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Ten Feet (1496 words) “I hear Carl’s going to have you working the parallel bars today. You’ll be back on your feet again. That’s huge!” the smiling receptionist said, as she confirmed the check-in on her computer. To speak eye-to-eye, she had to look down and through a potted dracaena that sat on her desk. Dynamo tried to mirror her warm expression, which he could barely see from his wheelchair, but he couldn’t muster any enthusiasm. Walking seemed so insignificant. Especially when there was a time he could run faster than a speeding train. Leap higher than a building. No, nothing's 'huge' about today, Dynamo decided. He considered the receptionist’s words a moment. She’d slipped up. So Carl just shares my medical details with everyone? Dynamo wanted to ask, feeling slighted by the realization that his condition’s obviously the talk of the breakroom. He relented. “... I look forward to testing my mettle against the bars,” Dynamo boomed, limply adopting the role he supposed was expected of him. Dynamo waved goodbye and swung his wheelchair towards the reception’s exit. It was blocked. The glass casement doors had already sealed. “Oh, let me get that for you, it’s-” -The least I could do, after all you’ve done, Dynamo jeered internally. “-The least I could do, given everything you’ve done for us,” the receptionist beamed proudly. She pushed a button on her desk and the casement doors parted. “A thousand thank yous,” Dynamo boomed. As Dynamo rolled down the marble hallway towards the activity room, he winced at himself for almost snapping at her. Then chided himself for parroting her so grotesquely. He’d heard those words a lot lately, when people did little things for him. There was something irritating about it, but he couldn’t say what. A middle-aged man exited the activity room. He saw Dynamo, grinned and planted himself at the entry. He held open the automatic doors with his bulk. “Hey Dynamo, looking good! Let me just get the door for you. It’s the least I...” Dynamo let his consciousness depart from his body a moment. “A thousand thank yous, and please, it’s just... Brandon... now.” Dynamo’s rich baritone nearly cracked at his birth name. The middle-aged man shook his head as Dynamo passed. The activity room was a wide, open space, with uncomfortably low ceilings that flashed wan fluorescent lights. A series of padded medical tables lined up on one of its ends, while the other was rowed by specialized equipment. A dozen patients, and their attendants, gawked at Dynamo as he wheeled in. Months ago, Dynamo had picked a small but competent facility for his recovery, hoping to keep the process subdued. A foolish notion for anywhere, Dynamo later realized. “Hey Dynamo! I saw that Doctor Phosgene trial on TV! I’m glad they hit him with the maximum sentence. If you ask me, that bastard deserved worse,” someone (who had the courage to blurt out what everyone was thinking) hoarsely shouted. “...I’m content with its outcome,” Dynamo boomed. The trial was a farce. Phosgene had the temerity to plead Not Guilty, by reason of insanity, at its onset. It was only a manoeuvre to make further show of his atrocities. He knew his state of mind would be probed, and he savoured the opportunity to describe his mindset. He smashed his own defence by admitting everything was for revenge. The escape from prison, the gamma ray trap to destroy Dynamo’s powers, and the sledgehammer beating. If Dynamo had only let him experiment on children in the first place, Phosgene proclaimed, none of this would’ve been necessary. “Seeing your arch-nemesis go down must’ve sure felt sweet!” Bile rose into Dynamo’s throat. Phosgene craves attention, and he basks in it now. His plan succeeded completely. Dynamo grit his teeth as he rolled by. “...I’m always thankful for justice.” Carl, a wizened old physiotherapist nearing the end of an astonishing career, awaited Dynamo at the last table. “We’ve made so much progress lately, after the warm-up, I think I’m going to put you on the parallel bars. A few steps will do you alotta good.” “Yes, I hea- ...had my suspicions we’d tackle the bars today.” Dynamo decided to secret the earlier slip-up, to save both Carl from embarrassment, and the receptionist from reprimand. Dynamo tried to jockey himself from his chair onto the table, but his hands slipped on the armrests. Without conscious effort, his legs could spontaneously give-out. Dynamo winced, expecting Carl to swoop in. Moments passed. Nothing. “Take your time,” Carl finally said. Dynamo focused himself, and coarsely threw his mass onto the table. “I might be a little quiet today. I'll need to steel myself for the bars.” “Sure, no problem.” ***** Two polished bars outlined the gauntlet Dynamo was to cross. The room’s attention shifted towards him. He stood between them at one end, with tense arms absorbing his weight. Gradually, he eased off, letting his feet take charge. “Excellent control so far. But it gets trickier. It’s only ten feet, but it’ll feel longer,” Carl cautioned from the sideline. Dynamo relaxed his right leg. It became mush. He slid it ahead, leaving the other to tremble alone under his mass. He tried to lunge forwards onto his right now, but something misfired. He would’ve fallen if not for the bars. Already exasperated, Dynamo shut his eyes. I have no real presence anymore. I can be seen, I can be heard, but I can truly do nothing else. Phosgene killed me. I’m a ghost of what I was. Dynamo drifted into his memories, to when he was child, when he first encountered that strange meteorite. He found it in a forest he often rode through. It glowed beautifully near a brook. He touched it. The primordial rustle of leaves swirled all around. The meteorite had a teacup’s warmth. His hand drank it in until the rock completely lost its shine. Mystified, he hopped back onto his bike to make his way home. “Take your time.” Dynamo heard through closed eyelids. He bumbled ahead, but it was like trying to hold a bone upright in soup. Through sheer will, he froze both his jelly legs over, then staggered forward as on stiff crutches. Dynamo could feel all the room's eyes boring into him now, and he resented every one of them. He disgusted himself. I’m pathetic. I’ve lost body AND soul. I can’t even be a nice person anymore. Retreating deeper into memory, he recalled the ride home from the meteorite. He didn’t tire. In fact, nothing tired him anymore. He could always move at full tilt. He let sharp winds run through his hair. He felt inexhaustible. Something in the meteorite had changed his marrow, he later discovered. His blood was awash with hyperactive STEM cells. Dynamo’s legs felt like stilts, and every inch tested his precarious balance. He lost his footing again. He hated himself. I’m useless without powers. Phosgene proved as much. As a child, Dynamo sought out his true limits, unsure if he even had any. Fortunately, unbelievable people had begun springing up all over the world, and he could use them as benchmarks. Unfortunately, however, most of them had already fallen into self-destructive spirals. They opted to use their fantastic powers to exploit others. They wasted their lives on vainglory. Dynamo couldn’t really use their example. He wanted to be different. At the halfway point, Dynamo realized his gawky legs wouldn’t last much longer. He couldn’t just hold them stiff the whole way. This is hopeless. I’ve never really had to try before. Memories swarming at him indicated otherwise, however. He pushed himself to the limit in training, then exceeded those limits when he started helping people. Every day had its struggles. Confrontations with other unbelievable people were especially gruelling. Sometimes, all he could do was outlast them. Memories of being so physically able agonized him. I can’t outlast my own body. I’ll have to do this in one push. Dynamo catapulted himself forward, but instantly toppled over. Only an iron grip on the bars averted disaster. Dynamo hauled himself up and hunkered down. He knew this was the last shot. This is beyond humiliation. Another memory came to him. He was a teen, still trying to master himself. With raw strength, he could throw himself over buildings now. But, could he target a building's window? A feat like would take utterly immaculate control. He tested himself by picking out individual trees in his forest to jump onto. Only strength, tempered with grace, could stick a landing. Dynamo strategized. No lunging, no catapulting, no heroics. He shuffled on at a turtle’s tempo, brooking no more misfire. “Excellent control,” Carl shouted, keeping pace at the sideline. Traversing ninety percent of the gauntlet took everything. Dynamo’s legs gave out. Refusing to yield, he inched forward on tensed arms. “Okay, good enough,” Carl exclaimed as Dynamo fell into his arms, “how was it?” Dynamo steeled himself, but his voice cracked anyway. “I felt like... Dynamo... again.”
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Sep 5, 2022 07:59
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Mutation: Touched by an extraplanar deity at birth True Name of the Sun 1500 words maximum, 1496 words used The Sun gazed down upon lifeless, endless plain of dust and bone. That burning, judgmental eye focused on something out of place: a young woman, her clothing shredded, her eyes hollow, her lips cracked and blistered. She stumbled over the dunes, stopping only to take rattling breaths of the still, baking air. Where did she come from? Why is she here? The Sun asked no questions; it merely doled out punishment, one of many uncaring gods. The intruder to that bleached domain could take the lashes no more. She collapsed, and began to cry. Her voice, cracked and mummified as it was, broke the silence. As the crying ceased, another sound intruded; a low rumble, growing louder as a dark shape on the horizon grew larger, resolving itself into a mid-sized van. It came to a stop close to the collapsed woman’s position, and a pair of men covered head-to-toe in protective gear stepped out and looked her over. “They weren’t lying! How did she survive so long out here?” one of them exclaimed as he feverishly reached for the canteen at his waist. “Easy now,” said his companion. “Check her vitals – no use pouring water into a corpse.” “Not… a corpse…” rasped the woman, reaching weakly for the canteen. The first man knelt and carefully trickled water into the woman’s dust-dry mouth, pausing only when she coughed. “Careful now, just little sips to start,” he said. He looked up at his companion. “Get the stretcher, I don’t think she’s going to be able to walk.” “Fair assessment,” said the second man. He opened the back door of the van and pulled out the stretcher, then wheeled it over to the woman, and with a soft apology from the first man they lifted her up and loaded her inside. Doors closed, cool air filled the van like a blessing. The first man squatted beside her on the floor, while the second took the wheel. “My name’s Norman,” he said to the woman as he carefully helped her to drink. “The guy at the wheel’s Eric.” “Charmed,” Eric said as they drove through the seemingly endless waste. “We’re from a research facility not too far from here,” Norman said. “We study the aboveground for new strains of life – we sure didn’t expect to see old one. Who are you? Where are you from? How did you get out there?” “Don’t know,” she said, her voice regaining a bit of its softness now that her throat had been lubricated after so long. “Well, I’m just glad we found you,” Norman said as he reassuringly patted her arm with his heavily gloved hand. “We’re gonna get you back to the facility, get some IV fluids in you, and get you right as rain! Right, Eric?” “...the hell is rain?” Norman turned his covered head to Eric. “Water falling from the sky! Used to happen all the time before Contact. C’mon, you’ve heard of it from history books and movies-” “I’m loving with you, I know what rain is! Nothing right about it, though – not out here. Maybe further north…” Eric shrugged even as he guided the van across the endless white expanse. Norman muttered, then he turned his head back to the woman. “Can you remember anything? Your name, at least?” The woman paused, brow furrowed. “Mary Aquila.” “I’m no psychiatrist, but you may be suffering from traumatic amnesia,” Norman said. “We’ll worry about how you got out there and where you’re from after we get you back on your feet. How’re you feeling now?” “Like I could use another drink,” Mary said, literally cracking a smile as he dried lip started bleeding again. Norman chuckled, and helped her take a few more sips of water. *** Mary could barely open her eyes, fatigue and dust having crusted them closed, but she saw she was laying in a hospital bed, her ruined clothes replaced with a paper gown. The last bit made her flush a bit with embarrassment, but she also noted her burns and bruises and blisters had been bandaged, her skin covered with soothing ointment, and the worst of her pain replaced by a stiffness in her arms where the IV’s had been stuck in. She was laying in a small, comfortable, windowless room. Next to her bed was a plastic table and garbage can. Across the room was a chair, and beside it a door to a bathroom. Hanging from the ceiling was a monitor, which was currently blank. “Finally awake, are we?” The masked visage of Norman poked in from the opening door, and he walked inside and sat in the chair. “I hope you don’t mind, but when you fell asleep I gave you a little shot to keep you that way because you needed the rest. We help when we can. At least when it’s part of our job.” He said the last part with audible regret, then he perked up. “But you look a lot better! How’re you feeling?” “Groggy, mostly.” She blinked and shook her head, looking down at her hands, weakly raised before her. Deep earth-toned skin, blistered and bandaged, her lighter palms scraped and scarred from crawling over sharpened stones and bone splinters. “But not in much pain.” “Good, I was worried about that,” Norman said. He stood and stretched. “Eric and I do a lot of work aboveground, so we see a lot of situations where we’re not allowed to intervene, only observe. But you? You’re an oddity. A small miracle, if you ask me, although don’t tell anyone I said that – talk of miracles and faith and all that is looked down upon here since Contact.” “’Contact?’” She couldn’t see Norman’s face through that heavy mask, but she could hear the confusion in his voice. “How could you not know about Contact? I know you must have gone through a lot, but…” He trailed off. “If you’ll allow me to explain?” A new voice, older and firmer cut in as the door opened. In walked in another fellow, covered in gear similar to Norman’s, but lighter in both color and weight – white and powder-blue as opposed to Norman’s black-and-green outfit. “My name is Dr. Marvin Hartford. I’m the head neobiologist of this facility.” “What’s a neobiologist?” Mary asked of the newcomer. “A field of study where the focus is on the new life-forms that have come about either via mutation of extant forms of life or spontaneous generation, both originating from the influence of xeno-deific entities attracted during Contact.” Hartford examined Mary as she lay there in much the same way she assumed he would a new specimen. “Many years ago, before we awoke the Sun’s dormant consciousness, mankind sought intelligent life beyond our own. “For centuries we relied on faith, then science, but it wasn’t until we formulated an algorithm to decode the seemingly random radiowaves transmitted by the Sun did we learn its true name, and when we called… it told us the answers to our every question and more, taught us how to part the veil and of the other beings like itself that dwell there.” “What are you talking about?” Mary asked, dumbfounded. “Are you playing with me? I’m grateful for your aid, but this is absurd.” Hartford ignored her protest. “When we established contact with the Sun, the government took precautions. Among those precautions were to estabish shelters where people could survive should things take a turn for the worse… and they did. The Sun is a terrible, jealous being, and when we used our knowledge to call other beings to us, and when they changed us to to suit their whims-” Mary struggled to sit up, but the drugs and her own weakened state made that impossible. “Dr. Hartford, I don’t want to hear any more of this.” “Doc, you’re upsetting her,” Norman said, his tone respectful, but firm. “We can tell her more when she’s recovered.” “I’m afraid we don’t have the luxury of patience,” Hartford said, his tone oddly giddy as he turned to face Norman. “Don’t you see? We have a sample of the old blood, untouched by the changes! And what’s more, she is female! Breeding stock to create more baselines, to defy the invaders and to reclaim what was taken from us!” “Breeding stock?!” Mary shouted fighting to sit up only to realize that beneath the light, comfortable covers she had been ever-so-gently strapped into the bed. “Who the hell do you think you are? Let me go! Let me go, goddamn you!” Hartford nodded to Norman who responded with a defeated sigh. In unison they unbuckled their masks, and Mary screamed in horror at what she saw. “Yes,” said the pallid, writhing thing that called itself Marvin Hartford. It let out a gurgling breath as its incomprehensible features throbbed with grotesque vitality. “It is terrible to look at, isn’t it? Don’t worry, Mary. You don’t need to be conscious to be of use to us.”
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Sep 5, 2022 10:33
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Submissions are now closed for this week.
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Sep 5, 2022 14:55
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Here are those longer crits I promised for last week's stories. Spoilering all except one of the twists, (Because it dosen't really spoil anything). Ben’s Death Twist: Ben was a secret agent Apparently while dying, Ben had time to test metal density? (Assay the situation). This is why folks (including I, the worst Thunderdomer) read it out beforehand, mate. Other than a few other errors, there wasn’t any reason given for me and the other judges to care. “On Method and ‘Doug Shouldn’t Drive,’” Little Chief: Spirits, Scandals and Coming Back to the Real World, an excerpt Twist: Doug was British This came really close to winning. I mean, really close. While there were some stories that were messed up because of the twist, this one seemed messed up despite the twist. If it wasn’t for what Jib put on/will put on his crit, you would’ve won. Wear that HM with pride. Man Vs Machine Twist: Frank was a killer robot Now, there are many problems grammatically, and it definitely deserved to lose, but I would like to say something personally: Hey, mate. Good job making that first step in Thunderdome! Even guys like Brandon Sanderson and even Tolkien had to start somewhere! That said, you have a long way to go (and this is the worst Thunderdomer speaking!) These guys here, they know their stuff. Some of them have written novels, and one of them has even published a novel! They can help you! If you let us help you, then perhaps your time shall come. And so shall mine.  Boxed Up Twist: The husband was put in storage This one was bizarre. I enjoyed it, but as I will mention later, there were more bizarre stories that had some messed up twists. It was fine. Not really enough for a mention. The Delve of Last Hope Twist: Prince Champion’s love was dead all along Now, I know many of you guys enjoy some fantasy. And I can appreciate that it deviates from norms of the genre. Overall, it seemed like a D&D campaign that went horribly wrong, in a way that shouldn’t be possible. Well done. Asphalt Shuffle Twist: They were body snatchers Huh. From fantasy all the way to science fiction! Anyway, it’s the kind of story where if a kid watched a movie version of it late at night, they would ask their Mom afterwards, “Are you really my mommy?” Has a nice, B movie feel. Komondora Twist: so goddamn many  I think Jontron could sum it up better than me. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5H-c-NZluPo After School Twist: Mr. Greenfield is from another world This one was alright, perfectly fine. The only problem it really had compared to many of the other stories (ESPECIALLY the previous one) was it seemed rather tame compared to some of the other stories. Could lead into a good fantasy novel. Most Equal of All Twist: The wife and hunky assistant were developing brain enhancers for animals This was also tamer than others, but was still quite bizarre. Loved that your narrator had the tone of a guy who looked at stuff like what was in the story and thought, “Yeah, this is normal.” Venting Twist: the narrator is creating either clones or zombies. This one was also good. The thing is, I thought he was cloning people, while my fellow Judges thought it was zombies. It didn’t seem clear. Other than that, while it was still good, it also seemed comparably tame. The man called M fucked around with this message at 01:09 on Sep 6, 2022 |
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Sep 5, 2022 16:06
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Week 526 Results Full crits to bud off my abdomen at a later date My strong and powerful fellow judges PhantomMuzzles and Fuschia tude have spent the evening judging you, and now you will hear our judgements. Our Winner this week is Kiddo and the Bull, which had an excellent opening and intriguing interrogation of its core idea throughout the rest of the story. We are handing an HM to Sparkle the Soccer Horse (despite that half a title) because it had a fun voice and imagery that made us laugh; and another HM to weirdo fish guy for a heartfelt, metaphorical tale that impressed me with its wave-like prose. Emblazoned, we enjoyed your worldbuilding but your narrative was too sketchy and pulled-back. Forgotten Toys divided the judges, but despite a delightfully weird specificity, its character and story arcs got lost in the clutter. Ten Feet had its fans as well, but the overlong opening and confusing ending means we're sending it back for more training. Half the words in The Sounding of My Voice went over our heads, but the wild voice and funny specifics made it hard to ignore. I wanted more payoff for all the setups in Delivery, but much like the characters, it didn't end up where I thought it would. We couldn't get a handle on the protagonist's interiority in The Planter, and as a result, we are leaving this piece on the curb. It is my great shame that I somehow inspired the rest of you to write these stories. We bestow a DM upon The Metamorphosis (IRL) for apparently coming close to plagiarizing the plot structure from Kafka and generally being unpleasant and boring aside from that. If I became a big bug in real life I would throw a garbage party, so you got this one very wrong! We are also giving a DM to True Name of the Sun because, while we were enjoying some aspects of your story, the gross ending ruined it for no reason and made us all hate you. Finally, this week's Loss goes to Good Boy for syntax & punctuation that seemed... off, an agonizingly slow narrative build that seemed... wrong, and lackluster descriptions that seemed somehow... not quite right. Good work Tyrannosaurus, the floor is yours!
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Sep 6, 2022 06:44
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Something Else posted:Week 526 The Planter That's a nice reveal about what the metamorphasis is/is going to be. Hmm. A lot of these details are cute, but I'm not sure about what they add up to. I'm not entirely sure what she's implying at the end, and the bush planted to cover him up... for modesty? And to cover the scratch? That's it? This just seemed to kind of get weird and hard to parse the meaning of by the last scene. Everyone's suddenly talking so obliquely. Sparkle the Soccer Horse or All Praise to The Eye (All Praise to The Eye) Some decent voice writing and a cool weird mutation. Description of the Lovecraftian event around the hole/tear is kind of bland and generic. I like this new development with the animals learning, though. Overall verdict: cute. Delivery Well that was cool. Kind of consistently surprising all the way through. I don't really know any details of the deal, and it's a bit funny that the mutation is hypothetical, future, and promised rather than actualized in the story, but somehow I'm OK with that. Ohhh, I just realized from Muzzle's review that the viewpoint character possibly used his powers to get the bag of cash, rather than the little homunculus. I guess it's up to interpretation. Forgotten Toys Hmm. This is all competently written, and nothing glaring stands out. The stilted language of the mice aside, I guess. But nothing about this story really grabbed me. You're just bored exploring the attic with Mick, and then confused stuck in the dollhouse with him, the end. It's like it tries to be a horror story, without ever creating a feeling of dread, or even mystery (aside from "what is going on there at the end" because it's so out of left field). The Sounding of My Voice Oh. That title. This is pretty cool. Weird and obscene and I don't get it at all and cool. I get the feeling it's not quite true to the experience of being deaf--a lot of people wouldn't necessarily get the connection between 'baloney' and 'balogna' at all if they'd never heard it, because the one doesn't look similar to how they're both pronounced, for instance--but that's not a huge deal. weirdo fish guy Huh. This is a cool meditation. Unlike a lot of this week's stories I get the feeling this one isn't literal and really isn't trying to be. The Metamorphosis (IRL) Ah, of course I should have anticipated a Kafka reference with this week's subject. Oh, huh, this is a direct rewrite of its namesake into modern day. OK. And I think this story is also really not trying to be literal. But then, Kafka's arguably wasn't, either. I wish you had twisted or altered the Kafka story in some way, though, rather than just hitting every single beat of it in order. Good job translating it into 2021 America and flash fiction format, I guess? Like, it's all competently written at a technical level, but structurally? Besides a thin commentary on modern remote meetinged socially disconnected WFH life (...and Twitch streamers...?), what's the point? Emblazoned So it's a superhero story. For such a short story it's chock full of proper nouns and I'm not sure it needed to be quite so thick with them. I'm more interested in some of these one-line throwaway references like titanium and alien tech. It's kind of annoying how often you use pronouns instead of names, even when you're referring to different people in the same paragraph or across multiple paragraphs. The "lovers as teens" paragraph in particular I kept getting hung up on trying to figure out who was the subject. Eventually I figured out the "he" was Marcus/Blazon, since he is the topic of the story. But I'm not quite sure why, and I'm not sure what happened in the end. I don't know how he died... twice? Did getting headshot uncure him of his superpowers? This feels like you tried to cram a whole multi-issue story arc into a two-page story and it really suffers for not having the space to breathe. It's just not remotely able to grasp what it's reaching for. To be honest, I was into that weird-something-happening-in-high-school story it started out as, and I wish it had stayed there for the whole length. Kiddo and the Bull Superpowers in a normal setting. OK. Seems like plausible child's reasoning so far. Interesting choice to make the transformed one the non-viewpoint character, and that it happened a lifetime ago. Nice enough. Despite the length it was quick to read. Good Boy This is an interesting story so far. Some technical errors at the construction level, lots of run-ons and splices, but the story structure is compelling. But then it all falls apart in the last act. Everything from the discovery of the barrel on is rote, perfunctory, like you couldn't think of anything to write but the most obvious thing, and I'd say you should read some good fight scenes, not to copy them but just to note how and why they set things up and advance events sentence by sentence and why they work. Disappointing, especially after the promising opening. Ten Feet This feels like an unusual number of superhero stories for a typical week. I guess a topic like 'metamorphosis' makes people think of Spider-Man. This opening half is just dull. Wayyy too many words for way too little happening. At least in the second part things are moving. I don't know. That ending didn't feel earned. Especially after that opening sequence. We just don't have the context for what he's feeling about the past, since we never saw him with his powers, and all we see of him is mostly from that first scene, which does not paint him in a good light at all. True Name of the Sun This started out interesting, but then it just became a parade of talking heads burping out backstory. You write these characters like they're NPCs in, well, Fallout, just there to infodump worldbuilding cruft. Establish shelters huh? So this literally is Fallout. And then it just goes there at the end. A Battlestar Galactica reboot episode. I wish you had done anything to put an interesting spin on the situation. All of the action was predictable and all of the worldbuilding  was wayyyyyy too long.
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Sep 6, 2022 12:12
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Week 526 Crits - A Total Freakshow The Planter There was quite a bit going on in this story. There was this historic, plant-filled house. There was Fion[n]a, an aspiring comedian. There was the Dad, dying and making his plans to be memorialized in stone. There was the Daughter-Father relationship, as she navigates the loss-but-not-loss of her father, as she was left this huge house and all it entails. Then later there was the relationship between Fion[n]a and June. There were elements of all those things that I found engaging. But ultimately I didn’t feel like they all blended together well. It felt like each thing was trying to make the story about itself. And the “mutant” part was sort of lost and ultimately maybe didn’t affect the plot all that much? If the Dad had just passed away the story would have been much the same. I think you could have really honed in on the idea of someone choosing to turn themselves to stone instead of dying, and look at how that affects their loved ones struggling with the emotional burden of the loss, but also the physical burden of now having a giant human boulder in their house. But as-is it felt like the plants were the biggest focus? I got a little lost trying to set the scene and figure out what I was supposed to care about the most. Sparkle the Soccer Horse or All Praise to The Eye I like the overall concept/arc of this story. I like what happens and why and how bizarre it is and how it sort of resolves. There are some clunky things along the way though. In the initial setup, I thought that only Nancy’s horse was mutated. Something about the setup, and the question “But why the horse?” That seemed to imply to me that the horse was the one affected, like the cursed cost for something good. I liked how you conveyed the idea of The Eye sort of taking over their minds and making them think of (or forget) things they didn’t have control over. But when it’s first sort of brought up, in the paragraph beginning with “This is some bullshit right here”. I got a little lost. It was sort of a flashback that happened mid-train of thought and it just got a little murky. The other thing that felt a little off for me was when Henry told Nancy about her horse. There was a bit setup like “Oh no I don’t want to have to tell her, she’ll be so upset.” But then he didn’t try to warn her or ease her feelings. He was just sort of like “Hey Nancy, come look at this” and it didn’t really feel authentic or establish their relationship. Delivery It took me way too long to remember that boot means trunk. So I spent the first part of the story picturing a little creature inside a foot boot. This is not your fault, obviously. Just wanted to share because it was a funny image and I am dumb. I liked this! The relationships were clear, the arc made sense, the story was interesting. It feels a bit more like an origin story than a standalone story, but it’s still solid. I did have some questions at the end, like where did he get a backpack full of cash? Even if I had invisibility and teleportation I’m not sure where I could find a backpack of cash on short notice. It wasn’t a problem, narratively-speaking, that I didn’t know. But the ending is the part that made it feel the most origin story-ey. He gets mutant powers, but we don’t actually see it. We don’t know the ramifications of him letting the creature free. And the second-to-last sentence hints that someday something is going to go down between Michael and his Dad. And it’s fine that all of that isn’t in this story. But I can’t help but feel like all of that might have been a more interesting story than the car ride. Forgotten Toys I mostly like the intro, but the “Or they would have been…” threw me. I know it was meant to undo/subvert the “dear” in “dear departed dad”. But it felt like it was undoing the whole first sentence. So after the second sentence I was like “Wait, are they in an attic or not?” Ooh I didn’t know the word gewgaws and I like it. This story was great. I liked it a lot. It felt a little more “magic” or “curse” or something than “mutant”, but whatever. I thought the pacing was really good, the imagery was clear, and the characters/relationships all made sense to me. It was bizarre but somehow charming. I was really into a lot of the visuals and descriptive language in the attic. I thoroughly understood the vibes of the space, and I could see everything clearly. It gave major House on the Rock vibes, if you’ve ever been there. But like if the House on the Rock guy wasn’t ridiculously rich, and was just a regular poor eccentric hoarder like the rest of us. I like the twist that the mom didn’t disappear, but became mouselady! That was cute. I like how the family members’ relationships are described. It’s very clear, which is tough to do in a way that’s not like so many breakfast scenes of tv pilots that are like “Hello big sister, remember how our parents died a year ago?”. I do like the implications that when their mom was around, she sort of kept him happy and reigned in his conspiracy theory-ness. Though I wonder if it would be more impactful (but maybe more cliche?) if he only had a passing interest in that stuff before she disappeared, but her unexplained disappearance propelled his descent into conspiracy theories. I know if my partner suddenly vanished I would just permanently move into some rabbit holes. Edited to Add: I didn't know this story was yours when I wrote the above crit, so I do in fact know that you've been to House on the Rock. I stand by my last sentence though; if something mysterious happened to you I would fully become a cryptid-hunting cryptid. The Sounding of My Voice Hmm. Well. That made me.. uncomfortable? I’m sort of still processing it. I mean, it’s definitely a piece that has some shock value (I’ve never read a story that says “peehole” so many times). But I’m not sure if the shock value was sort of in service to the story? It was just strange that it was like: 1. I have a magic finger! 2. Cure my peehole 3. Cure Richard’s peehole (maybe there’s something wrong with it?) 4. Cure the internet of all peeholeyness? I don’t know, maybe I’m not smart enough for this story, or maybe I’m just not internetty weird enough. I tend to latch onto stories based on characters, relationships, and imagery. The characters in this were unpredictable, and kept acting/reacting in ways I didn’t expect. The relationship felt off. And all the imagery was very linguistically complex, but in a way that felt more poetic than narrative. weirdo fish guy Oh noooooo I’ve been dreading reading this one because I am terrified of fish and even more so of fish people. But okay I’ll read it now and try not to be scared. Okay yep the fish stuff was horrifying but I still kind of liked this. I like the sort of surreal implications that these gills appeared out of nowhere, Clyde just sort of lol-shrugged at them, and then the story ended with him just laying on the ocean floor for a few weeks. Maybe the gills weren’t real and the loss of Harry was too much for Clyde? This did a good job of having plot action propelled by the weird gills and fish stuff, but really being a story about Harry and Clyde’s relationship and the pain of the loss. It was nice and odd and sad and sweet. The Metamorphosis (IRL) Great opening. I knew right where we were and what was happening. It was punchy and interesting. I thought Greg’s slow descent into nothingness over the course of the story was very well done. It was interesting to watch him get increasingly apathetic about his work, and increasingly buggy. I wish he had just a smidge more passion for his work at the beginning, just to help the contrast as he loses that motivation. We’re told that he needs the money, and that he wants to help the company be more successful. But I wish we just had a little bit more of what drives him, because that makes it more interesting when it goes away. The relationship between Greg and Jeff is pretty unclear at the beginning, so it gets increasingly unclear as Greg gets buggier. I wish there was a break of some sort before the final paragraph. In that one, the POV shifts to Jeff, so it’s odd to have it directly follow with no transition (especially since Jeff and Greg’s names aren’t all that different). I’d be curious what you think this setting does to recontextualize Kafka’s story enough to justify a retelling. Emblazoned I really liked the concept and framing of this story, as the POV of basically a side character in a superhero/villain story. The direct address in this “There was a documentary…. Don’t watch it.” was a little bit jarring and made me wonder who the reader is supposed to be? Another character? Actually the whole story felt a bit like the moment where a character gets on TV and is like “hey this person isn’t bad, they’re just misunderstood!” and I almost found myself wanting either more or less. If more, I wanted more clarity of who this person is talking to, and why they’re telling this story defending Marcus. A sort of framework for why they feel the need to speak up about him. If less, I wanted this to be more personal. Less focus on Marcus, and more about how this has affected the POV character and their life. As-is, they have very little agency in the story, so it doesn’t feel like their story. The third paragraph needs some cleaning up. There are some typos and grammatical weirdness. It also flows strangely and I wasn’t always sure what was happening. Kiddo and the Bull Overall I thought this was a very charming, zoomed-in personal story. I liked the framework. I liked the beginning, how you started right in the middle of something happening, but immediately established what was going on and what happened immediately before the story started. There were some stylistic variations I found distracting. There were a couple moments that briefly made it feel like you were going for a storytelling vibe. “Like I said, my grandfather was a hundred and twenty-five pounds soaking wet”. I feel like you could have reiterated how small he was in a less direct-address kind of way. After it there’s the moment of “But I’m getting ahead of myself”, which also felt weird. But then the rest didn’t feel very storytelling-y to me, so those moments just felt really out of place. Especially since the viewpoint was as a child, but then the last line of the story implies this is being told later. Overall it may have a more convincing voice if it all felt from the perspective of a (current) child. I feel like if someone lived on a ranch and is so strong they genuinely can’t tell how heavy things are, there’s no way they could keep that a secret. I’m not saying that’s a problem with the story, I’m fine with that much hand waving and suspension of disbelief. But the grandma in this story must be the least observant person of all time. Good Boy The setting for this story was interesting, but there wasn’t much in the way of arc/growth/change for the POV character. They didn’t really do much? They call in FEMA, but that’s sort of it. Things just happen around them, but they don’t affect or observe those things in an interesting way. This story felt unedited, very much like a first draft. The pacing was strange, the sentence structures were rambly, and the language was simple (and sometimes repetitive). For example, you say “off” and “wrong” and “odd” a lot. I found myself wanting more evocative imagery or examples. Ten Feet I liked this! It was a very personal and introspective story, but in a way that contextualized and propelled the action/setting. I liked the sort of dual training that Dynamo is doing. He’s rehabilitating his body, but he’s also mentally checking himself to make sure he stays nice, and doesn’t get mean or bitter. You do a good job of conveying how he still feels compelled to maintain the superhero persona, even in his current state. Though you do say “boomed” quite a bit. I do wish a little bit more happened in this story, or we had a clearer sense of where it was going from here. It felt like one segment of an emotional journey of growth, but it was too zoomed in on the timeline for us to see the curvature. True Name of the Sun Hmmm. This story went places I didn’t like. The story starts out from the perspective of The Sun, which was interesting. But then it just sort of shifts to Mary’s perspective at some point? Which is decidedly less interesting because she doesn’t know what’s going on, past or present. I’m fine with the fact that Mary has traumatic amnesia. It doesn’t matter much to the story where she came from or how she got in the desert. It was a little weird though that Norman told her she had amnesia right after Mary said her name. It made me think somehow he knew that wasn’t her name? But we have no reason to think it isn’t. I was pretty interested in the story until we met Dr. Exposition. Then it was a bit of a slog while he explained the entire setting to her. But up until that point I did like the story and the setting, and Norman’s character. Then it suddenly ended with the revelation that Mary’s life was now just going to be rape and forced pregnancy. It felt unearned and distressing, like it was used more for shock value than furthering the plot. It didn’t feel like a twist or a dark ending, just a hosed up way to dump a bunch of heavy scary feelings on the reader. Honestly it undid anything I liked about the story.
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Sep 6, 2022 16:02
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I'd like to apologize for how bad my story was and would like to remove it completely. It originally ended on a more positive note, but I'd gone, like, 1000 words over and thought, "Hey, scary endings are good, right?" and so I amputated the good parts where Norman helped Mary escape. Mea culpa, I will  myself to write a better story for the next challenge.
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Sep 6, 2022 18:16
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Screaming Idiot posted:Mea culpa, I will accepted. Write me something wholesome as gently caress this week. Prompt will be up in a few hours.
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Sep 6, 2022 19:56
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TY critters for week 526. 525 Crits pt. 1 Sorry for the delay, that's unlike me. Here are crits/commentary part one. For stories I like, I'm probably overly-critical, so don't necessarily take my ramblings to heart. On Method… Tyrannosaurus So there’s two thrusts to this story: the memoir part, where the narrator works through issues with a TV dad, and I think that works well—especially with the admission that TV dad was idolized for a long time, even through his terrible behavior; and the show business part which I feel is a little too modern. It’s like projecting modern sensibilities on something that happened 20 or 30 years ago, and even now, I doubt that it would happen quite this way. HOLLYWOOD DIATRIBE INCOMING: I think this feels like a Hollywood memoir in the sense that it has some realizations preconceived, and it feels like there are some more realizations that are being conceived during the writing process. The narrator, being a little kid during filming, had to do some research, so it would be interesting to have some conflicting perspectives from witnesses and crew. There’s hindsight, but Doug-dad is and always has been a complete piece of poo poo. This is completely plausible, and probably the most realistic turn of events, but even with the Emmy, it’s hinted that it’s Tom Ray’s doing, and not Gregson’s performance. Who is Tom Ray, and why are they doing a sitcom? Why did the auteur director allow Doug-dad to decide the coma plot? Were there no network notes? Sitcoms are probably the medium with the most interference from suits, and most especially when it comes to hiring and firing. This is an odd project to begin with. All method, with an auteur director. We’re talking about Buzzfeed childhood clickbait so it’s at least 20 years ago, and that makes sense with a child star writing a memoir, but 2002 was the era of Two and a Half Men and 8 Simple Rules (hellworld but people were only canceled for off-screen behavior). Roll it back another 10 years and were in the Seinfeld/Friends era. (same deal). Another 10 years back and nobody was canceled ever. What if he was a great actor? Really, the only instance I can think of that is a suitable parallel is Jeffrey Tambor being fired for being an asshat on set. And it was only the Transparent gang who said no. Arrested Development, where the abuse actually happened said, nah we’re good. Spacey is non-grata for off-screen criminality, and Mel Gibson is apparently a delight to work with, even if a toxic, racist personality IRL. David O Russel has a famous video of a meltdown on set (and it’s funny that it was Huckabees and not one of his good movies) but it still got finished and the scene shot. Christian Bale meltdown—I mean these are all off the top of my head, but there’s a lot of leniency where show biz is concerned, and even Spacey is doing poo poo in Europe again. Polanski still gets standing ovations and a loving tribute at the Oscars a few years back. What I see is that just about anything is tolerated if you can pony up and put a performance on screen. And speaking of the award, there wouldn’t be a ‘quiet dismissal” after an Emmy win. I don’t think the corporates would allow it. There is a cynicism of show business that I think is lacking here. What I imagine is far more likely is that Sarah gets fired and that makes for a far more compelling story. You’re writing a memoir, and trying to deal with an injustice you had no control over, and can’t even correct now. Especially if the father figure that was idolized caused the loss of the faux-mom. That’s very interesting. The writers leaving is sort of another show biz thing that I dunno—it happens, but after an awards season of success? Why was the budget so low? Why did an auteur director not have the skill to fill the writers’ room? I’m hinging a lot on the word ‘auteur’ because it’s such a strange thing to say about a sitcom. Maybe in the present day you could get away with it, but I don’t know that you’d even call it a sitcom. If you consider “It’s Always Sunny” a sitcom, it still has a rotating stable of directors. It’s clearly writer and actor driven, so even great sitcom directors (like Fred Savage) are collaborators rather than dictatorial entities. Putting that aside, there’s also no commentary on the title of the sitcom alone: Little Chief. That really feels like a sitcom of a bygone era, which calls into question the non-acceptance of the lead actor’s behavior. It really does feel like the conflicted memories of a surrogate father who had problems. Maybe even a loving tribute to a complete nightmare. You can’t choose your family, but in a sense, in Hollywood, you can. So what are real-mom’s views on the situation? Classic stage mom? That’s a character that I would have liked to see. The twist ending, regarding the method acting, puts a good button on everything, and establishes that, despite everything, this shithead is still getting work. I only read the wiki on Peter Freuchen so I don’t know much about him, but he seems like a good socialist/anti-fascist, so maybe the point is the white man fraternizing with local populations to give a parallel to Little Chief and a hint at colonialization? And how Doug-dad can’t avoid those types of roles. The method acting seems secondary. Choosing the project of Lt. Gregson fuckhead is one character. And if you’re totally method, then I get it, but flipping the script at the end to have the same rear end in a top hat play what on the surface seems like a good person provides a conflicting ending, the method acting part notwithstanding. My parents are the boomer sort that hate each other but never got divorced. If you couched this in a concept of a family without adding the show biz elements, I might look more favorably on it. I like the “family” dynamic and the dysfunction that comes from that. Even the disconnect with running into a real father after years of isolation and the biological father seems alien. Those are all neat things to ruminate over. Or even a fun-step-dad who made an impact then was out of your life and you realize later he was a piece of poo poo who did wrong by Mom. The memoir concept is a luxury that most people don’t have, and never realize, so if I’m going to read a memoir, it has to have some real poignancy. I don’t think the narrator is nuanced enough to hold my engagement, and there are a lot of logistical questions about how all this actually occurred. The discrepancies could have made a really interesting piece. It’s emotional and well-written aside from doubt about logistics. If you wanted to tug on heartstrings, you achieved the goal, but it frays at the edges. ben’s death - Kuiperdolin What I first think about is Tom Clancy. You might not find many friends here with HOORAH type material, though I could be wrong. I think this works if you made a different supposition, but a man heroically sacrificing themself to kill terrorists needs context. It can be a fake context. It can be fake countries with fake motivations, but I need to know what side to take. Is this really a hero, or a deluded pawn of a government that has no regard for human life? Mother being threatened isn’t enough. There are allusions that the narrator will be tortured if found alive. All well and good if you’re writing a James Bond story. But even he wouldn’t be stupid enough to put his suicide pill in his sleeve. The suicide tooth is a common trope, and if you want to avoid that, fine. But at least shirt collar. Somewhere that is reachable in exactly this sort of situation. Who is mother? Simple folk, we deduce based on the ‘clean underwear’ comment but I don’t have any idea who these ‘very bad people’ are. It’s really not enough to simply tell me this, especially in this conflicted day and age. As I said, it could be invented entities who want to do harm, and you might have escaped the bottom of the pile (oh, ho ho) by being clear with the demented evilness of a rogue group. The Da Vinci Code books are not subtle, but they’re crowd pleasers. After thinking about how often tearing tongues out as a punishment was a thing, I read a lot about biting your own tongue off, and it stretches plausibility. I suppose you could die from a tongue rip, but I think it would be tough, and operators wouldn’t think of that except as a last resort. So what is the last resort? Does this agent have information that would lead an institution or nation to its end? Aside from the physical pain, what does this agent have to fear? They were willing to blow up a building and possibly (probably) be caught in the collapse. The willpower to do that is immense. So what’s a little torture? Ben chickening out and not biting his tongue off is an interesting bit. Delve more into that. If you made it clear that his training was “in absence of suicide pill, bite your tongue off” it’s one of those things where I could have gotten behind it, and questioned the training rather than the reality. That sort of thing is interesting. Him getting lucky and collapsing the building more at the end is not. Deus ex machina sort of thing. Man vs Machine - dervinosdoom I mentioned this in chat, and I stand by it: I think you have a talent for writing action. It just needs to be more interesting. Cut all the “incredulously” and “flippantly” and “sarcastically” and let the reader deduce that on their own. Save some words in the process. I think instead of things like “Frank started to claw” you just say “Frank clawed and scratched” and that would go a long way to making your writing more visceral and immediate. Maybe a preference thing, since other stories have won with similar language, but I wish “He did find” was changed to “He found” and so on. I just find that eliminating as many “helper verbs” as possible is more engaging (and cuts wordcount). This may be taken to a different thread, since there are probably OPINIONS and I would like to hear them in an authors’ forum. At the end of this one, it really seemed like a Terminator ripoff, but there is an interesting bit there where Frank feels pain. The pain of disseminating from the robot self, or if this is merely a delusion and there is no robot underneath, both are very interesting. There’s a lot of blandness at the start, and from Brazil to Office Space, people have succeeded in making paperwork feel interesting, or at least funny. If you are going to do a step-by-step office / electrician tutorial it has to be engaging in other ways beyond the matter-of-fact. I don’t see anything technically wrong with it, but it’s not super exciting. Or really lean into the drudgery. I have done some factory work, coincidentally, outside of Pittsburgh, and my daddy was a still mill worker so you gotta get that right or take it into an entirely different direction. I often go back to this example, because I think it’s a good one: treat spaceships as cars. Practically no one knows everything about a car, and yet everyone drives them around. A spaceship gets from point A to point B in the same way. Whether it has a neotutronic drive or a blackhole powered geomontonetric drive is not really important in a 1500 word story. Mention it and move on. The real exciting part of the story is the conflict between Marcus and Frank. Give us a little hint of conflict before the MONSTER reveal. Let them be rivals or adversaries, and let that come to a head once Frank is a kill-bot. Half of this story should have been giving character to Frank and Marcus, then when they fight in the second half, we have someone to root for. There are maybe, too many characters, I start with Mike, but Marcus takes over. Just make them the same person and act accordingly. That also gives more depth to Marcus. There are losers that I loathe, and I don’t think this is awful, it’s just derivative. It’s never confusing, and you could write a good action scene that has stakes. I’ve said this before, you just need to gain experience and learn to find your own voice. I have always struggled with that myself. Think about what you want to say as a writer and do it. If you lose on your own terms, then you can at least feel proud about that. You can make a Terminator (or delusions of a split personality) your own. Twist it and ask, what if? Thunderdome is the place to do that. Don’t give up. Boxed Up - Idle Amalgam What do I keep in my box? It’s not me, but I can imagine the arguments of relationships gone by lingering in the memory box. When you start with a box as a metaphor, I don’t know that it’s wise to have a line like “You’re loving boxing me” so early on. I also struggle with the notion, since it’s been clearly the opposite for so long, that a woman is gaslighting a man. It becomes clear that neither Jimmy nor Sarah are pristine, but Jimmy is a gambler, Sarah sews. C’mon. You can flip the script a little. The cop shows up with a lawyer, and especially a Saul Goodman? Unlikely. If cops wanted to bust the ‘safety chain’ they would. A simple burglar would too. Why are they knocking in the first place. If I were an intimidator, I wouldn’t. But they ain’t cops and lawyers, they’re just mob enforcers, so the door interaction is even more suspect.. You have this gimmick of the box that eats anything and I think I would have benefited from a reworking of the structure: mob dudes get eaten, then the sewing pattern poo poo is after-the-fact to drive it home. Then maybe threats against Jimmy. Let us know about Sarah’s psychopathy. If she’s meant to be heroic, then, it doesn’t really come across. Jimmy doesn’t get a comeuppance,so maybe you could have created a more loving relationship between the two, that Sarah wants to protect Jimmy? Otherwise, it’s one of those things—I know it’s not easy to leave, but that’s what she should do. You have a magical item in the mix of a standard lovers’ squabble (maybe this calls attention to me that I don’t find the gambling that big a deal) but It’s really not called upon. I like the strong heroine who does traditionally “man” stuff, like pop a motherfucker. But it a far cry from the start of the story, and I don’t think you really take us through Sarah’s journey to get from sewing patterns to killing mob dudes. Still, it’s written well enough, and I don’t have complaints about that. The Cut of Your Jib fucked around with this message at 12:38 on Sep 7, 2022 |
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Sep 6, 2022 23:23
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Beefy and kind? That’s a hunk. Beefy and stupid? That’s a jock. Kind and stupid? That's just a decent man! But beefy, kind, and stupid? That’s a himbo and, this week: Tired of dangerous bad boys, edgy antiheroes, and brooding Byronic love interests? Me too! I wanna see more studs with brains as smooth as their sculpted abs. I want good dudes with rock hard bodies and the personalities of golden retrievers. And I want them to save the day. Of course, the scale of “the day being saved” is totally up to you. Everything from being a shoulder to cry on to stopping the end of the world is on the table. No problem, no conflict is too big or too small for the strong arms of these beefy bois. Now, before you flood the thread/my inbox with cries of, “Tyrannosaurus! I don’t know anything about himbos!” First of all, yes, you do. Second, here are some common tropes that you by no means need to include and are solely for the benefit of getting your creative juices flowing: 1) A super dumb, poorly thought out plan actually succeeding to the surprise of everyone except the himbo who was, unshockingly, extremely confident in its merits. 2) An unusual talent or passion -- often utilized for comedic effect but not uncommonly the key to success. This can be anything from cake baking to sign language to an encyclopedic knowledge of bird behavior. This is as likely to be well-established throughout the story as it is to appear out of nowhere (i.e “Well, you never asked!”) 3) The adoption of a protective, parental role. Routinely for a peer group (or near peer group). 4) Being the emotionally supportive BFF of a lesbian. 5) And, finally… violence. The merits of fighting fire with fire are arguable but there is nevertheless something extremely satisfying in watching toxic masculinity get its teeth knocked out by the sweet and simple fists of a beautiful brick shithouse. signs up close: friday midnight est submission close: sunday midnight est word limit: 1100; but if you to crit the story posted before and after yours, you can have an additional 500 as a bounty. Your crits will be due within 5 days of the judgment post.
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Sep 7, 2022 00:24
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judges me writers Screaming Idiot (to write a better story than last week)flerp Albatrossy_Rodent Rohan Thranguy Something Else The Cut of Your Jib sebmojo Tyrannosaurus fucked around with this message at 05:17 on Sep 10, 2022 |
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Sep 7, 2022 00:24
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of course
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Sep 7, 2022 00:32
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Oh, uh, in.
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Sep 7, 2022 02:23
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Externus fucked around with this message at 03:09 on Sep 7, 2022 |
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Sep 7, 2022 02:50
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himbo more like hinbo also
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Sep 7, 2022 03:37
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In,
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Sep 7, 2022 07:55
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I wish to attend the himbo hoedown
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Sep 7, 2022 17:49
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Week 526 Crits Copernic - The Planter The process of getting statuefied almost always going awry and ending up with the wrong facial expression for eternity was chilling to me. Cool idea, though it doesn't really seem like mutation to me. I was on board with the first two paragraphs, although I was wary about setting up a character with a specifically well-honed wit. When you set something like that up you really have to pay it off well or you wind up looking worse than if you had never created the expectation. Unfortunately there wasn't really a payoff (neither straightforward nor ironic) for the wit thing in this story. Sad! In a broader sense, I felt that naming the character 'Dad' and giving us a lot of internal reflection from Fiona should really put us inside her head and help us understand why she disregards the statue at the end of the story, but the whole conclusion felt very opaque to me. The details in the last two paragraphs were less internal and more statements of action, which felt like a missed opportunity to communicate Fiona's emotional journey clearly. Lastly, the action of a casual kick to a vase making it explode hard enough to scratch the statue's chest seemed very insane to me, it sort of broke the reality of the story and made me scratch my head, especially to see her care about the statue so much in that moment, and then get ready to leave it behind the next. Quiet Feet - Sparkle the Soccer Horse or All Praise to The Eye The voice of this story is strong, it feels specific and tied to the setting. Great opening that clearly sets up the premise and stakes. I love when that stuff gets out of the way fast so I can enjoy the implications of the premise. Too many stories treat the reveal of the premise as a twist, and then there isn't enough time to explore. Not here. I also love the interjections of "All Praise to the Eye" which makes the story feel like a Futurama episode or something. However, I didn't think all the backstory about how everything went down with the book was entirely necessary. Showing the daughter the animals also felt like spinning wheels rather than moving the plot forward. I would've liked to see the story continue beyond this morning scene and see how the legged animals actually do or don't help the farm survive. Not getting to the point where the horse meaningfully plays soccer makes that part of the title bad to me, because it leaves me feeling like you made a promise and didn't fulfill it. Ceighk - Delivery This world feels very real. 90% of the stuff that happens in this story could have happened to a real person and I would buy it easily. Spare prose makes it an easy read which I appreciate. However, I was bored. You give us setups for interesting things to happen, but almost none of them pay off. The departure of Dad's girlfriend when the car breaks down is some nice melodrama, but it's kind of an illusion of agency for the protagonist to refuse her offer, since he's not in control no matter what he chooses. Nothing interesting happens when the dangerous guys don't get their package. Nothing interesting happens when the dad gets too drunk. Nothing interesting happens when the protagonist gets superpowers! How is that possible? Well, you managed it. I will say, I laughed at the description of the wish-granting fetus guy scampering out into the night. I couldn't stop thinking about him getting covered in grit and cigarette butts stuck on him and stuff. But maybe I'm too literal, and this story is meant to work more on a metaphorical level? Not clear. MockingQuantum - Forgotten Toys Gotta give it up for the level of specificity and oddness in the construction of this world. All the specifics about the dad's hoard are great. The mouse transformation is well-described and such a deliciously odd choice. However, I didn't really follow Mick's character arc, the stakes of the story, or the implications of the premise. It would have helped if Mick was actively looking for something in the attic, for example, rather than the ambiguous "cleaning it out". The significance of the mom's disappearance was lost on me in the first read-through; I thought Marla was saying the dad loved his junk collection more than them. Also, it was unclear to me if the Mouse-Mom was the real Tabitha having been transformed, or a version the dad had made to soothe himself that wound up getting magic transformation powers. It seemed like the story forgot about the dad when they went into the dollhouse, even though the first half was all about setting up the dad and his interests. I was expecting to meet the dad in the dollhouse, but him not being involved at that level made the first half feel like wasted time, or overexplaining just to set up that him have a magic dollhouse isn't crazy. The implications of the premise that didn't make sense to me were: can they leave the dollhouse, like to move around the rest of the attic? Does it change the way their minds work? Do they know/think about the non-dollhouse world? Is Mick now the same type of thing as the taxidermied mice? Is he trapped or happy to be there? I felt like the time that I would like to be used to explore these questions was spent with the characters grinning at each other and chuckling in polite tones. I also tend to have a visceral reaction to repetition, so I didn't like that many lines in the dollhouse portion had a variation on "or rather, X" or "or, X, I suppose". The Cut of Your Jib - The Sounding of My Voice Let me first be very clear and say that I do get the pun. It's gross, along with a lot of stuff in this story, but that stuff also tends to be funny because I like gross stuff. This is also a great description of a full-on mutation - not a transformation mistaken for mutation. I was really on board with descriptions of how the finger moved and interacted with its environments. Although I respect the stylistic experimentation with the wild narration here, it didn't always work for me. Perhaps intentionally reflecting the experience of a blind person, the action wasn't always clear. It first bumped me when describing Derek's internet use, and I couldn't understand how we got from "he reads forums" to "rude motherfuckers don't care about Derek". That the internet becomes all-important to following the premise here makes that lapse critical. Also, curing Richard's kidney stones seemed like small potatoes on the road to curing the whole culture. I didn't understand what was meant by 'Derek absorbed and subsumed Richard', but that didn't matter in the end. It would've been nice if Derek's relationship to Richard did matter overall, since so much time is spent on him. I don't know, aside from that it's hard to find more than nits to pick in general, since this story is so unique, so it's easier for assuming it's working on its own terms. flerp - weirdo fish guy This is a likable story, even though I couldn't tell if I should like Harry. I like the sweetness of Clyde and Harry's relationship, and I appreciate that it also feels complicated and real, creating a palpable bittersweetness which isn't easy to pull off. I felt that Harry's penchant for lying and Clyde's confounding tendency to like it when Harry diminished his passion created an ocean-like pattern in the prose. Harry doesn't like the beach, wave goes out. Clyde cuddles him all day, wave comes in. That was cool. However, overall, I didn't feel like I was really understanding everything this story was getting at. I don't really get what Clyde means about letting one dream be real at the end. It kind of feels like an ending, not necessarily the ending. You could argue that the story's about all the things we don't know about somebody and can never know after they die and that's part of grief and feeling this way after reading it shows I do understand it. I'm not sure. I can tell I like it and it's well-crafted but I still feel like I'm missing something. My Shark Waifuu - The Metamorphosis (IRL) This story bummed me out. I feel like turning into a giant bug would be bad if you had a good life, but if you had a bad life like Greg? Could be a great opportunity. But Greg gets even more depressing instead. I'm told that this is a beat for beat rip off of Kafka, not just inspired by it as I had assumed. I think that's why I don't understand why any of the characters behave how they do - if you modernize an old story, you have to be willing to modernize the plot along with it. Why does Greg pay Jeff's rent if they're not close? Jeff realizing that Greg is good for his stream views comes really late and he doesn't capitalize on it. There are scrappy edges of a fun story here but you got bogged down sticking to the tone and plot of the original. Disappointing! Thranguy - Emblazoned I loved the worldbuilding here. It reminded me of Astro City, a superhero comic that acknowledges the sad and hard parts of having powers (or not). I like the tone of this story and I appreciate how the narrative evolves even though it's really just a summary of the protagonist's experiences (like how Trisha turned into an assassin). You suggest a lot while saying a little with this piece. That being said, it doesn't really have a satisfying character arc, and some of the important events are so sparsely described as to leave me scratching my head. Like when Marcus gets shot in the head, and turns back into the Blazon - I didn't understand if that transformation was enough to save his life and mind, or if he was a brain-damaged Blazon after that, and that impacted my understanding of his sacrifice to stop Malice. I want more! Tyrannosaurus - Kiddo and the Bull This story is a great example of starting the story at the perfect moment. Not a second earlier than it needs to be, and jumps right into high-stakes action that reveals the premise. It's well-structured beyond that, with the well-placed midpoint turn of Grandpa deciding to tell the truth, and even a little dark night of the soul when you get into the prison mom stuff. I like the downbeat tone to superpowers material, kind of like what an A24 movie about a strong ranching Grandpa would feel like. Pretty much the only thing I feel like this story is missing is a circle back around to resolve the tension of whether or not the ranch hands saw Grandpa being strong, how much they know, and whether that information being public is going to raise the tension any further. That seems like it was forgotten in the strict adherence to the Kiddo's POV. dervinosdoom - Good Boy I am very sensitive to repetition. Partially that's just me, and partially that's a Thunderdome-specific consideration. If you only have a limited number of words available to you, you want to make the most of each one and not give the reader the same information over and over again. But I felt like that's exactly what you did over the first several paragraphs, with repeated mentions of seeing a mutant animal, and thinking little of it. I also felt that descriptions of the barrel contamination area were repetitive and broke the rule that you must "show, not tell". If something looks wrong or hideous for example, I would like to know in what particular way so I can visualize something unique in the way that you imagined it to be. On the same note, the line "I don't think I need to fill in the rest" made me laugh to read because that's kind of the whole point. If it's a situation pretty much nobody has ever been in before, you do need to fill in almost everything. All of the above would be acceptable with a certain tone of voice in the writing (a lighter comedic tone) but didn't feel intentional here. I thought the action in the latter parts of the story was decent, you definitely deliver on the premise of a dog getting mutated. Between that and the government agents showing up the story has a Spielberg vibe to it that I can appreciate. However, the relationship with Baxter should be more-or-less the whole story. We should care about Baxter from moment one of this story, know his personality closely, and hurt with the protagonist when Baxter changes. hard counter - Ten Feet There's plenty of good stuff going on in this story, like how Dynamo's recollections from the past mirror the struggle of the present. That's a really cool device that makes us gradually care about him getting back to his former glory without needing a lot of frontloading. But it also ended too soon; it seemed like you ran out of time to build the whole story out and rather than compress it you just cut it off. The teenage memory of hopping into a tree doesn't really make sense to end on, it's not nearly heightened enough. I liked the contrast between Dynamo's internal monologue vs the way he presents himself to people, to still act heroically by giving them the person they need him to be. However it didn't feel like this dynamic developed over the course of the story. The last line reads a bit like he's had an epiphany, but it's ambiguous to me, like nothing has changed even though he has made good physical progress. If nothing changed, it makes the story feel kind of pointless overall. That's probably real for people who have to do physical therapy like this, but I want a story to have more resolution than that. The first half of the story feels way too long, most of the story could/should take place between the parallel bars. I thought it was odd that the narration referred to him as Dynamo even though in his head he's Brandon, but maybe that was intentional, like he's still actually Dynamo whether he accepts it or not? That could be clarified. This one has a lot of potential, you could sharpen it into something really nice! Screaming Idiot - True Name of the Sun This was an enjoyable story right up until the very end. I like the opening a lot, especially after we learn that the sun is sentient, and not just anthropomorphized as a rhetorical device. That sort of thing could have carried through more of the story until they get inside, to really juice the fun opportunities there. I was disappointed that the second half of the story got bogged down in backstory/exposition and lost all momentum. I was also disappointed at the underwhelming description of the mutants' faces. That reveal is kind of all you have left at the end of this story, so you should have gone for it much harder. I don't need to reiterate how unpleasant the final turn is, but you might have gotten away with it if you had cut back the backstory and left room for some well-described defiant action at the end.
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Sep 8, 2022 01:42
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Thranguy posted:Dragon Attack May have missed the deadline slightly Dragon Hunt 819 words Francine and Graham had gotten out just in time. The town was burning. “Well, I guess that’s that, Frankie.” Francine nodded. “So, we try the next town. See if they’ll listen.” The next town was half a day’s walk, and probably only an hour’s flight. Graham shook his head. “That hasn’t been working so well for us. I’m sick of seeing towns burn.” She sighed. “All right. What’s the alternative?” “We track it to its lair.” “Dragon doesn’t really leave tracks, though, does it? It’s flying everywhere.” “Well,” said Graham, “it leaves scorch marks.” “Yep, noticed that.” “Also flattened trees.” That was true. It seemed to favour flying close to the ground, and the powerful flaps of its huge wings that kept it in the air also caused havoc on anyone or anything unfortunate enough to be underneath. She nodded. “All right. Sure, why not. Didn’t want to grow old, anyway.” They tracked it for half a day. It was slow going; sometimes tough to distinguish this trip from any of its previous forays. Dinner was some animals that had been crushed by the downdraft. After dinner, they kept tracking through the night. They were tired, but they didn’t want to wait for the dragon to take another flight, possibly destroy another town, and crush more trees and vegetation to further frustrate their tracking efforts. It was well after midnight when they reached the ruins. “Reckon this might be it,” said Graham. “Is it the scorch marks?” “And the corpses.” “Gotta say,” she said, “this is feeling like a smarter idea every second.” He shrugged. “Let’s scout the place out. ~ In the weeks after the dragon hunt, Francine spent most of her days at the newly renamed Dragon’s Head Inn. Transporting the beast’s head to the capital had been a three day endeavour, but she’d stuck with it, because experience had taught her that she’d need proof a dragon even existed, let alone that she’d killed it. She’d dumped it at the stairs of the town hall. The councillors had not initially been all that grateful, but after messengers had supported her accounts of the razing of several nearby towns, things had changed a little bit. The thanks had been purely non-monetary, however. It was only thanks to the entrepreneurial instincts of Hannah that she was compensated for her efforts at all. Francine got free room, meals, and drink for as long as she wanted. Hannah got a giant stuffed dragon head, and a genuine dragon killing hero staying in her inn. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement. Hannah glanced up at the head in question and whistled. “Sure wish I could’ve been there, and seen you take it down.” She’d said this, or something like it, almost every day since she’d bought the head from Francine and had it stuffed and mounted. Francine shrugged noncommittally. While people were making wishes, she wished that maybe one of the towns they’d stopped at had believed them that there was a dragon, so that it wouldn’t have been just the two of them hunting it. Imagine fifty capable archers, or even a single ballista. Instead, Graham had descended from above, letting gravity and his own body weight drive his spear into the dragon’s head. At the same time, Francine had fired an arrow into its eye. For a moment they’d really thought that might do the job. The dragon had flailed around in pain, sending Graham hard into a wall, while his spear remained lodged in its skull. As the dragon had flown off, severely injured and bleeding from the spear in the skull and the arrow in the eye, Francine had rushed over to him. She wished she’d stayed with him. Maybe she couldn’t have saved him, but he didn’t deserve to die alone. He’d insisted though. She had to finish the job. So she’d followed the trail of mayhem and dragon blood for several hours. Flying with a head wound and only one working eye, it had been slower and more erratic, and she’d caught up with it and filled it with arrows until it crashed through trees to the ground. And then, severing its head and strapping it to her back. Walking for three days carrying a reptile head that felt almost as heavy as her, still covered in its blood, and Graham’s blood, and her sweat. Dealing with the idiot councillors who initially didn’t believe it was the head of a real dragon, then when they heard the messengers’ reports of the towns laid waste by dragon fire, thanked her but asked why she couldn’t have killed it before it burnt the towns down, and somehow managed to fall short of actually paying her for services rendered. Most of all, she wished that she and Graham had hopped a ship to shores unknown, left the dragon behind, and let all their worthless cities burn.
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Sep 8, 2022 09:07
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ty critters in for himbo
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Sep 9, 2022 19:59
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In
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Sep 10, 2022 00:06
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to do chain crits
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Sep 10, 2022 03:30
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sign ups closed
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Sep 10, 2022 05:08
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For anyone that hasn't entered a week where I'm the head judge before: I'll close submissions pretty much right at midnight. Plan accordingly.
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Sep 11, 2022 15:38
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1600 words, taking the crit bounty for the extra 500 Perfection flerp fucked around with this message at 21:12 on Oct 9, 2022 |
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Sep 11, 2022 23:16
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Soul Sister 1358 words I'd stopped counting the "Hey, Soul Sister"s after the seventh "Hey, Soul Sister" a dozen or so "Hey, Soul Sister"s ago. When it became clear that the purple orb hovering over the lake was indeed an alien spaceship, Derrick had insisted on welcoming them to Earth with music, but it soon became apparent he only knew one song. Still, he played it well, and the earnestness to which he was truly trying to convince the aliens that they were indeed his soul sisters was attractive. "Yo," said Nathaniel. "I think the aliens have heard 'Hey, Soul Sister.' They probably think 'ain't that Mr. Mister' means 'welcome to Earth.' Reporting back to Planet X that humans worship Train as gods." "Nah," said Derrick. In the few hours I'd known him, I had not seen him in a shirt, and it seemed impossible. "It's a song of peace, and chill vibes." Kelly and I had picked up Derrick outside a towny bar near Kelly's lake cabin, and the cost of his pretty, shirtless presence was his lanky friend Nathaniel, who was clearly hoping to bang whoever Derrick didn't. "Are we sure we wanna be here for this?" I said. "What if they get all murdery or proby?" "I'm with you," said Nathaniel. "If tonight's the end of the world, I wouldn't mind spending it with cocktails in a stranger's lake cabin." "...hey…Nathaniel, you should stay here. Stars and alien lights reflecting off the lake? It's romantic...hey-ey-ey-ey-eeeey…." Nathaniel took a second. "Yeah. You're right." He started to yawn, an unsubtle attempt to put his arm over my shoulder, then decided against it at the last second, letting his arm drop awkwardly against the deck. We kept watching the orb. Derrick took a sip of his beer between Soul Sisters. "How'd you guys meet?" Kelly asked Nathaniel as Derrick once again the opening heys. "You don't seem like peas of a pod." "I get that a lot," said Nathaniel. "We met on our old high school football team." "You play football?" I said. He certainly didn't look like an athlete, or that he pursued any such fuckable endeavor. "Yeah. I…wasn't good. Only showed up on the field in the fourth quarter if we were winning or losing by more than thirty. I just saw how popular and well-liked and hot everyone on the team was, and thought that if I signed on, I might be, too. It uh…it didn't work. But Derrick was nice to me, and I was nice to him." He sighed. "I'm gonna go get another beer." He got up and walked up the dock towards the cooler. He took a beer, but instead of heading back towards us, he instead kept onwards towards the cabin. Kelly nuzzled up against Derrick, who grinned through "a game show love connection." "Hey, Jackie, you should go check on Nathaniel," said Derrick, still strumming. "I wouldn't want him to miss first contact." "I don't know," I said. "I don't want him to get the wrong impression." "He's perfectly fine not making out with anyone, you know. Give him a chance, he's a good dude." "Okay," I said, and headed up to the cabin. I cpuld hear distant helicopters approach as I made my way through the humid night-time. Nathaniel was putting on Arrival on Hulu as I opened the screen door. "Hey," I said. "Derrick wants you out there." "Yeah," he said. "But you and Kelly don't, do you? Don't worry. I get it. I'll be fine. The world will change whether I'm watching or not." I sat down on the couch next to him. "I'm not stupid. I know the difference between awkward and creepy. I've met hundreds of creeps in my time, and you're not one of them. You're not hiding away because Kelly and I don't want you. You're doing it for yourself." "Yep," said Nathaniel. "I thought first contact would be a good opportunity for everyone to stop sending signals and just do something, anything else. I was wrong. Everyone just started acting more alien than ever." "You're overthinking it," I said. "Derrick's not sending cryptic signals. He just looks good shirtless and can play the hell out of Train. You don't need to figure out any secret code to transmit. You just need to figure out what your shirtless Train is." He laughed. "It would be easier if my shirtless Train was also just shirtless Train." "Oh, obviously. But it isn't. So get out there, have a few more beers, and just relax. You'll have a good time, I promise. So will me and Kelly." "Okay," said Nathaniel, getting up without bothering to pause the movie. "Thanks. You know, Derrick always made me feel welcome whenever I felt like an alien. Now you have, too. We could do a hell of a lot worse for our first ambassadors to the galaxy." I giggled, and we went back out towards the dock. Half a dozen black military helicopters were now circling the orb, and a dozen more were emblazoned with broadcast logos. Kelly was now fully wrapped around Derrick, his arms just barely mobile enough to keep strumming. As Nathaniel and I took our seats on the edge of the dock, the orb made a sudden deep whistling noise. The helicopters darted away, and Kelly jolted away from Derrick's skin, but Derrick remained still, pausing the song not out of fear but in contemplation. "What's this chord?" said Derrick. "I can't place it." "Yeah, you're not gonna replicate that with an Earth guitar," said Nathaniel. "It sure doesn't appear in 'Hey, Soul Sister.' I think that's a five-four time signature though." "Wait," said Kelly. "This is music? But it just sounds like noise." "I think the boys are right," I said. "The melody's in the bass and the beat is in the treble, right?" Derrick looked confused. Music was in the fingers for him, I supposed, never the brain. "We're not gonna be able to play along," said Nathaniel. "I think there's only one option." "Dance!" Derrick whispered, epically. "How are we supposed to dance to this?" I said. "It's not exactly four-on-the-floor." "Derrick," said Nathaniel. "Remember when we made that movie in high school? The one with the dance sequence set to the Mission: Impossible theme? This is a bit slower, but I think the moves will work." "Maybe," said Derrick. "But I don't remember them." "Well I can't do it," said Nathaniel. "There's a reason I was the director and not the star. My body was never intended for precise movements." "So what?" said Derrick. "You'll embarrass yourself? gently caress that. I have never once worn a shirt or shoes into a store, and I have never once been denied service. There's no such thing as embarrassment, man." "Nathaniel," I said. "For the sake of peace in the galaxy, you're going to have to dance for us." "Okay," he said. "On one condition. Can I get your number?" "I'm gonna have to see the dance before I can promise that." "Fair enough. My apologies for what you're about to see." He stood up and started to dance. It looked stupid as all hell, with his lanky limbs snapping where they should've flowed and wiggling where they should've held firm, but he could not be accused of getting the beat wrong, and the noise became music upon sight of his flailings. It became beautiful music when Derrick joined in, doing the same moves properly, and then Kelly, and then me, and who knows how long we danced, under the silver of the moon and the purple of the orb, until the orb floated away, and its music became distant. More and more helicopters would show up, even after the UFO itself had gone, and I'm sure it was a fun night on Twitter, but we went inside shortly after, and Kelly and Derrick went to one bedroom, and Nathaniel and I stayed up to watch the movie still playing on the TV, and no one in the cabin felt alien.
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Sep 11, 2022 23:26
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Prompt: Himbo! A Little Less Conversation 1100 words max, 1066 words used “See the power I wield?” said Malvec the Light-Bearer, his once-shining plate spattered with blackened blood, his handsome face twisted with perverse glee. “What a fool I was to waste my life in service to a crooked throne and gold-hungry nobles!” A fiend of living spite pulled itself from the vat of roiling black ichor. It was darkness made flesh, its face all the more grotesque for its human features. “You ain’t wrong,” Leblanc said nodding, casually bouncing Mancleaver on his shoulder. He gestured at the freak of rust and shadow poised to strike. “But your criticism rings hollow since you sacrificed innocent people to make… whatever that is.” “Sacrifices must be made for the greater good! You’d realize that had you stayed true to our teachings!” Malvec spat and raised a mailed finger at Leblancand his allies. “You threw away your righteousness to become a sellsword of all things! You misuse your strength for personal gain!” “Mal, I reiterate: you’ve been sacrificing people.” Leblanc pointed to a nearby altar, stained with blood. “Not even metaphorically. There are literal skulls on the ground.” “By the gods, Leblanc, please stop talking and do something,” said Leblanc’s partner, the mage Gimlet. A young woman wielding an axe growled in agreement. “He’s too far gone – the ritual’s complete! We need to take him now!” “Can I have a minute?” Leblanc said with a sheepish smile as he rain a thick, scarred hand hand through his shoulder-length salt-and-pepper hair. “Friends’re impatient.” “By all mean, say your farewells,” Malvec said with an imperious wave. He gestured toward his creature with a smile too wide, too savage to belong to a sane man. “Every moment the beast hunger further for the blood of sinners – he shall feast well this night!” “Thanks!” Leblanc said with a cheery thumbs-up before turning to face his companions. He waved an admonishing finger at his daughter. “Elly, what’ve I told you about deescalation? You’d be surprised at how much can be averted by having a dialogue!” “He’s got a pet demon!” Gimlet shouted, pointing his staff at the slavering horror. “You’re right! That tells me he’s not in his right mind. Do sane people sacrifice folks and use their remains to create a beast of darkness?” Leblanc shook his head. “Nope. Cry for help if I ever saw one.” “He’s beyond helping!” Elly raised her axe with a cry and charged before being thrown back with with a bolt of shadowy force from Malvec’s outstretched hand. “He’s also got magic,” Leblanc said as he knelt to help her to her feet. “I was trying to give you a moral lesson, but there’s also a practical reason for dialogue.” “See how you pale before me?” He laughed. “This is no demon – it is a nascent god! He is Nabaalak, Eater-of-Sin, named for the wolf that sits at the right hand of Allfather Alden! The Allfather is but a myth, but all shall learn His vengeance is very real!” “You sound serious,” Leblanc said with a short yawn. “Sure I can’t convince you to talk this over? You already committed unforgivable atrocities, but after what you’ve seen… well, I can understand. Serving a corrupt ruler weighs on you – ‘swhy I went freelance.” “Don’t pretend to understand my pain!” Malvec shouted. He turned toward his beast and shouted. “Nabaalak! Your feast awaits! Devour the sinners and cleanse this land with their blood!” Nabaalak’s hollow, bleeding eyesockets turned to the former Light-Bearer, and its jaw clicked softly before letting out a nightmare screech and leaping upon him. Claws of rusted iron tore into the man’s armor and flesh, and Malvec screamed and screamed until he was silenced by those crushing jaws. “Told you that’d happen,” Leblanc said, looking on at the spectacle before him with a sad shake of his head. He reached a hand behind him and waggled his fingers. “Twenty silver. Pay up.” “Not the time, Leblanc!” Gimlet readied his staff, the knob at its tip bursting into flame as he readied his magics. Having finished its first meal, Nabaalak tossed aside the bloodied husk of Malvec and threw itself at the little group, its jagged, mismatched teeth bared in a grimace of agonized hunger. The Mancleaver moved through the air like a wind and buried itself in the side of Nabaalak’s head, black sludge spraying from the wound. Leblanc tore the massive blade free and hacked further at the twitching fiend, pain and the sheer force of Leblanc’s blows staying Nabaalak’s starving, hateful wrath. “By the gods,” Elly breathed. She watched as the Leblanc manhandled the creature. “It’s supernatural!” Gimlet cried as Leblanc battering the creature with his blade, carving away hunks of writhing, umbral flesh. “It’ll take more than violence to take it out!” He channeled power over the creature, cleansing the darkness with magical flame, Leblanc gritting his teeth as he was singed. True to Gimlet’s word the beast arose, and vomited a stream of viscous sludge at him before backhanding Leblanc against the wall. Nabaalak stared at Elly and let out another scream of pain and hunger, and it threw itself at her, pinning her to the ground, its teeth nearing her throat. Elly was not easy prey. Small-framed but mighty, she slipped from beneath the creature and buried her axe in its neck. It gave a heave and twitched, but she was pulled back by Leblanc. “Not going to kill it that way!” He said. “You must escape!” “I’m not going to leave you-” Nabaalak roared as its flesh knit, and it rose once again to loom over them. It brought its rusted claws down, and Leblanc threw himself over Elly, crying out as he was impaled. Elly gasped as she saw her father dragged away. She reached out, then was dragged away by a limping Gimlet. Fire broke out around them from his staff; timbers supporting the temple groaned and broke. Gimlet and Elly collapsed outside the temple, which itself had begun to collapse in a pile of flaming rubble. They stared in despair at the heap; Malvec said Leblanc knew nothing of sacrifice, but he was wrong. A soot- and bloodstained Leblanc rose from the rubble with a wave, using the Mancleaver to steady himself. He pressed his hand over his wound. “Turns out violence actually does work. Just gotta keep at it!” Leblanc stumbled. “Either of you remember to bring bandages?”
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Sep 12, 2022 03:07
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Sophre's Sunbell 1097 words Lordling Fillion dashed between the standing stones into the wildflower grove, his cloak flapping behind him. The indentured golem Matthew lumbered in after, his heavy footfalls deadened by the moss. "There is magic here, master," Matthew said, in his voice like the grinding of millstones. "Enough, Matthew! Now quickly, fill your basket with flowers. Catherine's wedding is in one hour, and you will no doubt slow us greatly on our return." "Certainly, master," replied the golem. Fillion found a patch of heather and laid down to watch. With great gentleness and care, Matthew picked only the most resplendent wildflowers, at a rate of one every other minute. "Faster, faster, please Matthew," Fillion groaned languidly. "I make all the haste of which I am able, Master." On the breeze, a third voice drifted into the ancient grove. "Your golem is quite handsome, young lad." Fillion lifted his head off his resting arm and peered around. It was true that Matthew had been carved with a pleasing visage, but all statuary and golemae were in that day; it was the height of fashion. "Hello?" "Do you not know that these flowers are protected by ancient compact? Or do you simply not care?" The lovely voice seemed unto itself like the running brook which they had crossed at the border between the town and the wildlands. Fillion scrambled to his feet and backed up against the nearest standing stone. Remembering it late, he fumbled to get his old dagger out from his belt, and pointed it out in front of him. "Reveal yourself, whoever you are! I shan't stand for trickery." At first, all he saw was a leg, pink and shapely, kicking out from behind the stone across the glade. It was followed by the nude form of a woman, with black hair down to her stomach, and eyes that shone darkly like the night sky. As she slunk around the stone, a rolling wave of mist shrouded her feet, and Fillion finally saw that she carried with her a long-handled butterfly net. "Trickery would be quite unbecoming of an agent of the greenfolk," she said with a smirk. Fillion gaped, and made no effort to control his twitching eyes as they took in every inch of her. When they landed back on her upturned mouth, his mind awoke again. He gave a weak laugh and lowered the dagger. "Greenfolk?" He said, his mouth suddenly dry. "Like the children's fable?" "Would that be so bad?" She teased, drifting gently between the flowers. "Some of my best friends come from fables." After a moment, Fillion laughed again, though not because he understood her. "That's funny. You're quite funny!" He stowed the dagger back on his belt and tried to turn his protective stance into a suave lean against the stone. "I say, which village do you hail from? Weltlich? You have the bearing of a Weltlich lass." "The name of my land is unpronounceable with this fleshy tongue. But I would whisper it in your ear if you should favor me with your kindness, my lord." Fillion looked up at the shifting leaves overhead. It was the commoner's pastime to lay their pleas at the feet of lords, and the lord's responsibility to step over them. But a lord who stepped past a beautiful woman should be exiled. "What would you have me do?" She took up her net, and twirled it around before her. The wind of it whipped fallen leaves and petals into the air. Her hair shifted with it, and the glimpse of flesh that Fillion saw made his heart beat quickly. Finishing the motion, she laid the net's hoop at his feet. "I've come to catch a butterfly. But my net may not be up to the task. If you truly wish to help me, jump on with both feet, and I shall yank upon the handle, and we shall see if it holds up to the strain. Do this, and you may know as much of me as you wish to learn." As the petals rained down upon his shoulders, Matthew looked across the grove to where his master was transfixed by the gaze of this strange woman of the wood. "I accept," said Fillion. He stepped forward and placed his fine-slipped feet into the net. The woman tensed the long handle and smiled, revealing wide rows of thin, needle-like teeth. She yanked upwards, and Fillion disappeared into the net. He was gone. She laughed long, and the songbirds of the forest sang back in kind. Matthew picked another flower and placed it in his basket. He spied the next most desirable one, but as he turned toward it, he found the woman blocking his path. Her bearing had changed - now she crouched in the heather, with the empty net over her shoulders and her arms crooked around it, and her black hair shrouding her face. "And you, golem?" She croaked. "What should be done with you?" "I don't know," he replied after a moment. "I do what my master decrees." "I don't see any masters around here, do you?" Matthew stood up to his full height, nearly as tall as the standing stones themselves, and looked around. "No. I do not. He went into your net." "Quite right, big man. For his sins." "In the absence of my master, I am to continue my last helpful task. Please step aside, so that I might pluck the exquisite Sophre's sunbell behind your foot without disturbing you." She didn't move. "That I cannot do, stony lonesome. I guard this place, you see, and each flower within. The basket you carry is a bouquet of my failures. I cannot let you leave with it." Matthew looked into the basket. "This bouquet is for the wedding of fair Mistress Catherine, and she will smile to see them. Thus I must return with haste, and with that Sophre's sunbell too." "Catherine, mortal bitch," the woman snarled. "No! You're coming with me!" She leapt up and thrust the net down over Matthew's head. But nothing happened. She looked bewildered, her black eyes searching and angry. "Golems are resistant to magic," Matthew rumbled. He punched the woman under her chin, and she went flying up, over the treetops, and far, far away. "It is for our friends' protection." Matthew took his time in gathering the rest of the excellent flowers from the glade, and when he returned to town, Catherine gave him a kiss upon the cheek, and the question of wherever Fillion had gone did not arise for a fortnight.
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Sep 12, 2022 03:29
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Week 527 Submission Pump and Circumstances 1100 Words Frank, father of the groom, sidles up next to Dave at the urinals. “So,” Frank says, “You’re Caitroina’s—husband?” “Uh, yup.” A lie. Dave is cover. Caitriona and Bev, out loud and proud three-sixty-four, were sucking it up for a day, for the friend who went all in on the Catholic mass wedding and the white picket fence, four kids with a two car garage after meeting the guy who works in finance, and the mess is just over the horizon. Everyone else sees the first rays of a red morning cresting, but she sees the hope of a beautiful sunrise. It’s grody, but nobody wants to sever. Cat riffs on the way to the reception that the bride will get a good divorce settlement, hopefully before there are any kids at all, let alone four, stuck between divorced parents when the bride has her fantasy shattered, and groom is living the American Dream (a rich conservative). Bev, bride, and groom went out once, not to a bar, but a restaurant with a bar. Wine with dinner is fine, but he hmmmms like a broken radiator when Bev and bride order chocolate martinis. A frou frou digestive, not a night of excess. Bev senses the side eye is more a viper’s eye, but bride has a history of wack beaus, so maybe a traditional, religious, business douche isn’t the worst. She tosses out the half-joke that when we’re living The Handmaid’s Tale, at least he’ll be one of the commanders. On that reflection, Caitriona wonders if a divorce would be on the table at all. Dave holds the train while Bev and Cat bustle. Frank starts calling him Gary the bag man from Veep, since Dave has the satchel with makeup, hairspray, and sewing kit, and all the wedding party bouquets tucked in. The photographer arranges them on the 18th green, and Dave asks if they want the bouquets, but golf clubs are distributed instead of flowers, because, of course. Three out of four groomsmen are the groom’s coworkers slash golfing buddies, and the last is cousin Herb from Canada. Bride has only Bev and Cat. The groom overheard Cat mentioned her spouse, and she couldn’t blow it up. Truth later. They’re doing it for the misty-eyed bride with blinders on. The groom, unprompted: “You’re going to love the DJ, no rap music, no ghetto music.” The trio exchange a look. Herb notes it and joins in. The circle grows by one and they lag a step behind the rest. Herb asks, “In his mind, what’s the difference between rap and ghetto music?” Cat suggests, “Vanilla Ice?” as they blink the sun and confusion out of their eyes. The groom is taller than Dave, but looks like a damp sack of flour in a tux. A weekly round of golf is probably his only exercise. Dave finds the friends’ table. Ninety percent of the room is family, and half the table is Missie, and her children Maya and River, here because the bride babysat them. Dave suddenly feels very lonely for the bride. But Dave knows Missie, an anti-bullying organizer since River, newly eighteen, began his transition two years ago. River sports a cute little pencil mustache and some peach fuzz on his chin. Maya’s insulin pump is a web of tubes and monitors since she’s too young to get an implant. Another victim for bullies. Missie checks it before dinner, with a look of consternation. “We might have to eat in the car,” she says, “Maya, your battery’s almost dead. Did you charge it?” “Umm.” Dave the bag man pulls a hydra of USB cables, problem dusted. Missie checks the reading. “One pump, no more cookies.” Dave asks, “You can see inside your blood. So, what’s your next superpower?” “It is like a superpower,” says Missie. Maya says, “Move things with my mind.” “Oh that’s a good one.” River perks up and says, “So many good ones, but—invisibility.” “Dave?” “Maybe immortality, does that count?” River inquires, “Like Deadpool, or Vandal Savage?” Dave thinks for a minute and says, “Could be a downer, if like, my arms and legs got cut off and I just roll around forever.” Mingle hour, Dave checks on Bev and Cat. They’re hanging with Herb. “poo poo, it was so hard not to Hail Satan after the toast,” says Bev, a member of the Church of Satan, partially to be an edgy atheist, but their chapter coordinates a lot of advocacy. Cat says, “I slung some devil horns under the table for you.” “Hail Satan.” Groom and his father come around, bride is far off in the ballroom. Herb hushes, “Where’s the best man’s wife? She seemed nice.” Groom answers, “She turned to the bottle. Tragic. Maybe I shouldn’t say more.” Frank says, “Cat’s out of the bag now. Hi, Cat.” The old man sticks his tongue out at her. It’s not quite lewd, but maybe? Groom declines to elaborate and they move on. And the four all mouth “what the gently caress” at the same time. Dave bounces back to the table during the formals. As soon as they’re over, the groom, solo this time, mingles that way. “You’re not dancing?” asks Missie. “I don’t dance. That was an obligation. Missie.” And it’s a small world thing, since groom is on the opposing side in local politicking. He places his hand on Maya’s shoulder. “And this is . . . [deadname]?” Missie says, “Maya. That’s River.” “Oh,” he replies. “I remember seeing you around now, such a cute little girl. A shame. Dave, we weren’t properly introduced.” He extends a hand. “I’m—” Dave stands, and opens his arms for a hug. He engulfs the groom and delivers one swift punch to his doughy breadbasket. “I love to dance.” Dave releases him into a chair, red-faced and stunned. Dave nods towards the dance floor. “River?” They gallop full-speed in an ungainly, grinning waltz around the dusty olds teetering to a bloated Elvis ballad. As they prance, Dave sees groom complaining to Frank, who shrugs him off, presumably ‘be a man and fight your own fights.’ “Dip me,” says Dave, and all five-two of River tries his best until they collapse on the floor and roll off the laminates, full-bellied laughing. Herb slips the DJ a hundo, and before you know it, DJ Legalized Herb is on the deck and it’s time to "Bust A Move." The next morning at the hotel, Dave helps load the beaming bride’s car. Married and off to honeymoon. The groom never said a word. Hopefully he learned a little lesson. If not, it sure felt good.
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Sep 12, 2022 04:02
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Border Run 1253 words (crit in place)"Not cool, man," said Evan, pushing his chair back. "Who the gently caress are you?" said the man in the brown leather jacket. He turned to the woman at the bar. "Is this your boyfriend?" She shook her head vigorously. Evan stood up. "Look, buddy," he said. "We're all just trying to have a good time here. Why don't-" "You ain't my buddy," he said. "This right here's the only friend I need." A knife, a hunting knife, one sharp side and the other serrated, clean, marked with scratches from use, in his hand like it had leapt from his belt all on its own. "And seeing as all that, why don't you back away." Nobody else was talking. Nobody else was walking or breathing or making any kind of noise. Evan kept walking forward. "I can't do that," he said. The creep kept waving the knife. I grabbed the pitcher, mostly empty, by the handle and let it fly. It's a talent of mine. Hit him square on the forehead, sent him reeling. Then the woman leapt off her chair, took hold of the guy's hand and slammed it, knife first into the next table. Through the hand of another man, with a baseball cap and thick-framed glasses and deep into the wooden table. This guy had a briefcase handcuffed to that hand, and the next thing she did was to get that unlocked, not sure how, quick as if she had a key. The creep tried to pull out the knife with both hands. Former briefcase guy was scary quiet. His other hand snaked out and grabbed the briefcase handle, pulled it toward him. The woman didn't let go, so was pulled forward right into a headbutt as glasses stood up. She reeled back, but did not let go. That's when we got there. "JJ," Evan said. "The usual?" I nodded and scurried into position. The usual plan. Evan shoves, while I trip. Works every time. Sort of worked this time. He fell back all right. But he didn't let go of the case, and neither did she. In fact, she launched herself rather than pulling on it, rather than stabilizing, and it was right then that the original creep got his knife free. So she flipped all the way over him, then yanked once his arm was fully above his shoulder, with no leverage. "Don't just stand there," she said. "Run!" It looked like a good idea to me, with the creep lumbering forward and glasses reaching into his coat with his bloody hand. We ran, to the back, to the restrooms, through the emergency exit, into the parking in the rear over the siren. "Tell me," she said, "That one of you nerds has a car." Evan pulled out his keyfob and pressed unlock. A small car's lights came on. "Technically," he said, "I shouldn't be driving." "Better you than me," I said. "I've had more and have half the body mass." "I'm not letting go of this," she said, clutching the briefcase. "I'll risk it with beefcake there." "What's in that thing anyway," he said, opening the door. "Jeez, a loving Prius? Whatever, shotgun," she said, then turned to me. "My Aunt Sylvia's erotic photography collection." We got in, pulled out just in time to see glasses taking pictures, tight clear shots of our rear end, of the license plate. "That's going to be trouble," she said. "Mr. Clarence's boss works with the cops. Well, gives them orders." She turned around. "Thanks for the assist. I'm Dylan." "JJ," I said. "That stand for anything?" she asked. "Jack Junior," I said. "So not much, Senior was a right monster." "And I'm Evan," Evan said. "Right," Dylan said. "Keep to the back roads. If we can get to the Oklahoma border, I've got friends." "Oklahoma," said Evan. "That's about twice the range of this thing. No change stations except near the highway." "Also," I said, "We have LoJack. Won't be long before someone's tracking or kills the engine." "Oh, man," said Evan. "What about our phones?" He pulled his out of his pocket and out the window. I sighed. "Just the sim card should be fine." I was removing mine. "That was a hundred dollar phone, Evan." "I used it too much anyway," he said. "We still need to switch cars," Dylan said. "Be on the lookout for somewhere with a small parking lot." "What, you're just going to steal someone's ride?" said Evan. "Not cool, man." "Borrow it," she said. "Just has to stay off police radio for a few hours, get us to Oklahoma." "Still not cool," he said. "You got any better ideas?" "Sure," he said. "We buy one. You open that up and we use a little of the cash." "Is that what you think is in here?" she said. "What, a million dollars in cash?" "More like a hundred thousand," I said. "And that's with hundreds. More than that would have to be diamonds or something." "Bearer bonds," said Evan. We both watch a lot of movies. "They don't make those any more," I said. "It's not money," Dylan said. "So what is it?" Evan asked. "My soul," she said. "Are we doing this or what?" Dylan made it look easy. Evan parked the Prius at the edge of the red zone by a hydrant nearby. "Maybe it'll get towed by the locals before your guys get here," he said. "They're not 'my guys',"she said, just as she managed to turn the ignition. Old car. Full tank. Smelled like coffee and dip. And after all that, they still had a roadblock waiting ahead of us, right ahead of the border. "Whatever else is in there," I said, "it includes a GPS tracker. Which we might have noticed if you'd opened it." "I stand by my decisions," said Dylan. "No lights," said Evan. "If we'd been going without headlights like someone wanted this would be an ambush." "No lights means not the cops," said Dylan. "Which is bad." We argued, Dylan and I, about what to do as we got closer. Evan didn't participate, didn't seem to listen. "Everyone," he said, "Hope you're wearing your seat belts." He slammed the accelerator and aimed. I checked, but of course I was wearing the belt. Dylan quick yanked hers into the socket. Old car. They don't make them like the used to. Evan hit between two new tin can cars, more toward the one whose rear was blocking us. It barely slowed us down, barely damaged the car we were in. They started shooting, tried to follow, but just after we crossed the border rifle shots came from ahead and above, painting the ground between us. They backed off. And that was it. There wasn't even any real trouble waiting for us when we came home. A bunch of witnesses described the fight in a bunch of contradictory ways, most of which made us out to be the good guys. Evan eventually drove the old car back where we found it, and paid the tow charge on the Prius. Dylan sent us a fat envelope full of money. At least I assume it was her, no signature or return address or anything, but it's not like that happens to us a lot. And we didn't see her again until my Bachelor party, the night before I was supposed to marry Evan's sister Leena. That happened, three months later than planned, but that's a whole different story.
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Sep 12, 2022 04:33
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Submissions closed
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Sep 12, 2022 05:09
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Y'all these were all kinda grilled stuft with issues but I'm crunch wrap supremely pleased that everyone at least gave it a go. Cut of Your Jib was the closest to mountain dewing me a baja blast so that's the winner this week. Cool Ranch Doritos Locos HMs go to Something Else, Thranguy, Albatrossy_Rodent, flerp, and Screaming Idiot. Crits will come along in a day or two. Or longer. I'm about to go back to Hawaii so 
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Sep 12, 2022 06:44
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 WEͧ͂͗EK̶̆͜ 52̦̰̂͛ͯ̔̚8̖̯̫̍̓ͤ̐̀ͅ ̢̘̼̮̩̬P̅̀̌RO̺̫͙͕̰ͫ͛ͧMPT̨ͩ͞͝ Week 528 - π is my favorite dessert.  I have been champing at the bit to reach a magical number of TD words written. Since I have to wait another week to complete it, I want stories involving numbers. It can be conspiracy theory/finding meaning in coincidence or creepy/mystical stuff like the movie π, scientists debating Drake's Equation, spaceship racers going for a percentage of light speed, or even the local cornershop numerologist. There's no expectation that it has to be chock full o' hard science, but if you want to go that route, I'll read it wearing my prescription analytical reading hat. I'm not too concerned about genre so long as a number or numbers are significant to the story or characters. Word limit is 808. --- The fun part:If you make a chiptune song before signup deadline and post it here, you get double word count! It doesn't have to be good, but at least try a little. If you want to show off your flash and use other tools, then make something awesome. I'm hoping that if you're skilled in a DAW you'll make something fresh rather than post an old track, but who am I to know? Here's a completely free chiptune maker, and you can kind of just click around to figure it out, or read the tutorial (bah) https://www.beepbox.co The coolest part is you just copy the link and your tune is embedded in the URL. No messing with files needed! a ditty i made in like 3 minutes by clicking almost randomly as an example. Constants: The Cut of Your Jib ? ? (please help me observe the rule of threes) Variables: Thranguy - tune - 1616 Words flerp dervinosdoom - flash: gambling Something Else - tune - 1616 Words My Shark Waifuu Vinny Possum Idle Amalgam - old tune  cool track otherwise - 1616 Wordshard counter Signups: Saturday 2:59AM EDT Friday 11:59PM PDT Saturday 6:59PM NZST Saturday 6:59AM Greenwich Mean Deadlines: Monday 2:59AM EDT Sunday 11:59PM PDT Monday 6:59PM NZST Monday 6:59AM Greenwich Mean The Cut of Your Jib fucked around with this message at 01:10 on Sep 18, 2022 |
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Sep 12, 2022 07:42
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In my tune
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Sep 12, 2022 10:55
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in
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Sep 12, 2022 15:35
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In, flash
Lady Jaybird fucked around with this message at 17:38 on Sep 12, 2022 |
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Sep 12, 2022 17:18
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Here's my song https://tinyurl.com/2hjx77m6 i guess i'll write a story too Something Else fucked around with this message at 19:02 on Sep 12, 2022 |
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Sep 12, 2022 18:52
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dervinosdoom posted:In, flash Not really a flash week, but if you want one you got it. then gimme one about someone developing a gambling system. Ponies, card counting, sports book, whatever (They could make it work legit, are being swindled, or they're just a cheater, that's for you to decide).
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Sep 12, 2022 20:29
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I'm in!
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Sep 12, 2022 21:59
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