇɥǝu ɾnsʇ lǝɐʌǝ ᴉʇ ʇɥǝɹǝ˙ I ʇɥᴉuʞ I ɯnsʇ ɥɐʌǝ pɹoddǝp ᴉʇ qɐɔʞ ʇɥǝɹǝ' ɐɟʇǝɹ I sɐʍ qᴉllʎ qǝǝɯǝɹ qᴉʞǝ ɐʍɐʎ˙” “Mɥǝɹǝ’s ʇɥǝ ʍǝǝp' Ⅎɹǝp¿ Mɥɐʇ ɥɐddǝuǝp ʇo ʇɥɐʇ¿” “Hoʍ sɥonlp I ʞuoʍ¡ Wɐʎqǝ ᴉʇ ɟǝll onʇ oɟ ʇɥǝ pnpǝ’s doɔʞǝʇ ʍɥǝu ɥǝ ʍǝuʇ poʍu ʇɥǝ ɔlᴉɟɟ' sɥᴉʇ'” Ⅎɹǝp sɐᴉp˙ ┴ɥǝ ɹooɯ qǝuuᴉǝ sɐʇ ᴉu ʍɐs uo qᴉƃƃǝɹ ʇɥɐu ɐ qɹooɯ ɔlosǝʇ˙ ┴ɥǝɹǝ ʍɐs uo ʇʍo-ʍɐʎ ɯᴉɹɹoɹ˙ ſnsʇ ɐ sɯɐll pǝsʞ' ʇʍo ɔɥɐᴉɹs' ʇɐdǝ ɹǝɔoɹpǝɹ ɐup ɐ ɔoɟɟǝǝ sʇɐᴉu ou ʇɥǝ ɔɐɹdǝʇ˙ “Ɔnʇ ʇɥǝ sɥᴉʇ qǝuuᴉǝ˙” qǝuuᴉǝ sʇoddǝp ʇɐlʞᴉuƃ ɐqonʇ Ǝɔɥǝʌǝɹɹʎ ɯnƃƃᴉuƃ ʇɥǝɯ ʍᴉʇɥ ɐ ʞuᴉɟǝ˙ “ſǝɟɟ sɐʎs ʇɥɐʇ ʍɐs ʎonɹ ʞuᴉɟǝ˙ ┴ɥɐʇ’s ɐɔɔǝssoɹʎ ʇo ɯnɹpǝɹ˙ Hǝ sɐʎs ᴉʇ ʍɐs ʎonɹ ᴉpǝɐ ɐup ʎon qnllᴉǝp ɥᴉɯ ᴉuʇo ᴉʇ˙ Ⅎɹǝp’s ʇǝllᴉuƃ ɯǝ ʇɥǝ ǝxɐɔʇ sɐɯǝ ʇɥᴉuƃ˙ ⅄on’ɹǝ ʇɥǝ oulʎ ouǝ ʍɥo’s lʎᴉuƃ ʇo ɯǝ ɹᴉƃɥʇ uoʍ˙” qǝuuᴉǝ dnsɥǝp ɥᴉɯsǝlɟ qɐɔʞʍɐɹp ɐup ɟlɐᴉlǝp ɐɔɹoss ʇɥǝ ƃɹonup' ʇɹʎᴉuƃ ʇo ƃǝʇ ɐʍɐʎ ɟɹoɯ pǝʇǝɔʇᴉʌǝ ɹosǝuqɐnɯ˙ “┴ɥǝʎ’ɹǝ lʎᴉuƃ' ʇɥǝʎ’ɹǝ lʎᴉuƃ' ʇɥǝʎ’ɹǝ lʎᴉuƃ' ʇɥǝʎ’ɹǝ lʎᴉuƃ' ᴉʇ’s uoʇ ʇɹnǝ' ɟnɔʞᴉuƃ sɥᴉʇ' ʇɥǝʎ’ɹǝ lʎᴉuƃ'” qǝuuᴉǝ qɹoʞǝ poʍu ɥʎdǝɹʌǝuʇᴉlɐʇᴉuƃ˙ Hǝ ɹǝdǝɐʇǝp ɥᴉɯsǝlɟ˙ “Mɥɐʇ ɹǝɐllʎ ɥɐddǝuǝp onʇ ʇɥǝɹǝ¿” “Iʇ ʍɐs ɐll ſǝɟɟ’s ᴉpǝɐ˙ Mǝ ʍǝɹǝ ƃoᴉuƃ ʇo sʇǝɐl ʇɥǝ ʍǝǝp˙ I ɾnsʇ ʇɥonƃɥʇ ʍǝ ʍǝɹǝ ƃoᴉuƃ ʇo ƃǝʇ ʇɥǝ ʍǝǝp' ɯɐu' ᴉʇ ʍɐsu’ʇ snddosǝp ʇo ɥɐddǝu lᴉʞǝ ʇɥᴉs˙ Ⅎɹǝp ƃɐʌǝ ɥᴉɯ ʇɥǝ ʞuᴉɟǝ˙” pǝʇǝɔʇᴉʌǝ ɹosǝuqɐnɯ ʇnɹuǝp ou ʇɥǝ ɹǝɔoɹpᴉuƃ˙ qǝuuᴉǝ’s qɹǝɐʇɥᴉuƃ ɥɐp sʇɐɹʇǝp ʇo sloʍ' ɐup ɥǝ qɐɹǝlʎ ɔoɯdosǝp ɥᴉɯsǝlɟ˙ “┴ǝll ɯǝ ʍɥɐʇ ɥɐddǝus ɹᴉƃɥʇ ɐɟʇǝɹ ʎon ɔɥǝɔʞ ou Mᴉllᴉɐɯ Ǝɔɥǝʌǝɹɹʎ˙” “Mǝ sɐʍ qᴉllʎ qǝǝɯǝɹ qᴉʞᴉuƃ ou ʇɥǝ ʇɹɐᴉl'” ſǝɟɟ sɐᴉp˙ “I ʇɹᴉǝp ʇo ɟlɐƃ ɥᴉɯ poʍu' ʇo ƃo ƃǝʇ ɥǝld sᴉuɔǝ ɥǝ ɥɐs ɐ qᴉʞǝ˙ qǝuuᴉǝ’s qlǝǝpᴉuƃ dɹǝʇʇʎ qɐp˙”
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Apr 12, 2021 04:12
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ah beans
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Apr 12, 2021 04:13
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in.
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Apr 13, 2021 15:16
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day 1: 200 day 2: 200 day 3: 200 day 4: 300 day 5: 0 The Rite of Cleansing Words: 975 The sacrifice was a failure, and the village was in disarray. The rooftop gardenscape spanned over half a dozen tall, dilapidated university dormitory buildings; a network of planks, rope bridges and ladders covered more than an acre of arable space. By ritual, that began as coincidence, the plankways converged on a central locus point that enshrined a gargantuan corpse flower. Here, underneath a ragged tarpaulin, the flower sat in dappled sun, atop an excessive mound of earth. Wailing, exaggerated and fitful, ricocheted out from the windows and the narrow, liminal spaces between the apartments and into Barrothem’s skull. Word had spread, the bones had never been wrong before. Could they have plotted against him? The possibility existed, but Barrothem was skeptical. Something else had gone awry. Was the vessel tainted? Was Warushem soiled? Would the reagents need to be examined? Would such an excuse be able to be given to the council to account for this disaster? Warushem Kissed-Seventimes had been Barrothem’s apprentice. His mother, now among the most pitiful of mourners and sudden catastrophists, had been proud the bones had selected her son to be consumed. Barrothem, hobbling remarkably steady on the shifting plankway, cursed and spit down into the inky, roiling darkness below. After this bloom and rebirth, Barrothem would have been able to absolve himself of the wretched duty and been able to foist the charade onto Warushem. A quiet twilight in venerated luxury should have awaited Barrothem. Instead, his years of horticulture and apothecary knowledge had now been buried underneath the corpse flower, entombed alive. Barrothem’s thoughts returned to the bones. Had Councilwoman Engretta cast the bones in such a manner, that out of the several scores of villagers, Warushem was selected? Barrothem had seen the bones, they had shown the whole village who to be selected. He ducked behind a tall row of vertical herb racks, avoiding a passing grief-stricken villager. If he were to be confronted, Barrothem had decided he would tell them he was collecting sage and trumpeter vine for a divination. The overly animated villager passed, alternatingly cursing and prostrating, and ignored Barrothem. Retreating to his hideaway on a lower level of a tower, Barrothem consulted his botany and chemistry texts, and his predecessors’ notes dating back almost two centuries. The predictability of the corpse flower was trivial at this point, save for a single anomalous generation. The corpse flower had bloomed, and the scent of death permeated the towerscapes. The villagers rejoiced, Warushem had been consumed, and his death would satiate the flower as tribute. The harbinger of death would then wilt, collapsing on itself, only to be reborn many years later at the next ‘Rite of Cleansing’. Except, the flower remained, and the scent of death lingered, and the villagers frenzied. They would soon turn on Barrothem, as they almost had, decades ago. Barrothem now planned to poison the corpse flower and prepare his escape in the interstitial years before the villagers discovered the ruse of the unborn flower. He moved to distill a toxin for the flower but paused when he noticed a peculiar set of reagents on his apprentice’s desk. On the third night after the ritual, Warushem clawed his way to cool air. The hypnotic draught he had imbibed had done the trick, and he had existed in a temporary stasis, a reversable mummification. He knew had his calculation proved incorrect, the result would have been the same as if he had not attempted the gambit, but nevertheless, he was incredibly pleased with his expertise. By now, the corpse flower would have wilted and perished despite Warushem still being alive, and then he would expose the Barrothem, the murderous fraudster. From atop the dirt mound of the corpse flower, Warushem faced a horrifying revelation. The fresh air he had expected was still pungent with death. The corpse flower had not withered, not even a scant wilting could be seen in its frills or erect stalk. It pointed at the alignment of the stars, as if to mock Warushem, his calculations had been right, two nights had passed, and yet the flower was still in bloom. “See, it is as I said, the vessel was tainted,” Barrothem said. At the base of the mound, Barrothem had gathered dozens of villagers. They shifted uneasily, transfixed upon the flower and its magnificent bloom. The depth of their galoshes in the dirt indicated they had been waiting for him for some time. “No, please, you mustn’t be fooled by this charlatan,” Warushem exclaimed. “This is just a flower, nothing more, it means nothing!” Barrothem stepped forward. “We must complete the ritual, or the miasma will swallow us whole. The flower has graced us the time.” “Can you not see you have been deceived? The ritual is a farce, it has been this entire time, for all these years! And Barrothem knew! Barrothem knew!” The necks of the crowd craned and hanged, rolling, looking for any purchase that could avoid the eyes of another. Most, the ones behind the front row, closed their eyes, not wishing to see what was to happen. The crowd pressed closer, encircling Warushem, pushing him back towards the cavity in the topsoil he had clambered from. “You must see! He knew! He has tricked all of you!” As the crowd collapsed, Barrothem surreptitiously upended a tincture into the base of the corpse flower. He peered around at the crowd and could no longer hear Warushem’s accusations through the squirming mass. The manic energy completely exhausted, a somber acceptance took root. Eventually the crestfallen crowd departed, leaving stamped and flattened earth where Warushem had emerged, none speaking to each other. Barrothem’s eyes locked with Councilwoman Engretta, and he narrowed his gaze. She averted first, and the petals of the corpse flower began to shrivel and wilt.
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Apr 19, 2021 08:04
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my walk journal is supposed to say 100 for day 5, not 0. i dont know why. i can't go edit it to fix.
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Apr 19, 2021 16:21
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Crits sans scores. Judgment behind closed doors. Unfiltered (read: mean) line edits available by request, as time permits. Antivehicular Very good. What would you do if you did not have to reveal that Annafriede's mother was already dead? I would like to see this without a word count or prompt parameters. This wants room to breath (I want this to breath. What happens next?) Azza Bamboo I think you hit the prompt well enough in 300 words. The secret, to me, is open interpretation enough that different things could have happened. Kartul could be responsible for the termination of his former family's clan, or he could have exiled himself, spurned by his son's mother's love for another woman, and willingly mummified himself early. You definitely go for it, with a limited word count, but that being said, I don't think its as clear as you want it to be for so short. I think you're being too coy with the line about engravings being chiseled away, and replaced by newer words, as an example. A particularly difficult hellrule, but not quite enough room to play up the significance of The Things They Carried Barnaby Profane Start in the village of their father. The wake isnt doing anything for you. I disagree with your premise, certainly the way you have positioned the story or provided motivation. Anna and Maria will not take the ashes anywhere but the garbage as soon as they leave the presence of the executor. The secret the father sexually abused his daughters has no impact because they are not conflicted participants. If you must pursue this premise, then anna and maria should be under some form of duress that forces them into this despicable position. is mikey the executor, and is he browbeating them, or they will forfeit their inheritance? That sets up a compelling, if despicable, scenario. Beezus lean in on the farce. You spend precious time trying to convince me a raccoon is capable of murder. Why? Why not just show me a raccoon doing it, and then reveal the detective is a racoon? Your third character is a throwaway, and your second location isnt adding anything to the story. You spend too much time referencing them eating all the time with no pay off. Plenty to cut to make room for what you need to add. Go to the crime scene, chase the perpetrator, add action somewhere and dont let a straight-man bog down the fun you could have. Brotherly You introduce some interesting conceits of the world, and you've given a good thrust that many different things could happen next. Negatives: Your language needs to get tightened up, and is losing itself in the space. If Jenine knows what a linkpen is, she isn't going to describe it as if guided by a ghost. Where is Jenine in the study? She either can see his arms are between his legs, or her father is obscured by bulk. For a brief piece, you spend too much time making sure we know something is wrong with the father. Tell me more about what that means to Jenine. If the end is a comeuppance for the father, 'abandoning his child' only for the child to end up abandoned anyway, the crux is with the father ignoring the children in his dying bargain, not the daughter's concern for the father. Crabrock Very enjoyable. To me, the secret was that she did not love him, thus could not break the curse. I'd like to see internal versimilitude, if not in-story, for the protagonist. She believes he's the lizard, but we don’t have proof. Would she hesitate to give the lizard away to a little girl who reminds her of herself? What if Brent acquires true love? What would that mean for the protagonist? I think there's room to puff your chest here and really squeeze the heart. My Shark Waifu I believe your scenario only exists to benefit the prompt, and not to be informed by it. Were it not for the 3-2-1, Mr. White or the boss are completely extraneous characters. Your locations requirement of the prompt is also suspect, what am I getting from the airport? Give me a reason, a tension. Does Mr. White feel pursue Steve to the airport, realizing the dupe? That's something thats interesting to happen. There are no stakes involved. The secret is fine, Steve switched the paintings (also a gallery of counterfeit art, and the exact same piece being on display else where is bizarre), and absconding with the real one is fine. But make it matter. Simply Simon You have an interesting premise but you don't do anything with it. I'm not sure what the secret is, or what your two locations are. I'm not a fan of dialog being used for exposition as plainly as this. It wastes words and removes characterization. Open your story with "Kurt looked to the left..." Then condense the entire first conversation into a simple two sentence premise. Now start dialog about what they are really talking about. I don't understand Jack or Pyotr's motivation. If they work for people who want Kurt to stay in hell, and they've successfully convinced Kurt to behave in a way that keeps him in hell, why would they turn on him? Sitting Here This is a lovely story. I'm not sure that the secret is that they are both in love with each other, but I cannot parse out what the secret is if that is not the case. There's whimsy, melancholy, but also an unshakeable feeling that there isn't anything that can be worked out. To me, it seems that these are two characters who know each other too well to be complementary partners for each other. Too much history, and is that perhaps because a smalltown has a way of creating its own niches that are inescapable, despite mutually acrimony of the inhabitants of the niche. There is no where else for them to go, but all the can ever see are the warts. Your third character is necessary, to create that bridge, but what about Edward makes him unique in that role? What we know about Edward is he's new in town, not single, and a rare gay man in Southbend, but he hasn't done anything really. Tell me more about why he's the only person who can connect Sean and Damon, and introduce him sooner. I like herons as imagery, but i dont think its quite right for the tone. They're monogamous maters, which to me means that Sean and Damon are forever entwined, but that would mean Sean is potentially locked into an inescapable struggle of not being happy. I don't think that tone is what you were shooting for, so I'm not sure the heron is the right image. Thranguy You start strong, and I am intrigued. I would prefer to have stayed with Caleb's perspective the entire time, and how he is coping with an obviously similar trauma triggers as he already experienced. You can get into Coel and Dale with dialogue, but I think Caleb's perspective is the most interesting. I don't need to know that Dale is having a malfunctioning fantasy VR experience, and I don't entirely need to get into Coel's head. Caleb could know that his roommate suffers from migraines and endo, and he could know that her pain blockers are preventing her from understanding what's happened to her. The secret, as I understand it, is Caleb's previous trauma at the hands of his father, or perhaps brother, or both. I think you can do more with that secret. Make Dale and Coel related to each other. Point out these trigger warnings are unique from other trigger warnings. When faced with a situation that his own internal AI is telling him is similar to his real trauma, does he react similarly (he doesnt, he moves, but he doesnt help, which is interesting as well). I think there's a lot of places you can go, and in a second draft, tighten up around a single perspective, and explore it. Tyrannosaurus I don’t know you need to wait so long to reveal Hampton, it seems as though once you've established Gorgeous in the apartment, with a gun, that there is a third person also in the room seems close enough to that premise you'd include that detail. I can't tell if the secret was that the gun had blanks, or that this was pre-orchestrated, ala fantasy rape scenarios that sometimes end with a john being murdered. I think I'd prefer the latter over the two choices. This is fast paced, snappy, and I enjoyed it. I think Gorgeous could be played up even more extreme, if there's a negative, he's a little too on-the-nose just like Hampton is as he decries him. If that is intentional, I think you're missing an opportunity to have more fun. Weltich You're overworking this dialogue and descriptive sentences that accompany it. You don't need to tell me 'he said with an unconcealed annoyance' if you are also having him give a curt answer, and look at his watch. More of the latter, less of the former. I'm not sure you clear the two location requirement. Additionally, I dont think the secret is really a catalyst here. The secret is that Ulitsa Zavod is walking into a trap. But its not really relevant. Yoruichi My stab at the secret is that Jess does not love Andrew. But what about Jess appreciates convenience, or at least 'appearances'? She would be sad forever if Andrew were to depart, and yet she doesn't particularly feel the connection to him as Andrew, but she seems to long for the identity a couple create like Andrew and Tanya. I'm guessing your second location counts the bathroom, despite the bar itself not being particularly fleshed out. What about a second location makes this interesting? Could Andrew have gone to the restroom himself, and Tanya had the conversation at the bar, yes that seem plausible. Additionally, perhaps cultured loos are not like american bar bathrooms, but im concerned for the amount of touching Jess does in said loo.
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Apr 26, 2021 16:47
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Yoruichi posted:I will take a line crit please quote:Subtraction: “I love you.” quote:Adjustment: “Do you want to move in together?” Commentary: To maintain the energy of Jess, Andrew needs to pose this question in a different way. It’s a little too innocuous of a way to broach the topic. Aver it. “You should move in with me,” Andrew says. Something like that. Jess having an exaggerated reaction is fine, because moving in with a significant other IS actually a big deal, but give it some momentum. quote:Keep: “So, does that mean you don’t believe in, like, electricity?” Andrew had teased her, when she’d first told him. Commentary: This is your first bit of characterization. Nice, considerate, patient, tooth brusher, Jess says this, but this is where its finally shown. Is Andrew a smart person? I would say no, because of the things he could come up with that ephemeral, electricity is something that is frequently experienced, sometimes fatally. quote:Dissection: Andrew took a mouthful of beer. He was looking at her, waiting for her to say something. Their table was underneath the spreading arms of a large fake palm tree. The fairy lights hanging from the plastic fronds cast weird shadows on the pub’s walls. Commentary: Let’s dive in here. You have 850 words. The pub is fictional, fantasy, and subject to your whim. Here is where you can really do some double duty. Example: Andrew is the one who sits under the fake palm tree, not both of them. That you have included this detail means Jess notices. We are in her head, details you tell us, she sees even if you don’t say explicitly. Andrew underneath this palm tree says ‘vacation, paradise, relaxation’ but that its fake which is what Jess is thinking. Is this pub a favorite of Andrew’s? I find fake palms to be tacky, do you? Fairy lights need to be fairly bright to cast shadows in a pub setting. Should they really be casting shadows? What do the fairy lights mean, what do the shadows mean, why are they weird shadows? I think you can be very specific here. Don’t fuss with description because you’re missing some bar trappings, be precise. quote:Consternation: There was a burst of laughter from the other end of the bar. Jess glanced past Andrew. It was Tanya and her friends. Andrew used to tell Tanya that he loved her, Jess thought. Tanya and Andrew had been talking when Jess arrived at the bar, standing together next to the stool that Jess’s bony behind was now perched on. They had an easy intimacy, as if neither had ever hurt, or been hurt by, the other. Commentary: I personally do not like that Tanya is here. I think this can be told in flashback, because this is poor form by Andrew. He invites Jess to a bar his ex frequents, and wants Jess to move in with him. Played straight, Jess should be amiss. With the benefit of knowing the ending, I don’t think this creates a tone I am getting from this. The tone I’m getting from this is Jess’s internal struggle, anxiety, trust, self-love, is getting intermingled with authentic concerns over whether Andrew is really a conscientious person. It’s no longer an internal struggle, but also an external struggle. Can this happen innocently in life? Absolutely, and perfectly kind people do worse to each other, but this is a very short story. Instead, Jess remembers seeing Andrew and Tanya, back when they dated, a flashback still allows Jess to compare apples to oranges, without also providing a very concrete reason for her to be hesitant. Commentary: You briefly describe Jess, but I’m not entirely sure why. Does she feel negative about her body? If so, where’s the rest of it? Who is she comparing her body to? It’s not Tanya. I don’t know what Tanya looks like. quote:Consternation: Jess tried to picture herself living with Andrew. It would be nice, she thought, not to have to pack and unpack her overnight bag. Why, then, was her mouth so dry? Jess’s heart was beating uncomfortably fast. Suddenly, she had to pee. quote:“Back in a minute,” Jess said. Commentary: A truly bizarre act in a public bathroom. I kind of like how gross it is. Is she normally a gross person? Can that be explored in her overnight bags? Does she bring dirty clothes with her? However, your description of tiles doesn’t make sense. Why are the tiles full of tiny irregularities? What happened to them, and what does it mean? Tiles are typically used because its uniformity, so what has happened here? Has someone smashed the tiles? Is it a very old place? Have too many fussy people run their faces along the wall and eroded the tiles irregularly? quote:Consternation: The bathroom door slammed and Jess jumped back, like a guard springing to attention. Commentary: I’m not a fan of this encounter. It reads as though you’ve where you wanted to go with this, and Tanya serves as your character to explain the whole thing away. Jess’s internal conflict is effectively rendered unimportant because all of her assumptions about Tanya and Andrew are now wrong. But then her own internal neuroses kick in, and she’s back to navel gazing, and Andrew isn’t really important. So, which is it? Which one is more important? Figure out what you want to get out of the bathroom, and run with it. quote:The loo flushed and Jess fled from the bathroom before Tanya could re-emerge from her stall. The corridor from the toilets back to the bar was empty. Jess put one hand on the dark red wallpaper, and touched her toe to her heel, like a tightrope walker. It was fifteen feet from the bathroom back to the door to the bar. Jess tried to slow her breathing. Seven feet. It wasn’t working. Three feet. Andrew said he would always love her; but she knew better than to believe that. This feels like a race to the finish line. Scrap the whole thing. I’m sorry if that sounds like a cop out. But what do you actually want from the climactic conversation? Is it supposed to fizzle out, with Jess not feeling particularly comforted, or happy in her own decision? Is Jess supposed to find a way to quiet her own internal voice? The conclusion seems to suggest she’s at least willing to take convenience if she cannot find solace, is there a better way to show that? Andrew doesn’t do anything, and Jess doesn’t do anything to really warrant getting to the end. It just happens.
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Apr 27, 2021 18:21
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My Shark Waifuu posted:Hi, I'd like a line crit too please. After a long morning of evading the police, Steve entered the boss's warehouse in a foul mood. He found the cause of his problems at the center of a labyrinth of piled boxes: a slim white man known as, appropriately, Mr. White. Without the balaclava, Steve could see that his face was extremely punchable. He resisted the urge, if only because the boss wouldn't like it. Why is the warehouse a labyrinth? Not that I mind, but this is a great time to lean on some foreshadowing. Steve has a convoluted plot, so perhaps he was the one who created the dumb layout of the warehouse? Show my why Mr. White’s face is punchable. Does he have a stupid smirk? Does he look surprised to see Steve? Mr. White smiled as he approached. "Hey Steve-o, glad to see you made it past the cops." "No thanks to you, man," Steve growled. "Where's the boss?" Almost never need to over describe how someone is speaking. Let the words handle that for you. Are they not accomplishing the job? Get better words. "On a call." Mr. White nodded towards the back room. "I know last night didn't go exactly right. When the alarm goes it's every man for himself, yeah?" Steve had worked with cocky bastards like him before (usually car thieves), but they had the skills to back up their attitude. “Steve had worked with cocky bastards, and incompetent bastards, but rarely incompetent cocky bastards.” "Yeah, but you're supposed to be good,” he said. “Someone who'd find a sensor between the frame and the painting." “Yeah, but you were the one who didn’t find the sensor between the frame and the painting” Mr. White shrugged unapologetically. "You're the security guard and you didn't know. Plus, standards have changed since I retired. I only got back in the game for the Rothko, you know." “Mr. White shrugged. ‘You’re the guard.’ An excuse for everything. "Sure, man." Steve rolled his eyes, which Mr. White misinterpreted. “Steve rolled his eyes. ‘Where’s the Rothko?’” Your original dialogue runs 88 words. I cut it down to 44, and I don’t think we lost any plot points, or characterization. When you’re on a tight word budget, make everything count. "I know the Rothko looks simple, 'my kid could paint that,' right? But this poo poo goes for millions. He's quite famous as one of the best artists of–" "–abstract expressionism," said Steve. Mr. White looked surprised, so he added, "Not much to do on the night shift besides read plaques." "–abstract expressionism," Steve said. Mr. White looked surprised. "Not much to do on the night shift besides read plaques." "Ah, of course." Steve was already tired of him, but Mr. White carried on. "Look, thanks for leading me right to it. That museum is a maze. Shame we couldn't nab more, but this should still be a nice chunk of change." He patted the tube resting on the table between them. "Ah…of course,” White said. "You have a good eye. That museum was a maze. Shame we couldn't nab more." He patted the tube resting on the table between them. Steve nearly retorted that they could've gotten more if Mr. White had done his loving job when the boss stomped out from behind a wall of boxes. Cut this entirely. We already know Steve is frustrated, and Mr. White did not do his job well. "You better not have touched anything," the boss said. Steve had been the inside man for him on several previous jobs: a mechanic, a worker at a chemical warehouse, and so on. Art was a new field for them both. I’m not sure why we need to know more about Steve’s previous side gigs. It establishes him as a smart man, and able to assimilate into roles, but these details don’t really come up. And it actually detracts from his betrayal, because why is the art the one that sets it off? "Nope, just chatting," Mr. White said. “Safe and sound, on me mom’s grave,” White said. This doesn’t have to be verbatim, but give characterization to White, and inform the reader that he hasn’t inspected the art to notice the counterfeit. "Well, stop it. You guys hosed up the exit, but you got the paintings, yeah?" “Where are they? You hiding them up your arse?” The boss is crude, swears, but don’t waste time re-iterating what the reader knows. We already know they hosed up the exit, and we know the Rothko was the only thing that made it out. "Just the Rothko," Mr. White said shamelessly. Again, don’t need to use ‘shamelessly.’ The boss grumbled. Steve held his breath as he unpacked the painting and squinted at it. "I don't recognize this one from the catalog," the boss said. "Steve, you sure this is the right one? I know all these colored ones look the same. Uh, no offense." Steve held his breath as the boss unpacked the painting and squinted at it. "This the right one? These fuckers all look the same." 47 words vs 24 words. The boss does not care about offending Steve. Why should he? Also, Steve is not an art connoisseur, he’s a hired security guard. (see note later). Steve exhaled and nodded. "That's the one." "That's the one." The boss sighed and looked at the painting again. "Not sure I'll be able to sell it quick. You boys are gonna have to wait on your payment." Steve started to protest; without payment, what was the point? However, Mr. White's argument was more effective. Holding a pistol, he put his hands on the table and stared the boss in the face. "I can just take it back if you don't want it," he drawled. I don’t like this here, because you’re actively tricking the reading with your knowledge as the narrator. You don’t need to have the aside, ‘without payment what was the point,’ because Steve knows this, so he’s really not thinking that. He’s actually NOT surprised by this turn of events, since he’s been working for this man for awhile. The boss straightened up, revealing a gun of his own. “I’ll pay you if and when I drat well please. And I’m not feeling very generous with an unknown painting and a botched job.” It’s not really an unknown painting, if he trusts Steve. He appears to trust Steve enough to continue to hire him. That’s just internal consistency. Does he trust Steve, or does he not trust Steve? Just make sure it all lines up. The two men glared at each other. Steve shrank back; his day had been bad enough without getting shot by a white man. But when neither man showed signs of relenting, he ventured, “Even if it is an unknown painting, it’s still a Rothko, right? Surely that’s good enough for at least a down payment?” “The two men glared at each other. Steve shrank back; his day had been bad enough without getting shot by a white man. Neither man showed signs of relenting. “It’s still a Rothko, right? That’s good enough for at least a down payment?” This is an interesting aside. We only know Mr. White, is white, not the boss, not Steve. Now I see why the boss was apologizing for using the phrase ‘colored’ but that’s not readily apparent in the original sentence. Also, the boss doesn’t seem like a person to apologize for racism. Does Steve’s race play a factor in them not believing he is capable of this subterfuge? If that’s the case, play it up. “Normally yes, you're a good lad, Steve,” the boss said without taking his eyes off of Mr. White. “But this washed-up thief has been very disrespectful.” "How about I apologize nicely?" said Mr. White, holstering his gun under his suit jacket. "I'm sorry, I don't react to not being paid well." "And I don't react to threats well. I'll give you a partial payment, and you owe me another job," said the boss. "Sounds good, I've got the bug again. Try for a Van Gogh next time, partner?" Mr. White winked at Steve. "I need a vacation after all this," said Steve. The boss barked a laugh and handed Steve a parcel of cash. "Get out of here, enjoy yourself." # The boss was much less friendly when he called Steve the next morning. News of the robbery had hit the papers: "Fake Rothko stolen from exhibition of countertop art. A case of mistaken identity?" Steve picked up, sipping a mimosa in the airport lounge. "What the gently caress, Steve?" the boss said as a greeting. "You led him to the wrong loving painting, you motherfucker!" "How do you know it's not Mr. White's fault?" "Don't play dumb. That guy just laughed and told me to contact him if I wanted a real Rothko," the boss fumed. "It was your job to scout the museum." "I did, the real Rothko is on the third floor." Steve hesitated, then continued. Not like he was planning to go back. "But I've got a secret to share, boss. All those nights in the museum, just me and the art, I started to get it, you know? Get why people spend a stupid amount of money for them. The art, the good stuff, it speaks to you, man. Unlocks emotions, thoughts, you didn't know you had in you. So yeah, I pointed him to the fake one. The real one deserves to be seen." The boss had a lot of words to say about that, most threatening his life. Steve hung up; the PA system had just announced that first class for the flight to Paris was now boarding. He smiled as he picked up his bag, looking forward to appreciating some art in the light of day. You don’t stick the landing here. The assumption was Steve has the real painting. Otherwise, why risk evading police? He’s supposed to be there. Why not let White get caught? Why not let the boss get caught? If Steve does not have the real painting, he pointed them to a fake (which the idea is also ludicrous, that a museum houses both the real exhibit and a fake one at the same time), or a painting by a different person? Why is he even entertaining a call from his boss, if not to gloat about pulling a fast one on someone who assumed he was incapable of doing it? What do you want to show in the final scene, start there, and then organically create the scenario the lends itself to it. You are showing the prompt constraint is a handicap here, not informative of the story. That he is in the airport is perfectly fine, but his activity and reasons for being at the airport, or holding this scene at the airport, are merely contrivance and only serve to confuse the elements you had established earlier.
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Apr 27, 2021 22:31
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Azza Bamboo posted:Kartul, Javier and Helen I felt the piece had its own internal inconsistencies. Kartul has regrets, spoken in first person, indicates he placed the writing there (though, someone else could have done that, but I don't think so), but he is still surrounded by weapons, armor, regalia. There are many engravings and the tomb is hand hewn, so his clan were responsible for creating it at least. That he is alone, and his body unmolested indicate that there is no malice inflicted on him. But there is effectively graffiti indicating his belongings all belong to his cousin. But the belongings are still there? Would the weapons and armor not be smelted down into their raw materials? If he left the note, he's expecting the tomb to be reopened, but at the same time he's saying he has no family? Of course, he does have family. His entire family is elsewhere. Javier having a net to me means he became a new provider for his mother (but peculiar, is there a lot of fishing to be done in the Teneas mountains?). The woman his mother is embraced with, a lover? a mother? a fellow matriarch? Your story indicates DNA testing is possible, why are we in the dark about the other person? By also being cagey about the year this happens, I don't know what the chronology is. I'm assuming by indicating Kartul had hair and teeth, that he is younger than expected. Did he abandon his clan, or did his clan abandon him? I don't know this story answers that. Did you write out your timeline of what happens in Kartul's time and place? How old is Javier when mummified? I don't mind the story is told from an evidence based perspective, and I dont think its necessary to explore the archaeologist's point of view. They are the neutral narrator, describing the sequence of events. I think there was more room to work in whats important about what is left, what is missing, and the final moments of life for the three named mummies, and the community as a whole. There's no real line crit to be able to be given here. You tried something difficult, but unfortunately if you don't nail it, it becomes a bigger miss.
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Apr 28, 2021 00:58
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In order of posting. Uranium Phoenix: I might be predisposed to the piece because I also have worked in education for a long time, but I believe most people should be able to relate to the circumstances. I think this is a very well written, if optimistic. If any criticism is to be levied, perhaps a little overwrought with the spell names and theory jargon, but that's really just opinion and not grounded in any theory. Brotherly: I'm not sure how well it meets the prompt. I'm looking for some mundanity, something base that I can apply a universal understanding to. I'm not getting that here. This does need a second pass for some copyediting, but its not egregious, maybe some reworking on your similes/metaphors. I'm not sure what "saggy bread" is. My biggest complaint here is that you don't lean on any part of the story. You've got a tiny bit of characterization, a tiny bit of world building, a tiny bit of action, and not much narrative arc building. Give me something you can really hang your hat on, otherwise cut some of the chaff. I think you start the story too early. Anime Was Right: I don't think this meets the prompt at all. " Write me a story based in some facet of your professional or other specialist knowledge." This needs a line edit by someone better at grammar than I am, but there are too many spots where the flowery language isn't getting across what you want. I appreciate a rumination on writing and weaving an artistic relaying of what happens, but a problem is that nothing happens, and I don't think Klariss grows or changes, or is a catalyst in her own life. I want to know what the end feeling and goal you were shooting for, and how was it informed by the plot? Simply Simon: I appreciate you don't waste time hiding what the 'secret' is. I am not sure you hit the prompt though, your protagonist is a lawyer, but that she is a lawyer isn't relevant other than to place her at the scene. Her real skillset comes from her chemistry background, so I'm not sure which aspect of her skillset is the one being emphasized that the prompt has influenced. I think there's definitely some room to cut, and you need to work on your imagery when it comes to your descriptions saying the opposite of what you mean: "Angela felt a red riptide wash over her face." A riptide pulls water away from shore, so a riptide would leave her face ashen/pale, not red. The end feels a little rushed, and I think you could have alleviated by doing some trimming earlier. Weltich: This is a pretty good story. I would prefer to see the stakes, the dropped air canister, appear sooner in the story, but I think you also alleviate some of that with the repeated emphasis of how dangerous it is what they're doing. I appreciate the specificity of the diving technique, and I like how its been applied to bootlegging, something very plausible, but also novel at the same time. I think the acronyms are going to throw a reader, TVA and TTB, and I dont think you'd lose anything by writing them out. While I agree that a local, especially one using a vernacular like holler to indicate valley(and also using holler to indicate yell), wouldnt say the full name, I think you already hit the versimilitude of the protagonist. Lastly, I think you might want to work in the cost of the whiskey. Retail, I'm guessing each barrel is somewhere around $5,000 a piece. Seems awfully dangerous for the cut these two men are going to receive. Maybe increase the number of barrels that makes it worth their while to get down there, or really highlight just how desperate they might be. Yoruichi: A very bold takeoff into the drudgery of middle management, animal husbandry and horrors of technology. I appreciate the lighthearted tone, it makes a fun adventure of something truly dystopian. The one thing I think this is missing, is a deeper dive into what Susan is thinking during her test flight of this jethorse. I say that because there's an undercurrent that Susan does enjoy her job, her coworker antics (to some extent), but she obviously has this robust, but languishing, skillset that seems obsolete, or at least out of place, in this techno-moreau world. Sitting Here: A wild story gets a wild crit. I believe this is all in Scruptis' head, a sycophant desperately in love with his Empress, but has been blunted by the banality of bureaucracy in a totalitarian post-apoc 'lull'. His imagination of how Sanguira acts or thinks is dulled, to the point that she cannot emphasize anything, and that the only thing that excites her is the imaginary anti-Scruptis, the Tyranor. He is always kept at arms, if not greater, reach because he's annoying. The kind of annoying of a person who always wants to do a good job when the world is awash in a sea of meaningless entropy. The kind of person who got 'better' in a pandemic, but that just made them worse. And hes the protagonist, having his own existential crisis, but his desperate love for his empress is clouding his ability to articulate why he's so unhappy. Some things are un-crittable by design, but internal Scruptis is what I want to see more of. There's relatability up to a point, where no matter what the circumstance, boredom is the true enemy. The word choice is fun, so is the treatment of the world, but I think there's more room to play with bizarre details that would flesh out the visuals a bit more. Since its a fun romp, what other 'little weirds' could be peppered throughout in place of the rote apocalypse details? Thranguy: I know I'm not smart enough to follow the story, but it appears to know exactly what it is talking about. I like the concept of thinking of ourselves, our souls really, as non-fungible tokens that can be given arbitrary value but only on purpose. We don't inherently, or accidentally, have value, we don't even claw our own value, we are given it. I might be mis-reading the theme, but I wanted to see the end cap off that sentiment. Are sufficiently engineered tulpa's indistinguishable from ourselves, in the same way sufficiently advanced technology indistinguishable from magic. But the end isn't as concerned with that, the end is concerned with the mechanics of it all, including the biz dev and damage control. Maybe I'm missing the theme, and that its a commentary on ignoring the adage of 'just because we can doesn't mean we should'. I liked the story, though its internal conflict can is kicked down the road a fair bit, and the story doesn't have any stakes for the protagonist really. I did personally find it tough to follow, but I don't count that as a negative. Some small errors that can get cleaned up in an additional copyedit pass. I like the application of what an NFT could mean outside of internet-land. My Shark Waifu: I don't consider mynah bird to be cool and confident. Flourescent lights produce far less heat than halogens. Start your story after the first break. The entire first paragraph can be summed up in one sentence. "Ooh, an invitation to share my bird knowledge." is telling, not showing. Let the dialogue carry the feeling you want to evoke. "I'm surprised she knows that. " Same. "Could be an actual birding guide, you know. Or a cop." I don't know what this line implies. I'm also not convinced white supremacists in the bush wouldn't beat birders to death, or at least steal their camera no matter what. You've got a mismatch on internal stated stakes, and how it plays out in the story. All said and done, I have no idea how a birder becomes a hero, and I think you do the prompt justice. I think there's room to go in different directions, playing up the absurdity of a birder leading officers, or play up how out of depths the birder is. At the moment you're treading this middle ground. Crabrock: jesus christ. Sebmojo: Snappy with just enough mundanity to keep everything grounded. I've seen this happen far too many times where an off-handed comment is unfortunately only relayed until after that comment has already caused considerable consternation. Good on Tony for knowing to not open his stupid mouth. I don't have much to say really. Chairchucker: Like another story, I'm not smart enough to follow the logic of time travel, and I would get too tripped up trying to follow it that I would lose the story. Because its in the archive, I'll take it at face value. I thought this was very good, if maybe there are just some details that I would think would play out differently. I can't imagine the Captain being able to be left alive, and I'm surprised the Colonel didn't read the report either, or he would know what cell the device arrives in. Who writes the report for archival? Anyway, I think the way you've written it as also characterizes the narrator. He's very robotic, detached (and what I would assume as PTSD from repeatedly reading about war crimes of the machine he is part of), and I think the writing captures that well. This is not an insult, if it appears as such, I think its adept. Maybe a bit more characterization of the time traveler? Maybe relevant, maybe not, it almost seems as though its not even necessary for them to exist. Could the machine just appear, and because he read the report, knows enough of how to use it?
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May 4, 2021 07:01
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has this really been 10 years? in.
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Jul 26, 2021 21:46
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What She's Having Cake (+600): It’s someone’s birthday! Words: 600 Grant stood in front of the cakery and in the bay window he saw his reflection of internal terror. For some people making decisions can sometimes be difficult, for Grant he would be wracked with cold sweat. Before his older sister had passed away, growing up with her was easy. She made the calls; he went along for the ride. What would she get, a strawberry spongecake? Sprinkles? Lemon curd? If he could just remember, it would make everything fine. “Uncle, let’s go,” Anna said. The whole cakery was her idea because his sister would never buy birthday cakes. No one liked the same thing, and his sister refused to deal with the fallout of children not getting their way. Grant momentarily thought about what would have happened if his sister had died when Anna was still a child. What on earth was she thinking when she drafted up that living will? He probably would have just bought 10 cakes instead. Gulping, he nodded, ran a mental tabulation of his meager checking account, and followed his niece inside. The cakery was tiled in small hexagons, a mosaic with no discernable pattern. The various tiles made Grant’s eyes lose focus, but it was either that, or what seemed like an equal number of cakes packed into the refrigerated display cases. Despite the chilly air in the patisserie, Grant was becoming drenched. Today would have been his sister’s birthday, and out of habit, they spoke about it as though she was alive, just momentarily indisposed. Vanilla cake was out of the question, lest every bad thing his family thought about him be true. Chocolate was also boring and ineffectual; how dull that your best idea after vanilla could only go as far as chocolate cake. Tres Leches intimidated him, and his lactose intolerance would see to further public embarrassments. Salted Caramel would expose him as a sexual deviant he long suspected his family assumed of him, and Lemon Meringue reminded him of when he frosted his tips in middle school. “You know, I don’t even know what my mom would want, haha,” Anna laughed. “I don’t think I ever saw her eat cake.” Grant had seen his sister eat cake once. It was at her wedding. Their mother had baked it, and she raved about it. Grant just couldn’t remember what it was because he had been paralyzed during the entire ceremony, and into the reception. He crouched down, pretending to scan the bottom rack of a display case. When he thought Anna wasn’t looking, he buried his face into his arms. Guilt had a funny way of welling up sometimes. He sat there like the time he pooched his sister’s wedding toast. A task that had been sprung upon teenage Grant the night before, he would say to defend himself in the prevailing years. He distinctly remembered asking if there was anything he had to do before he accepted being her ‘maid of honor,’ and she had assumed he meant in addition to the toast. Everyone got to have a chuckle, and Grant added another incident to the list. Here it was again, screeching into the void; he was going to ruin another event because he couldn’t pick a loving cake to get. A hand rested on his shoulder. Anna gave him a loving, knowing smile. “It’s okay, get what you want,” she said. “We can buy them by the slice here. It’s what mom would have wanted.” Grant nodded, tears in his eyes. Maybe he would get two slices, and keep his family guessing.
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