|
In, tarot me.
|
#
?
May 23, 2022 20:38
|
|
|
|
| # ? Apr 23, 2024 15:22 |
|
|
In, card me
|
|
#
?
May 23, 2022 20:41
|
|
|
ty derpjudge ok in and tarot please (if you have more than one deck, one from the novelty deck or weirdest set)
|
|
#
?
May 23, 2022 20:48
|
|
|
In and deal me a card!
|
|
#
?
May 23, 2022 20:53
|
|
|
derp posted:in, gimme a card Your Inner Guide Speaks:  TEMPERANCE Temperance! Associated with fire, Jupiter, Temperance takes the form of an angel, neither masculine or feminine (or perhaps both). Temperance tells us to embrace balance. Focus on patience, purpose, and moderation. sephiRoth IRA fucked around with this message at 21:19 on May 23, 2022 |
|
#
?
May 23, 2022 20:59
|
|
|
Tarot me the gently caress up
|
|
#
?
May 23, 2022 21:06
|
|
|
In with card
|
|
#
?
May 23, 2022 21:19
|
|
|
crimea posted:In, tarot me. Your Inner Guide Speaks:  THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE The Wheel! A positive draw, associated with fire, the Wheel suggests the hand of chance or Destiny herself is affecting the life of the querent. Luck, opportunity, or just plain old throwing up a win is on the horizon.
|
|
#
?
May 23, 2022 21:27
|
|
|
Chernobyl Princess posted:In, card me Your Inner Guide Speaks:  THE FOOL Long maligned as a card representative of idiocy or naiveté, The Fool is actually a card of new beginnings. What some see as naiveté, The Fool tells you is innocence and being in possession of a free spirit. We see the Fool as a young man, casting off care, taking the first step into the unknown. sephiRoth IRA fucked around with this message at 21:33 on May 23, 2022 |
|
#
?
May 23, 2022 21:27
|
|
|
The Cut of Your Jib posted:ty derpjudge I only have the one set, unfortunately, but you did get an exciting one! Your Inner Guide Speaks:  THE DEVIL Embrace your shadow self, wrapped in the chains of The Devil. The Horned One sits in dominion over two bound humans, and represents negative attachments, restriction. In a better light one could see the reflection of The Lovers, but here, under the gaze of the Devil, you might find addiction, carnal indulgence, and other things that might hold you back from your best self.
|
|
#
?
May 23, 2022 21:49
|
|
|
Tars Tarkas posted:In and deal me a card! Another unfairly maligned card! Your Inner Guide Speaks:  DEATH Unlike the movies, the appearance of Death here for you does not foretell the immediacy of your demise. Instead, with his flag of a five-petaled flower, Death is an avatar of transition. It tells you of endings, of change, of transformation. Death, like change, is immortal and invites you to embrace the transitions that await.
|
|
#
?
May 23, 2022 22:02
|
|
|
Tyrannosaurus posted:Tarot me the gently caress up Your Inner Guide Speaks:  THE HERMIT An old man, carrying a staff, The Hermit is associated with earth, and the planet Mercury. The Hermit carries a lantern, the light of introspection, of study, and suggests you meditate on your path forward. Seek solitude and search your soul.
|
|
#
?
May 23, 2022 22:20
|
|
|
in and card please
|
|
#
?
May 23, 2022 22:52
|
|
|
Thranguy posted:In with card Your Inner Guide Speaks:  THE EMPEROR The Emperor is a symbol of control, regulation, and authority. He sits upon his throne adorned with ram skulls and holding aloft his scepter. The Emperor is the father figure of the deck, and asks us whether it is us who are taking the mantle of provider, or whether we should look outward for a figure of power or status that demands our respect.
|
|
#
?
May 23, 2022 23:12
|
|
|
sparksbloom posted:in and card please Your Inner Guide Speaks:  JUDGEMENT Judgement, another depiction of an angel, represents judgement, of course, but also is an indicator of rebirth, an inner calling, a time of absolution. The angel on the card blows a trumpet, calling men, women, and children to rise up from their graves. Rise up, and embrace a calling to your best self, your highest good. This is a card of spiritual awakening.
|
|
#
?
May 23, 2022 23:24
|
|
|
In, card. To make up for failing last week I  to dramatic read/audio crit up to three stories, from any week, on request.
|
|
#
?
May 24, 2022 03:08
|
|
|
Albatrossy_Rodent posted:In, card. Your Inner Guide Speaks:  THE MOON In the moonlight, the shadows twist and turn. The Moon hangs low over the earth, her face positioned between two towers. Wild wolves howl and a watery crustacean emerges from a dappled pool. The Moon is a card of intuition, of illusion, of dreams and the subconscious. It asks you to question your fears and anxieties and how they be affecting you.
|
|
#
?
May 24, 2022 03:45
|
|
|
Got a bit of an idea. In. Card please.
|
|
#
?
May 24, 2022 03:47
|
|
|
The man called M posted:Got a bit of an idea. In. Your Inner Guide Speaks:  THE HANGED MAN The Hanged Man, despite being upside down and bound, seems calm and serene. The man asks us to view the world from a different perspective. The twelfth card of the major arcana represents pause, being suspended in time, but might also suggest one lets go. The halo around his head indicates enlightenment, and knowing a situation requires sacrifice.
|
|
#
?
May 24, 2022 04:10
|
|
|
In, gimme da cards.
|
|
#
?
May 24, 2022 04:28
|
|
|
In, and I will take a card
|
|
#
?
May 24, 2022 07:00
|
|
|
Nae posted:In, gimme da cards. Your Inner Guide Speaks:  THE TOWER Calamity! The Tower is shown atop a mountain, sundered by lightning. Two people leap toward the ground, aflame. A crown is toppled. Beware upheaval and chaos. Not all is lost, however- the 22 tiny flames spread across the scene represent the divine, suggesting that hand of the universe may yet reach out to help you.
|
|
#
?
May 24, 2022 12:05
|
|
|
BabyRyoga posted:In, and I will take a card Your Inner Guide Speaks:  JUSTICE Justice sits before you, sharp sword of logic in one hand, scales of balance in the other. We see Justice as the natural form of order, balance, truth, and fairness. You are called by Justice to account for your actions, and whether they served the greatest good. Alternatively, if you seek Justice, this card might be a positive sign for you.
|
|
#
?
May 24, 2022 12:11
|
|
|
Derp Brawl Tales from New York: Famous when Dead 600 words So, there’s this guy I used to know. Just like many shmucks who come here, he came with a few bucks and a dream. The thing is, he didn’t come trying to be a singer or an actor. You know, the kind of stuff folks usually come to live and work in New York for. This guy was your traditional kind of artist, using paint, and easels and that kind of thing. Well…I say traditional, but if you look at his art, his wasn’t exactly that. The thing with “traditional'' art is that it’s all subjective. People like plays and music and poo poo like that because if you look at the words, and understand what they mean, chances are you “get” what the artist is saying. If you do that, then you appreciate it more. Paintings and stuff? Strictly up to interpretation. You either “Get it”, or you don’t. You look at the painting of a castle and one guy might think it’s showing how that castle looked back in the day. Another guy might think outside the box and say something like, “Do you know what this says about society?” And the thing is, they would both be right. My friend would tell me of multiple times where he would present some of his paintings to people. Folks like museum curators, art schools, and even the average shmuck on the street. Time and time again he would show off his art, and time and time again, he would get the same sort of response. “What the hell is this?” No, it wasn’t because it pissed them off. Far from it. It wasn’t because they thought it was bad, either. They just weren’t sure what the hell they were looking at! He tried to explain, but they just couldn’t “get” it. At first, I couldn’t either. He was the kind of guy that would tell me, “I’m gonna revolutionize the art world!” How many times have I, or anyone else for that matter, heard that? Still, gotta hand it to the kid, he never gave up. He felt like it was his God given mission to show his art to the world. And at the very least, he showed it off in New York! Now, there were people that recognized his talent, don’t get me wrong. It usually wasn’t the right people. But it was the exact “right people” that helped him refine his craft, make it more, “understandable”. If it weren’t for them, he would’ve quit a long time ago. I always wondered if he would make it big. If he would get the respect that at least he thought he deserved. Unfortunately, he died before he got that chance. Now, I want to say that his art became big afterwards. I want to say that he changed the art world forever. I even want to say I have one of his originals in my home. But I can’t. Because to be perfectly honest, I was kinda lying at the beginning. I didn’t know “a” guy. I knew quite a few of them. Why else wouldn’t I give a name to our “hero”? Sure, some of the parts of the story are different (some of them were women or otherwise) but for the most part, their stories are pretty much the same. They all tried to make it big in New York. They all believed that they will change art forever. And they all died mostly accomplishing gently caress all. Sounds sad, I know. But that’s just how it is in New York. You either make it or you die.
|
|
#
?
May 24, 2022 16:55
|
|
|
too slow but here is wilco: Green in the Lake 1094 words Perhaps the coroner knew more. To those around it the body could have been in the lake for any length of time – at least three days, possibly as long as a month. Just as Evie arrived the boats collected in the center of the water. They were the boats of the residents, borrowed by the police, who also borrowed Evie’s Uncle for the dredge. “They had to google it, getting a body off the bottom,” he said later. “The drat cops had a hook in that boat. They didn’t say it but I think Plan A was to spear the corpse and yank it up like a trout.” In the end they went ashore, obtained a net, went back out, and had Evie’s Uncle secure the flimsy shroud. The package came ashore at the lake house, where Evie sat on the back porch. She wore a purple dress and had painted her toenails a sunshine yellow, and drank a white claw in front of the authorities. Busy with waterlogged bodies, necks a primary red, they didn’t notice or care about underaged drinking. The body was fully clothed. Evie could see the melt of skull skin through water-soaked hair. It was dripping onto the cedar that her Uncle had put in. She’d taken an immediate picture, to celebrate her arrival, on that wood. She forced herself to finish the alcopop, and then crushed the can with her new sandals. “He was dripping – stuff,” she told Jordan, at work. “It was water but also– I don’t know.” She paused for effect, and Jordan stepped on it. “He was liquified. He was an emulsion,” Jordan started towards a blender, realized it was too far away, and stopped halfway. He repeated “a loving emulsion.” Uncle’s drive-thru sold many drinks. Initially a source of cheap coffee and cokes for truckers, it had added feelers in many drink-based directions. When she was fourteen Evie had sat out back with two Uncle-employed High School seniors, boy and girl, and watched them smoke together. Blowing defiant dry smoke into the humidity. Jordan did not smoke. He wore shirts from Target that were, clearly to Evie, the largest version of shirts made for small boys. His current one sported a yellow kite with the word FLY on it. But he listened to music on break with his eyes squeezed shut, and he cursed in a different language. Also he was it. The girls employed that summer were three years too old and involved with men who drove cars. Uncle now took shifts himself since the gas station failed. “Do you want to see?” she asked him. “To the lake?” Jordan did the correct thing, and stopped what he was doing to look at her. He had, Evie thought, all summer to grow his hair out. He drank iced espressos and knew how to use the foamer. “Yeah, I’d love to hang out at my boss’ house.” He said. “During my free time.” — The weather combined cloudy and muggy. Her phone pinged with thunderstorm notifications. Evie liked it – menacing weather was promising weather. There was a sense that things would happen. The lake was clear. But it had been clear for days. The police had taken their borrowed boats and their brand new corpse. They had left behind a sense of crime tape, drawn from tree to tree all around the lake. Residents looked out at the water from the first few feet of their docks. No power boats or jetskis or even a collection of Dads enjoying trackball. Her Uncle brought up the corpse at the dinner table. “They still don’t know who he is,” he told them, eyes downcast at his phone. “I mean, I bet they do, but they aren’t telling. Someone called in the sighting. We might never have known.” He’d put the wetsuit up to dry against the shed and left it there. Evie hadn’t cracked the water either. But she had put on her black bikini top with the gold outline. It was intended for Kardashians, or their ilk, but paired with tortoiseshell sunglasses and muted lip gloss it worked. She crouched by the water’s edge. It smelled of– something. Jordan arrived in a Kia Rio. It didn’t have anime stickers, which was good, but she had to check, which was bad. He wore a jean jacket and dickies. “You know they don’t even know the guy’s name?” he said, to greet her. She’d laid a hip against the dock piling. The sky sputtered. “I heard that,” Evie said. He walked out to the edge of the dock and folded his arms. “I’ve never been here before,” he said. “This is where the jetski people live. It’s weird to give your name to a security guard to see a lake.” “The jetski people infest this place,” Evie agreed. She decided to share an interest with this boy. “That’s probably who it is. Dead guy. He probably died doing… wheelies or whatever. Jetski crimes. His friends fled. Jetskis are fast.” “What?” Jordan looked confused. He turned to her, then back to the lake, drawn to it. “My Dad said they should pour bleach in and never stop.” “I mean, dozens of fish die every day, they probably add up to a person,” Evie said. A ray of sun bled through the clouds. The rumble overhead subsided. Somewhere else there would be a thrilling thunderstorm. “Is your Uncle here?” Jordan said, abruptly. This was it. Finally. Evie had thought through this moment. Her Uncle was home, watching TV, but Jordan had no need to know that. She trailed her hand in the water for the first time since the scouring. It truly was green, her skin lime and wobbling underneath the skim. “Perhaps,” she said, and playfully flicked a spray of water at Jordan. It spattered against his jean jacket and soaked in. A droplet hit his face. “Jesus!” he recoiled. “Jesus christ! Why would you– what the gently caress?” he seemed genuinely confused. Evie felt the same, but more so. “It’s just lake– it’s already—” she started. The sun broke out, unexpectedly, illuminating each algae chop in the surface. She’d swum in it summer after summer, as a kid, in many other bathing suits. It was fine, it had to be. “Thanks for the corpse water bath,” Jordan said. He pulled back, off the dock. “See you at work.” Evie drew into herself and watched him go, his car rumble through the dirt path. Behind her the lake turned still as the afternoon neared.
|
|
#
?
May 24, 2022 21:29
|
|
|
MDerp Avant-Garde Brawl Results (prepare to scroll edition) M: the mechanics of the piece are good and the style flows really well. It's a straightforward narration peppered with comments and in a different context would work great. I just have issues with the art-related 'insights' or lack thereof. I get trying to stick with the arts theme, but these pitfalls about art that elicited a strong response from all corners could have been avoided just by setting the genius as a scientist or inventor, or just writing a straightforward story about the con type of artist. This winds up being a cautionary tale where the moral is "Don't do art, you will probably fail and waste your life, don't go to NYC, you'll die." It's like a sermon from the cool preacher who swears. avoids a strict prompt interpretation by telling me about a misunderstood genius instead of delving into the mind of an artist. ___ derp: this goes to some dark places but it's not really all that dour or oppressive feeling. Teeters right on the edge, and that was pretty good especially when buoyed by some good poetic imagery. Dezy seems to flip from manic to depressive instantly, and I don't know if that's wholly realistic, but maybe it can happen. Trying to be accurate with mood disorders and other mental health concerns is something I'm trying to be better about. I think Bee accepts the glimpse of Dezy's 'Matrix' maybe a little too readily. kind of misses the prompt also, because a character readily accepts the other character's work as a profound truth that changes her without any confrontation. ----- Both had great use of completely different styles and author voice; and both could be upsetting in different ways. But derp wrapped some nihilism in a decent package, and didn't feel like the jumping off point of another debate or long discussion. In neither case did I really care about adhering strictly to the prompt, I just wanted some interesting thoughts, and derp was deeper derp wins  derp posted:DERP/M BRAWL Imagery is strong: allusions to ancient and profound texts work; the burning tree is good, and possibly/probably a reference to Plato’s Cave given the theme of nature of being and reality. There’s a lot of cosmos references between moons and black holes and sky and sun, but there doesn’t seem to be a real throughline beyond the relation of understanding and the night turning into day. It doesn’t bother me since the sentences on their own are interesting to read, but I think it’s neat when someone carries through with a set of imagery, like say (this is maybe just as overused, but I think you’ll get my point), a phases of a star going supernova and drip details in, especially since supernova dust is what forms new galaxies later. Something like the darkening star, the explosion of Bee’s understanding and a new paradigm after would work well. I’d say tendrils slither or slip rather than leak. I don’t think the first couple paragraphs really align with the epiphany that Dezy realizes. When she hears the knock at the door, she’s concerned about her physical appearance and the state of her room. Owing to her sigh, I don’t get the sense that she’s keeping up appearances just to placate the expectations of Bee or a world that she has concluded lacks a purpose, especially with the line about pretending towards the end. There’s no one in the room to witness the performance, so it must be natural thoughts. I don’t think it would give the game away to have Dezy think about the superficial and dismiss them. Of course, there’s contradiction in Dezy, and it’s not entirely clear whether this meeting is a prearranged Friday night dinner date or Dezy specifically summoned Bee for an impromptu wellness check and to share. I think it must be the latter, but that also makes me really confused about Dezy’s actual headspace. It’s like scheduling your breakdown. When I get past the anger and indignation and start going down the road that Dezy is on, that the world is a fraud or there’s no point to humanity (beyond the run-of-the-mill lay on the couch depression) that, to me, is real tailspin territory, and I suppose it’s interesting that Dezy can do something with it like write, which I certainly can’t. So it strikes me as a bit unusual that Dezy plans to share this revelation in advance. Come over in a couple days, and I’ll blindside you with a truthbomb about the pointlessness of existence. Dex is described at first in the grips of a mania, mumbling and scritching for days with pen and paper, but then it’s gone with the knock. I suppose a mental health professional might be able to supply an answer whether a mood disorder can shift this quickly, but it doesn’t feel quite true to me. Whether extremely up or extremely down, I feel like there’d be a lot of knocking and trying to get Dezy to answer the door. Brains are weird and that could just be me. There’s a strong contrast between Dezy and Bee, but I’m not sure if that’s a result of the past 36 hours or whether Dezy’s always been a bit of the oddball artist friend. Bee’s clothing suggests that she probably isn’t paid enough to have a full wardrobe, but she still obviously cares about her appearance, and isn’t desperate to take off the corporate monkey suit as soon as she’s out of work. The first thing Bee thinks of to cheer Dezy up is travel, which it’s not elaborated on whether this is a business trip or personal, and whether or not Dezy and Bee are co-workers in any way. If Dezy had a luxurious robe and maybe they were both a little well-to-do, and Bee’s suggestion was to look forward to a business trip, would that banal assuagement have more impact? Either way, Bee feels like a font of compassion, and coming in expecting a bit of light poetry I wonder if Dezy could have had a bit of an internal debate about sharing. If I had a friend like that I think I’d be very judicious, some people aren’t quite ready to jump straight into the Matrix, yaknow? But Bee seems to take it well. We’re not told what’s on the pages, except that it seems to provide some insight that changes Bee, so avoiding that was probably a smart move for a no win situation, like the Necronomicon or the Pulp Fiction suitcase, knowing will surely make people go, “that’s it?” And for not describing or stating the text, some might think it’s a cop out. There’s some magic in letting the reader think about what’s implied and fill in the blanks, especially since you’ve at least described the feeling of the screed, and that it’s apparently profound enough to have Bee comprehend and question everything herself. The breakfast lines at the conclusion I’ve been going back and forth with. If they’ve come to the conclusion that the ritual is a sham and we “pretend [the emptiness] is not true so we can keep eating, keep moving” then I would have liked a little more reference to that. saying something along the lines of “Should we get breakfast?” “It’s what we have to do” or something like that to tie it in with the new ideas that are kicking around Bee’s head. So in that sense, it seems like this is a revelation of completely understood genius, and there isn’t any frustration from Dezy trying to get her point across. But sometimes it’s nice to see someone just write down a bit of relatable malaise and despondency and then package it fairly nicely. The man called M posted:Derp Brawl There’s a clear and easy tone to it which works. The style is appealing to me. It reads kind of like a polemic in a conservative newspaper opinion column about the dangers of !?!New York City!?! with an anti-intellectual mindset in the narrator. I’ll reserve any harshness on this since it’s just a story, and we can attribute the cynicism to the narrator. The narrator is completely anonymous, and since no details about them are presented, we don’t have any reason to like or dislike him beyond the commentary. I have to say, I don’t care for the commentary, so that affects my impression of the piece as a whole. “parts of the story are different (some of them were women or otherwise)” This really stands out to me. Maybe I’m just trying to be hypersensitive and attentive about phrasing and pronouns and inadvertent misogyny, but it sounds yucky. If this had been titled Tales from New York: Famous When Dead (excerpted from the Pottsville Presbyterian Newsletter, Aug 1, 1995) minus the cussing, it might be a near perfect satire. I think the artist mindset can be broken down into a couple points, and maybe more universal than just ‘fine arts’: 1. Survival You can ask questions like whether a piece of work in any medium has a “soul” and discuss applied arts like advertising which might be far more technically skilled vs. an amateur artist who tries to convey something from themselves. They might not even be able to articulate what that message is in words. You know, that ‘I paint what I feel’ claptrap, or maybe even more avante-garde ‘interpretive dance.’ There are people who may parody it and make fun of them, but there are so many artists and performers who are entirely sincere. They feel a calling to it that we might not understand, but it’s there. Meredith Monk, who somehow has been plugging away for 40+ years in NYC. I don’t know if you’ll hate this video or find it funny nonsense, but she’s sincere: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FGy8i_i5zUU [Like why does this exist? What sort of person would create it? It's awful, but the people making it believe in it. What the hell is that sort of mind like? Or even the people that fund these projects? It's good to explore the mindset of people that are opposite your tastes, even superficially (and maybe in the political realm, only superficially to avoid psychic damage). You can always use this to create a well rounded antagonist later, and not make your reader think you're punching at an easy target.] And it’s beyond the scope here maybe start digging into sus areas like Marina Abramović performance art and wonder if she’s a huckster or an artist, but if you believe in an absolute ‘death of the author’ philosophy that nothing matters beyond the work itself, someone may find inspiration and meaning in her work. Otherwise, then you can’t help but integrate other details into your interpretation of whatever you’re consuming. So your point is probably relatively accurate that it’s tough to survive as a traditional artist. But moreso than most, artists tend to congregate and support each other. It’s possible that a painter may have been completely isolated from the larger arts community, but given the efforts to self-promote exampled in the story, it seems unlikely. This maybe doesn’t help the original artist pay the daily bills, but your story artist actively worked to make his paintings more understandable, and thus more marketable. https://www.tiktok.com/embed/7076034470175853830 See this house tchotchke stuff is an silly example of compromising artistic integrity to sell product, but some people make it with sincerity. Certainly most of the people who buy and display it are sincere. But I think once your artist became compromised by the “wrong people” enough to alter their vision, then it’s probable that they could have sold enough to get by. [what sort of 'traditional' artist would compromise enough to start cranking out Live Laugh Love? Or what happens when a hum-de-dum just living life type person suddenly gets hit with a piece of art that makes them think big thoughts they never really felt before] Even if they weren’t artists but marketers, these people are for some reason interested in commercializing the artist and presumably doing some patronage or even using it for marketing beyond just hanging on a museum wall. You could have even just talked about the side hustle that most artists have to do, and still be within the lane of artists are mostly failure since there's no time or energy for the "real" genius part of the art. 2. Legacy Yes, the artist has the grand vision to change the art world and is so unusual no one can understand it. Other artists would start mimicking or stealing whatever this new style is, and that’s the way it went with impressionism and cubism dadaism and a bunch of art schools when they first started. What I was hoping for by making the prompt “protag must be a misunderstood genius” was for the writers to get into the mindset and dig a little into the parts you mention about “revolutionizing art” and why someone would be driven to make art that nobody understands in the first place. And what the artist felt about someone making his art “more understandable.” If curators and art schools were completely mystified by the art, then that’s something special all on its own. The ‘what the hell am I looking at’ is a plot point in that Wes Anderson movie, The French Dispatch, and Adrian Brody’s character finds that perfect to advertise and create a firestorm of interest around it.  Now I doubt every artist that the narrator knows had such a grand vision. Most people want to leave something behind, whether it’s just being remembered, or setting up some sort of security for the people they leave behind. That’s pretty standard. But you’ve set up your artist as someone who’s truly unique. His WTF art would last (unless at the end he destroyed them all in a fit of despair over not accomplishing his dream). The actual legacy the artist wanted to achieve was simply fame and fortune, and not much beyond it, RESPECT MY CRAFT. 3. Personal Fulfillment Your artist is so malleable by the people in the industry he encounters that he couldn’t have been getting any personal satisfaction out of the act of painting. Or putting his WTF on the canvas. I mean, artists can be tortured souls or whatever, and struggle to convey what they want, but there’s tragedy to be mined from having a unique vision that is trampled by the people saying “this isn’t marketable, but if you change this this and this, then we can probably sell a few.” That’s interesting. 4. Meaningful Connections Beyond the interpersonal, making a connection from my paintbrush to you through the art. So starting with the impenetrable artwork is good. The artist really is misunderstood. He could work with the marketing types and achieve fame but know it’s hollow and just live with it. And you could then ask the question at the end, did he achieve gently caress all? Cuz you paint all these starving artists with the same brush here, that none achieve fame, so they didn’t make anything of their lives. Maybe this genius artist works on a painting just for himself, his secret masterpiece that the narrator then does have in his house. You turn the characters from a parable into real, even if only very lightly sketched, people. It’s kind of weird to set this in New York, with one of the most vibrant world arts communities (well, pre-pandemic anyway), and make it part of the problem. It’s far more likely that the rural artist will languish in obscurity, be misunderstood by the schmuck on the street, and feel the isolation. NYC certainly won’t necessarily help sell paintings, but there’s enough art space in cafes and pizzerias and clubs (or places that embrace the bizarre) beyond just a traditional gallery that surely someone out of the millions could find some epiphany while looking at the WTF art. And even that could be corny or sweet, finding or even just silently observing the one person who turns around after getting their coffee order and going, “whoa. That speaks to me.” But he never sold a painting then he died. Or just flipping it for the prompt requirement and a true world class work of genius is hanging in the Kansas TruValue the artist’s uncle owns, never truly appreciated, but if you stop by the little hardware store, you might just look up over the register like hundreds before and say ‘what the hell is that.’ - I think we start off in the weeds a little bit with traditional, and somehow not considering music and theater traditional in comparison to painting. Or considering them less subjective. People find profound meaning in lyrics only for the musician to say lol, no it just rhymed and sounded good in the meter. Or interpretations of Shakespeare, the Bible, or even shoehorning Nostradamus prophesies into modern context. Take some of my crits from the last couple weeks as an example, or even this one. I see the words on the screen and I can technically parse the sentences, but I intuit subtext and fill in backstory, interpret phrases in strange ways and see if there are references or allusions to other writing that might influence what the author is trying to say. If you could just look at the words, see that syntax and grammar rules are followed, then know what the author wanted to say, there wouldn’t be an entire sub-industry of literary, art, film, and music critics who tell you what the author is saying (now, if you made some arguments about most critics being bullshit, then people might  and move on).But fair where fair’s due, I have a visceral loathing of Rothko work, and nearly the first dome story I read involved someone on the verge of mental extasy about one. And I did do an eyeroll about it and made my opinions clear in the crit. https://thunderdome.cc/?story=4933&title=Presence But sparksbloom’s story isn’t really about the art itself, and Rothko’s name could have been interchanged or a fictional artist added without any impact to the story. it’s about the people watching and the comments in the museum, some bored, some haughty and know-it-all, and the protag thinking about “getting art” or “not getting it” and even whether NYC is too highbrow for them. It’s a good commentary on high art / low art and being phony or actually feeling something, perhaps by accident, when seeing a piece of art. Your comparison about the castle painting is right, but also universal about basically any creative pursuit. There’s not a real attempt to reveal anything interesting about art commentary, and I detailed my definition of an artist’s mind that I don’t think this story really addresses. We have physical failure, but no insights. For an adventure story fine. Wouldn't necessarily complain if Indy didn't get save the day. But this was about art. The Cut of Your Jib fucked around with this message at 06:42 on May 25, 2022 |
|
#
?
May 25, 2022 05:28
|
|
|
In & card me
|
|
#
?
May 25, 2022 14:24
|
|
|
Ceighk posted:In & card me Your Inner Guide Speaks:  THE CHARIOT The Chariot is a card of progress, willpower, and determination. A prince or warrior sits staring resolutely forward, crowned with a star and laurel, steering the Chariot not with reins but the power of his mind. The Chariot pushes us to action, and the promise of success.
|
|
#
?
May 25, 2022 15:20
|
|
|
In, and I would like a card.
|
|
#
?
May 26, 2022 05:13
|
|
|
Hawklad posted:In, and I would like a card. Your Inner Guide Speaks:  THE SUN Brilliant, beautiful, The Sun shines over a field of abundance. A happy child rides atop a calm steed. This is a card of warmth, of positivity, of vitality! The Sun tells you that radiant energy will follow you wherever you go, and encourages you to share that with everyone you meet.
|
|
#
?
May 26, 2022 14:34
|
|
|
Sign ups closed. Can't wait to read all about your Anton Chigurh wannabes If I missed your card PM me!
|
|
#
?
May 28, 2022 06:22
|
|
|
card: judgement Sitting in a Tree 977 words Claire woke up from a dream and knew she had to leave the outpost planet. It felt possible. In the dream she was back home, surrounded by long-gone friends and family, eating a real meal of fresh vegetables and no canned rations, and her mom had sat her down after dinner and said “You’re such a smart person. You can fix anything.” When she woke she was covered in a netting of vines. Sometimes it made her feel secure, being cradled by the overgrowth, but after the dream it felt oppressive. good morning That was Holly, who had been unlucky enough to take trap to the chest when they had scavenged the outpost’s storage, and her soul had been yanked out of her body and fused with the planet’s biomass. Now every drooping tree, every shrub, every bit of plantlife was an extension of Holly. “Hey, you,” Claire said. “Had such a good dream. Can you let me go?” A hesitation, but then the vines parted, and Claire hopped off onto the rich earth. She slept in a hammock underneath a billowing tree, its leaves heavy and unnaturally purple, an innovation of Holly’s. what’s on your mind The biomass fusion left Holly mute for weeks, and Claire had thought, at first, that Holly was lost entirely, that her body had simply dissolved. But whenever she came near this tree, there were words in her head that weren’t hers – help and i need you and jesus christ i would kill a man for a slice of pizza. At first, Claire thought it was her anxiety – anxiety and guilt. She cared about Holly. Holly was shy but funny, did like twenty goofy voices, and she was always there when Claire just needed some human contact, whether that was a hug, a long conversation, or a gently caress. But it scared her how Holly crumpled and sulked whenever Claire went back to her chambers to read a book or something, and for some dark part of Claire, it had almost been a relief when Holly was hit with the trap. But when she leaned her back against the purpling willow tree, the words crystalized further – PLEASE SAY SOMETHING and at a hesitant “hello” a branch had swung back and wrapped around her midsection so tightly she was bruised for weeks. A hug. And it had felt welcoming, it had felt nice to feel a little less alone, but simultaneously there was this pressing feeling of responsibility, obligation, burden. “What’s on my mind?” Claire repeated. She always wondered if being synchronized with a planet’s biomass gave you some kind of mind-reading powers. “Honestly? I want to get out of here.” The branches shook though there was no wind. oh i see. Then: of course you’re leaving you barely even notice me it’s so loving lonely already and you’re going to abandon me and it’s going to get even worse A barrage of assaults from every direction, each one like a hair being plucked from deep within her skull. “Whoa, slow down,” Claire said, “that hurts.” Even though she wasn’t touching the tree, the next one came sharp like a sprinter in her brain: I HURT “We’re going to find a way to get your body back. Okay? If we’re hanging around this outpost we’re never going to do that. Ever. You’re going to be a tree and everything else until the end of the world. And,” she said, with a burst of insight, “if I end up getting into an accident, well, you’re just stuck here forever, no one’s ever going to know about you.” oh what about the distress call people will find us people can help but you’re supposed to be here you’re supposed to stay “We’ve been trying. For years, darling. And no one’s found us. We’re too far out. I really think I have to fix the ship and bring a specialist back here.” A couple of moments of blissful silence, and then this awful, incoherent rustling sound in her ears. The noise of a whole planet’s biomass screaming in pain. The branches were shaking again, a rain of twigs and leaves were falling down beneath the tree and Claire pushed at the canopy of drooping branches on the outside. The branches bowed in, scratching at her, ripping her shirt and digging into her tricep. “Holly, this isn’t helping,” she said, ducking a thick limb that would have decapitated her. She threw herself to the ground and rolled under the branches, even as the stems of weeds snapped and prodded at her, and then she was free of the stormy shade. Outside, the shrubbery whipped at her ankles, and far off in the distance there was a loud clanging sound. Holding her breath, Claire looked over at the wreckage of the ship. It was wrapped entirely in vines and briars. Claire ran over the earth toward the ship, even though unsure of what she could do. “Please, Holly, you don’t have to–” A gigantic piece of the ship’s hull warped, and a jagged shard of metal flew out across the horizon. A twisting overgrown green tendril held something aloft, and in a heartstopping moment Claire realized it was the ship’s engine before the vine heaved it miles in another direction. Metal flew above Claire’s head for what felt like hours as she fell to the ground. “Okay,” she said. “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here. Forever.” Gears were turning in her head somewhere – maybe there was a way to scavenge, to re-create, without Holly noticing, without another eruption of nettles and foliage. But the murmur of planning was pierced by dart after dart: i love you i love you i love you.
|
|
#
?
May 29, 2022 19:24
|
|
|
chariot Our Lady of Truth 999 words At the heart of the city, three buildings honour the city’s three Gods. To the East stands the Edifice of Granain, Lord of the Forest, patron of farmers, fishermen, and hunters. A flash of green among the stone, it is home to a thousand arboreal bowers where Granain’s followers give thanks for his bounties. To the West, the Temple of Alleian, Lord of Light. A place of learning, its glass halls throng with scholars looking to illuminate the dark places of the world. Between them is the Monastery of Brannia, Our Lady of Truth. From its sandstone towers, the Brothers of Brannia’s Order disperse to bring righteous Truth to the city. They right wrongs, punish liars, and always intercede on the side of the honest. Or so the story goes. *** ‘I guess it’s true,’ said Brother Kreutz with a levity that I couldn’t understand. ‘Some novices really do get lucky!’ We sat on the garden wall of a house that couldn’t have looked more normal for this destitute part of town. Its brickwork bulged like the fermenting gut of a corpse. Behind us, barefoot children raced on the cracked tarmac as if nothing was amiss. I fingered the copper pendant that marked me as a novice of Brannia - a book and a sword, representing the enforcement of Truth. ‘You’ve been with the Order for what, three weeks?’ ‘Two.’ Kreutz gave out a low whistle. ‘Two weeks! And already with a chance for initiation - if you play your cards right. Some novices never get a chance like this. At least you won’t spend your whole life mopping up blood.’ The inside of the house came back to me uninvited. My breakfast came with it. A woman, dead, eyes removed, body folded like a doll thrown from a pram. Upstairs, a teenage boy, alive but unresponsive. From the photos on the mantelpiece we assumed he was her son, mentally disabled and now borderline catatonic from the trauma. We had let him be. I swallowed my vomit. ‘There were no clues. You said it yourself.’ Kreutz wasn’t listening. ‘Sixth murder this month. And always with the eyes. Father Centus is going to beam. You ever seen him smile?’ ‘No.’ I had met Father Centus on my first day at the Monastery. Old men wearing novice robes had led the new intake into a foyer, where Centus explained that we would assist our Brothers until the day our deeds marked us as worthy to become full members. He had the air of a stern teacher, but with a kindness to his eyes that hadn’t reached his lips. ‘He has a lovely smile. You’ll see it when we bring him his killer.’ Kreutz was getting on my nerves. ‘What do you mean? It wasn’t the boy, if that’s what you mean. A reputable Alleianic Sister saw a tattoo of an owl on the killer’s forearm. He didn’t have one.’ Kreutz held up a finger. Then he reached in his pocket and pulled out a tattoo needle. I felt the world lurch. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. ‘You’re going to frame him?’ ‘Not quite. You’re going to frame him. You’ll be the one to benefit, so naturally it falls on you.’’ I stood up shakily. After the horror of the morning this was too much. ‘This is a test. It has to be.’ I thought of the austere but gentle look on Father Centus’s face as he’d introduced Kreutz as my partner. For such corruption to fester so close to the heart of the Brotherhood of Truth… Kreutz was smiling. ‘Initiation is always a test. Not every novice has what it takes. This is your chance to distinguish yourself. You might not get another.’ ‘I’m not doing it.’ His grin didn’t falter. ‘You’re sure?’ ‘I’m sure.’ The club came so fast that I was unconscious before I thought it might hit me. I woke to the stone ceiling of my cell at the Monastery. Kreutz sat on a chair at the end of the bed, staring at me with an unsettling grin. ‘Where’s Father Centus?’ The effort of speaking sent shockwaves through my skull. The door opened and Centus walked in, flanked by two of the withered old novices. ‘Ah, you’re awake,’ he said. He looked me up and down as if getting a gauge of my character. ‘Perhaps it’s wrong that I had expected more of you.’ ‘What’s going on?’ I managed. I had to know what Kreutz had said to him, the lies he had told. ‘Let me answer that with a theological question,’ Father Centus said. ‘I apologise if it seems simplistic, but you appear to be operating under a misapprehension. When the Gods were creating the Earth, what did Granain do to commence the Third Separation?’ Why was he asking this? ‘He created the forests.’ ‘Very good. And Alleian, at the end of the First?’ ‘Created light.’ Every child knew the answer. ‘Indeed. So, the God of Light created light and the God of Forests created the forests. And yet you appear to think that the God of Truth should serve the truth. Do you see where you’ve gone wrong?’ The room started spinning. ‘Of course, you aren’t alone in your misunderstanding,’ Centus continued. ‘In fact, it’s a very useful one. So we’d prefer it if you didn’t tell anyone what you’ve seen. It is unfortunate that so few Novices are able to glimpse past the facade.’ The two old men, now flanking the bed, grabbed my hands and shoulders to pin me down. Kreutz stood up, holding the needle from before. It sank into flesh just below my elbow. Round drops of blood followed where it touched. As I watched in horror, my gaze drifted to the arms of the men holding me. Each of their left forearms was marked with the image of an owl. Centus’s face split into a wicked, mesmerising grin. ‘Welcome to the Order,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry it’s not the role you imagined.’
|
|
#
?
May 29, 2022 23:19
|
|
|
while he was sleeping prompt: temperance 1000w Thousands of years passed while God slumbered, and the angels looked down at the earth with growing concern. They decided that action had to be taken, and chose a messenger who would venture down below... ~ The clouds parted and the angel Theraza spread her glorious wings of golden, red-tipped feathers, and descended from the sky in a blazing ray of light. Her sandaled feet touched the earth and flowers and vines burst from the ground and water gushed out in founts with every step and the cracked earth was healed where she passed. Crowds of people rushed out of their houses to watch, gasping and crying out in delight and fear. Theraza spread her arms and beamed a blinding smile out to the crowd. “People of the world! I bring a message from the heavens!” The people stared, wide-eyed, baffled, afraid, and pointed their phones at her. Theraza’s heart swelled as she gazed over their confused faces. Oh these poor neglected creatures! Left for so long without guidance they have completely forgotten everything! A throne of roots grew beneath her, lifting her up, and hundred foot tall pine trees burst from the ground on either side of her, and her voice boomed over the crowd: “Hear me now! The earth is dying! In heaven’s absence you have forgotten that this lush place was meant as a home, and not as food or fuel! Cease your burning and your digging and your putrefaction of the air and water, and in time, this place will heal! Heaven’s decree is that you should care for your home, and not- Several helicopters circled above and drowned out even Theraza’s supernatural volume, and flashing lights surrounded her on all sides and howling sirens blotted out all ears. But Theraza was not daunted, her voice and eyes were full of love and determination. “You need not crush the flower and squeeze out its nectar, for the nectar is offered willingly! The earth’s bounty is-” “Get down! Get down on the ground!” Several crouching men crept toward her steadily, shouting at her, stepping carefully over the ivy and vines and leaves and flowers that continued to gush up from the ground like living waves. “Get down, now!” They shouted. Of course, they want me to be on a level with them, Theraza thought, and stepped down from her root throne to the earth. A dozen men surrounded her, shouting at her to get down on the ground. Ferns and roots and flowers burst up from her feet. “I am here!” she says. “I am here, on the ground among you!” The men tackled her and hit her with clubs and tied her hands behind her back while pressing her face into a pillow of blooming clover. ~ After several jail cells were destroyed with roots and trees that burst through the walls, Theraza was moved into a specially built titanium box, where no plants could bloom, and her limitless love and energy could be contained. For several days the world was atwitter with stories and questions about the angel and the beautiful glades that appeared wherever she stepped. Theories abounded on every news channel, demands were raised, boycotts were threatened, impassioned speeches were given and policies were proposed. But after a week, the people had moved on. ~ Over weeks of meetings in opulent offices and secret penthouses, billions of dollars changed hands, and Theraza was moved again. ~ The door to her titanium cell opened after weeks of silence and Theraza jumped up with excitement. Several men in full body suits and helmets came in. She opened her arms to them and grinned. “Oh people, please listen! I must tell you about the damage you are doing to your home! The sky is heating and the plants and birds are dying, but it’s not too late! And, though it’s frowned upon by heaven’s law, I can help you! I have the power to-” The men hit and prodded her with rods that electrocuted her until she tumbled out of the cell, and they ushered her into another room composed of nothing but charred black ground and black walls. The men backed out of the room as trees and leaves began to sprout, and they shut her in. Immediately upon the door shutting, heat burst down from above and the trees and bushes exploded in flames, more greenery burst up and it burned too. Smoke and heat and steam billowed up constantly, and powered the factory that Theraza was the heart of. Black smoke gushed endlessly into the sky. Energy costs dropped, and the factory owner came to dominate and monopolize energy in the entire radius of the factory. But of course, that was not enough. ~ After years of being charred day and night, Thereza’s power began to wane. The trees that sprouted constantly were not as thick, the vines not as numerous, and she grew thin and her feathers drooped. Finally, the burning paused, and the door to her blackened room was opened, and a dozen armed men entered, with one suited leader at their front. “Angel, take us up to heaven,” said the leader. “We want to meet more of your kind.” Thereza beamed love all around, and the room was packed with vines and ferns and leaves in an instant. “Oh, but, I’m already here, and I can tell you how to correct your ways. Heaven is for souls and Angels, not for living humans! Just let me help! Let me explain! I’ve been waiting in here, waiting to talk to you.” “Take us to heaven, now, then we’ll understand everything.” Theraza wrung her hands. Oh, these poor confused children! Surely the angel’s hierarchy had chosen poorly when they sent her, she thinks. Maybe it is best for all the angels to explain things together... ~ God still sleeps, and if he ever wakes he will find his angels missing. And when his nose wrinkles at an acrid stench he’ll look down at earth and see dozens of new factories churning day and night, pumping great founts of black smoke up to heaven.
|
|
#
?
May 30, 2022 02:36
|
|
|
Red Flags 925 words prompt: The Fool The day of Kim’s wedding was one of the high points of her entire life. From seeing her husband in his seersucker suit standing at the altar to delicately feeding one another pieces of cake at the reception to teaching her mother in law how to floss, she loved every minute of it. She was so happy, fulfilled, and, frankly, so tipsy on good champagne that she genuinely thought that the day had been completely drama free. It wasn’t until her next coffee date with Mandy that she found out about the complex schemes the other bridesmaids had been engaging in to keep her day free from stress. “So, you know the bouquet toss? You know who caught it, right?” Kim’s eyes widened. “Oh, jeez. Corey. Did Jack get weird about it?” Mandy nodded, drumming her fingernails against her coffee cup in delighted horror. “Oh yeah. He turned white as a sheet and almost called an uber. She had to beg him to stay, and then he got crazy drunk and we had to help him back into the car.” “Yikes, I’m sorry you guys had to deal with that.” Mandy waved her hand, dismissing the comment. “Not a problem, you’d do the same for us.” – The next time Corey and Kim met up for a hike, Kim asked about the wedding. Corey flushed, embarrassed. “I’m really sorry about that, he’s usually so chill.” “It’s okay, Mandy and the crew made sure I didn’t even hear about it, so it couldn’t have been that bad.” “Yeah. He was just grumpy. How’s marriage treating you?” Kim griped about her now-husband’s tendency to shave his beard into the sink and not wipe up the hair. Corey laughed. “Man, I wish Jack would just shave at this point. It’s been weeks and his beard has gotten scraggly.” “Oh, wild. Didn’t he say his boss was weird about facial hair?” Corey grimaced. “Oh. Yeah. So. He lost that job a while ago.” Kim stared at Corey, who just kept trudging up the trail. “How the hell do you lose a construction job these days?” “Show up drunk and flirt with the boss’s daughter,” said Corey, flatly. “He was super depressed. Still is. I’m trying to help, but he doesn’t make it easy. It’s like every time I try to bring up some little issue he freaks out and goes into some weird spiral. I wind up comforting him every time I’m mad.” “That sucks.” Corey shrugged. “It is what it is. Nobody said love was easy.” “It shouldn’t be that hard, though. Y’all have been together for what, like six months? You sure it’s worth it?” Another shrug. “Hey, have you been keeping up with Lore Olympus? I just caught back up.” – Three months later, Corey was sobbing on Kim’s couch. “I can’t believe he cheated on me,” she wailed. “After everything I’ve done for him? After all we’ve been through? How could he do this?” “He always rubbed me the wrong way,” Kim said. “Still, I can’t believe he did this to you, what an rear end in a top hat, you guys seemed so in love.” “I was in love! Apparently he wasn’t!” Kim patted her on the back and sent her husband out to get them ice cream. They talked all night. They made plans to get Corey’s stuff out of their apartment and to cancel the credit card that she’d given him access to. “I’m done,” Corey said with finality the next morning. “His friends have been texting me all night, telling me how irrational and stupid I’m being. I’m done with this poo poo.” “Good for you,” Kim said. “He doesn’t deserve you, kick him to the curb! And don’t be afraid to call me if anything happens!” – Another month went by without a word from Corey. Kim was a little worried, but figured that it was finals time and Corey was just distracted. Still, she was relieved to get a lunch invite to chat and catch up. Corey looked nervous and drawn when Kim arrived. She had a coffee in a to-go cup. “Hey,” she said as soon as Kim sat. “So. I figured I owe you a conversation.” Kim blinked, a weird, cold shiver traveling down her spine as her friend’s tone brought back every break-up conversation she’d ever had. “Wait, what?” Corey twisted a ring around her right index finger. “So I kicked Jack out, but he didn’t have anywhere else to go and I didn’t want him to be homeless, so I let him sleep on the couch for a few nights. And we got to talking. And we decided to try again.” “Corey, he cheated on you! He treated you like a maid! Are you crazy?” She shook her head. “He says it was his friend’s influence. So he’s cut them off, and we’re going to try again. But without outside influence, you know? His friends didn’t like me, and I know you guys don’t like him, so we’re going forward without that.” Kim’s stomach dropped. “Jesus. He’s trying to isolate you, this is textbook stuff, Corey.” Sudden anger twisted Corey’s features. “gently caress you, Kim! You’ve been lovely about him since he screwed up at your wedding.” “That’s not true, I don’t–” Corey stood, abruptly. “Don’t call me, I’ll call you. In fact, maybe just lose my number.” “Corey, wait!” But Corey was already striding out the door, her coffee forgotten behind her. Kim watched as her old friend got into a badly dented pickup truck and drove out of her life forever.
|
|
#
?
May 30, 2022 02:55
|
|
|
Prompt: The Sun The Formicarium ~990 words Climbing the cramped corridors of the Very Large Solar Array control station a million miles from Earth, Marcus pondered whether to be happy or sad. Happy that it would soon be over. Sad that his life’s work would be over as well. He considering these contrasting emotions, then, after painfully banging his elbow on a metal hatchway, he decided he mostly just felt cramped. The tunnel wound its way through a series of zig-zag switchbacks that would be exhausting if it weren’t for the half-gee gravity. He felt like one of the worker drones from his childhood ant farm, laboriously tunneling and hauling, tirelessly working for their queen. Marcus didn’t have to dig a tunnel, but he did carry precious cargo: a tiny SIM card. And he served no queen. He served no master but one: revenge. The ant farm—properly called a formicarium, as he’d correct anyone who used the wrong terminology—was his strongest memory from an otherwise lovely childhood. Marcus had no siblings or friends. Instead he spent hours watching his ants toil, their repetitive motions a placid respite from the volcanic eruptions of his stepfather and mother in the next room. Every night was a race to see who could get drunker, quicker—she on cheap wine and he on cheaper whiskey. Only nobody ever really won, did they? A slammed door or shattered vase signaled a hiatus, only to be continued the next night. So Marcus watched his ants. They never raced, never complained about their jobs, their friends, their spouses, never accused each other of sleeping around. The ants just worked. Tirelessly. So that’s what Marcus did. As soon as he was old enough, he fled, moved to the city, got a job and entered university. A prodigy, his genius was noticed early and cultivated with prestigious internships and opportunities. A doctorate, a plum research job, share of a Nobel prize for his work creating the VLSA. Thousands of sodium metal mirrors precisely arranged in space that could deflect portions the suns rays, freeing the Earth from the ravages of global warming once and for all. Just like his ants, each mirror played a small role to achieve a greater purpose. Marcus never forgot about his formicarium, and his precious ants. And he never forgot what happened to it. Fridays in Mrs. Mushler’s fourth grade was class show and tell. Marcus carefully wrapped his formicarium in a ratty bath towel and carried it, pressed to his chest like a newborn child, the half-mile walk to school. The usual thugs were hanging around the swing set. “Hey fuckface!” a particularly annoying red-haired brute named Stephen called out. “Whatcha got there? Your fart collection?” Marcus bee-lined for the school doors but the boys quickly surrounded him. His precious cargo was punched from his hands and crashed to the ground, cracking and spilling ants and sand and shards of glass across the asphalt. “Ooh, nice,” Stephen crooned. “That will go perfect with my show and tell.” He pulled out a large magnifying class from his pocket. The other boys grabbed Marcus and held him in place as Stephen positioned the lens over the scattered ants, using the hot desert sun to roast them, one by one. Marcus tried not to cry, his eyes shamefully welling with tears as Stephen’s cronies twisted his arm behind his back. “Oh look! Baby’s gonna cry! Cry, baby!” Stephen jeered as another worker ant crinkled under the magnified rays of the sun. The other boys laughed. “Oh poo poo, look at this one.” The queen ant emerged from the rubble. Ten times the size of the workers, her bulbous abdomen shimmered iridescent as she raised her head and her antennae licked the air, tasting it. Steven grinned at Marcus. “Watch this.” The tears came freely now, mixing with snot and drool and blubbering. Helpless as his queen burnt down to nothing, a black lump of scorched organic matter amongst the scattered sand on the asphalt. Somewhere in the distance the morning bell rang and a teacher’s voice rang out towards them, but it might as well have been been a million miles away. Marcus punched his keycard into the slot and pushed into the control room. He moved to the console, entered his access code, and checked that the VLSA was online. All green. He pulled out the SIM card that contained the new calculations, his life’s work. Solar activity, the rotation of the Earth, the precise angle of each mirror in the array—all accounted for. It was never going to be as precise as he’d once hoped, but a little collateral damage was a small price to pay for his revenge. A square mile was the best he could do. It was almost poetic justice that his childhood tormentor had grown up and moved into the same dingy trailer park near his own mother and stepfather. He’d even started a family, apparently. Somehow, despite the years of whiskey and wine, his mother and stepfather were still there, too. Collateral damage. He pushed the SIM card into the slot and the transmitter blinked new instructions to the solar array. A million miles away, in a small New Mexico town, a girl digs in the dirt behind her father’s trailer. The hot sun prickles the exposed skin on her back as she jabs a sharp stick into an anthill. Tiny ants emerge and swarm her toes, tickling her feet. She giggles, but it’s also a little gross, so she stands up and does a little dance to get them off. Around her the harsh buzz of insects suddenly increases in pitch, then falls dead quiet. In the space between heartbeats the sun above swells to double, triple, ten times its normal size. The air tastes funny now: sharp, like ozone. She sticks out her tongue and taunts the ever-expanding orb of whiteness above, until the sun swallows the whole sky.
|
|
#
?
May 30, 2022 03:21
|
|
|
Dream Come True 849 words Card: Moon The Dreamscanner ceased its humming, and I knew Nate was awake. I arose from the floor-mattress in the cluttered frat-house bedroom and unplugged the thing. Nate Hardy didn't deserve it. He was just a young librarian running for a school board seat in the type of town city-folk thought country and country-folk thought city. He ran on free school lunches and more funding for extra-curriculars. No one knew his chances of winning, because no one polls elections this small. Dream manipulation had been tried in politics before, on big fancy candidates for Senate and President, but had always failed. You can give a presidential candidate the scariest nightmares, and he'll dismiss them as scary nightmares. I chose Nate Hardy because I wanted to prove it could be done. I peeked through the blinds as Nate left his house and headed towards his car. He was headed to a little campaign event at the local Veteran's Park. He'd be lucky if a dozen people turned out, but Channel 11 would be sending a camera. I texted Chris to get into position, and he sent back a photo of himself by the local cafe in his Shrek costume. Step one, check. I went down to the kitchen. The fratboys I rented the room from had, as usual, left a bunch of cheap beer cans littered about the place. I used to clean them up when I first moved in, but quickly discovered that was considered an offense to their way of life. As I poured myself some cereal, there was a knock at the door. One of the brothers answered it and shouted that it was for me. A man came into the house. "What are you doing here?" I shouted at him. "And where's your hot dog shirt?" "I just wanted to know we were still on," he said. "If we weren't still on I would have told you. Now get your rear end to the park and put on your drat hot dog shirt!" "Okay! Okay!" he said and hurried out. Poor sap. He was an absolute rando I had hired, someone who couldn't be traced to me or any of my known associates. He had no idea what the plan was, or why he was being offered a hundred bucks to show up to a local election event in a T-shirt with a cartoon hot dog on it. I texted Sandra to ask if she was walking down Division Street on stilts. She didn't respond, which I took as a sign that she was walking down Division Street on stilts. Hopefully, everything was in place. I tossed my bowl into the sink and headed out to my car. I couldn't be seen at the event itself; I was famous enough that my presence would be suspicious if the plan worked. But I wanted to see it for myself, and had staked out a spot on the sledding hill where I could watch without being watched. I passed by the cafe where Chris was reciting Shrek quotes to everyone on the patio. It wasn't exactly like the recurring dream I'd implanted in Nate's mind; a costume can never perfectly capture the clayish shininess of early-aughts CGI. Sandra, too, howling like a ghoul at the corner at Cedar and 2nd, couldn't match the proportions of the monster the art department cooked up. But they were, I hoped, close enough. The error previous attempts at political dream manipulation had made was to make candidates believe their dreams were real, my hypothesis went. I was trying to make Nate believe reality was a dream. I pulled my car onto the shoulder by the woods beside the park, then made my way through the thicket until I reached the clearing on the sledding hill. I took my binoculars out of my purse. I couldn't quite read Nate's face; did he think he was dreaming? Attendance was higher than expected, twenty maybe. Mr. Hot Dog T-Shirt stood near the back. He was the trigger. In the dreams, a man with a hot-dog shirt would raise his hand to ask a question, but then threaten to bomb the event unless Nate…poo poo! It's happening! Mr. Hot Dog T-Shirt raised his hand and… I could hear the gasps all the way from the hilltop. I grinned, and walked back into the trees. … No one outside the little town had heard of Nate Hardy this morning, but he was all over Twitter now, screeching all sorts of slurs. No one was buying his "it was dream manipulation, please still vote for me please" excuses. I'd give it until the election to come clean. There might be some legal trouble, there might not; Congress hadn't gotten around to banning Dreamscanners yet, but they were sure to now. Either way, I would have enough new clients to pay the legal fees for the rest of my career. I hoped Nate wouldn't end up dropping out. I liked his ideas about free lunches and extracurricular funding. It would be great to get a chance to vote for him.
|
|
#
?
May 30, 2022 03:21
|
|
|
No One Can Stop Me 988 Words Card: The Tower Lightning lances across the sky, illuminating the crumbling stones atop the Devil's Tower. My first and last friend stands across from me, bloodied and breathing hard. I'm not at my best, either, but I'm in better shape than he is. I may have a few broken ribs, but at least I can stand without supporting myself on my sword. "You think you've won, don't you, Set?" He's using my chosen name, the one I donned to advertise my intentions. I should be surprised he's using it, but I'm not. He doesn't see us as friends anymore. "Honestly, John, the thought had crossed my mind," I reply. John's brother, Frank, steps in to fight me. He's the only ally John has left, and he's the most useless one of all. He's all muscle and no brains; protecting his brother is his only priority. If John falls, Frank won't keep fighting. People like him never do. Once they lose their loved ones, they don't care what else burns. If I had any patience left, I would wait for a better pair of heroes to stop me, but I'm tired of waiting, and they're the ones here now. The rain pelts the roof, flattening my flowing hair to my head. I sweep it aside with a distracted flick. "Do you have any fight left in you," I say, "or should I summon the Final Fires now?" John hefts his enormous sword. "Cover me, Frank!" I roll my eyes as Frank comes barreling toward me. I know John's charging up an attack behind him—some petty magic, probably—but I'm willing to play with Frank if it gives John a chance to do his best. I don't have to think hard to dodge Frank's flying limbs. There's a rhythm to them if you watch closely enough: punch high, kick high, kick low, punch high. Sometimes he tries to switch it up, but he's incapable of making me think. "For Christ's sake, Frank," I snap as his foot sails over my head. "You're fighting for the fate of mankind. Can't you do any better?" His lip curls, contorting his stubbled jawline. He's got the face of a hero, I'll give him that much, but I need more than a face to stop me from lighting the spark that will scorch the world. I need someone who really cares. Someone strong enough to defeat a weak man like me. Frank pulls back his arm for a catastrophic punch. The downpour freezes around his hand as he calls on the power of ice. It's so pointless I want to cry, but the rain will only swallow my tears. With a mighty roar, he dives on me with his frozen fist. I step to the side, line up my sword, and drive it through his chest. Thunder smothers John's scream as Frank slumps on my blade. I hadn't planned on killing him before I called the fires, but I just couldn't stand looking at him more. I'm sick of him and everyone like him: people who think that effort guarantees success. 'John's going make the world a better place, you'll see!' That was what he said to me, over and over again. And what was John's great plan? Talking; organizing; campaigning; winning. Joining the system, then changing it from within. A plan countless others have attempted before, only for the world to get worse every year. At best, John's naive. At worst, he's deluding himself. Either way, the world will burn for it. "Set!" John cries. An aura of light surrounds him as he hoists his sword in the air. Lightning crosses the sky, grasping for his blade. It's an impressive display: drat near awe-inspiring. But pyrotechnics can't stop evil any more than politics can. That's what I've been trying to tell John from the start. Still, deep down, I hope I'm wrong. "Do it, John!" I toss Frank's body aside, along with my weapon. "Strike me down if you can!" I'm practically begging him. I want him to succeed. I want to believe in his vision of a just world, where dreams can become reality and heroes can save humanity. But time and time again, life proves his vision wrong. People aren't worth saving after all. He yells, gathering power, and I brace myself for impact. I've been training in the dark arts for years, but I've never been struck by lightning before. If I'm lucky, it'll kill me instantly, but in a just world, I'll know pain. John releases the lightning. It strikes me head-on. My limbs lock in place, gluing me to the stone, and my senses abandon me for a higher plane of reality. For a moment, I exist outside my body, and in that moment I know peace. Then I'm back on the tower, ears ringing and limbs tingling, and my heart breaks because I'm still alive. Sparks shimmer around my coat as I shake myself off and grab the hilt of my sword. It slips from Frank's torso with blood-slick smoothness, and I flick it clean before I advance on John. He's shaking. So am I. That was his last attack, his best attack, and now he's on his knees like a sorry schoolboy. Pathetic. It's all pathetic. At least it will be over soon. "Please, Eric…" My real name: he still remembers. "It doesn't have to be like this." Rain washes my face as I place my blade against John's neck. "I wish you were right." Chest heaving, I close my eyes and swing. It's a last-ditch attempt at self-sabotage, but the blow lands with practiced precision. John's head hits the stone tower with a meaty thump, and humanity's last hope dies with him. My shoulders sink as I let out a shuddering sigh. I can call the fires now, and I can put an end to this wicked world. No one can stop me. I wish someone had stopped me.
|
|
#
?
May 30, 2022 06:02
|
|
|
Tarot: The Hanged Man 8th and Main: A Jake Malone story. 753 words Back in the day, I heard a song by a band named Megedeth called “Peace Sells”. I always looked at the title and the same thought would always cross my mind. Bull loving poo poo. If peace really did sell, we would’ve had it a long time ago. The only real peace one could truly have is the peace within themselves. There was this one gal I met, whom I still wonder to this day if she ever found it. I was over in the Bronx for a job, asked to look into a man named Jimmy Tweed. He claimed to be an ancestor of Boss Tweed, the head of the old Tamanny Hall. I looked into his home over on 8th and main, and drove over there, hoping to get some info from the man himself. It was when I got there that I first met her. Jackie O’brien was the kind of girl that she seemed like she might’ve been a servant for Tweed, but didn’t have the appearance of one. An average looking girl with an average looking build. She didn’t seem like the kind of person working for someone like Tweed. Soon after, I started talking to her. “Hello. I’m here to see Mr. Tweed?” “Oh, he’s not here at the moment. May I tell him you were here?” “No, no need.” I figured she might have some information, so I pressed on. “Jake Malone, Private Eye. Could I ask you a few questions?” “Uh…sure?” She seemed quite nervous. “How are you associated with Mr. Tweed?” “Though I don’t look like it, I take care of the house while Mr. Tweed is gone.” “Really! Does he pay you?” “Oh, he doesn’t pay me, I just work for him out of obligation.” The way she said it confused me. “What kind of obligation?” “I…” she paused for a moment. “Excuse me a moment, I’ll be right back.” She left the room. From what I heard, it sounded like she was going upstairs. Curious, I looked close by for some stairs. When I found some, I went up. I faintly heard a baby crying. Going closer, I saw Miss O’Brien with said baby. She was shocked when I came, then quickly calmed down. “Mr. Malone,” she said. “Meet my obligation.” She explained to me what was going on. She had the child under wedlock, and the father was none other than Jimmy Tweed. I put all the pieces together. Except for one. “Mr. Tweed, does he do all of this out of love? “Not at all,” Jackie said. “He threatened to expose me, and make it so, as he says it, ‘all of New York will know i’m a whore’.” “Let me guess, he threatened to kill you if you exposed that he was the father?” “That’s exactly right, Mr. Malone,” a man’s voice said from behind me. “And now you must die.” It was a big man in a suit. He had an aura of corruption, and was holding a gun. I knew exactly who it was. “You must be Jimmy Tweed.” “Come now, old boy,” Tweed said. “drat near everyone in New York has heard of me!” I knew he was running for mayor, but that was about it. “Do you consider Miss O’Brien a threat to getting elected?” Tweed laughed. “Threat? I already own New York!” In an act of desperation, Jackie ran out with her child and went upstairs. Both Tweed and I followed her. She was up on the roof, close to the edge. “I’m so sorry Malone,” she said. “I thought you could help me. But now I know you can’t! No one can!” and in an act of desperation, she jumped off the roof, her serene face looking towards me while jumping. Tweed ran back inside, heading downstairs. I started to follow. When I started to go through the door, a man stopped me. I recognized him as the NYPD’s commissioner. “Where in the hell do you think you’re going?” he asked. “Where’s Tweed?” I said. “Hold on, buddy!” The Commissioner said. “I was brought in by Mr. Tweed so you wouldn’t bother him anymore!” Tweed was right. He already had control of New York. I was playing a losing game from the start. “Now, let’s take you home, okay?” As I left Tweed’s home, I was haunted by Jackie’s expression when she fell. It seemed so peaceful. Perhaps she found peace within herself? Whether she did or not, it was too late to tell.
|
|
#
?
May 30, 2022 07:24
|
|
|
|
| # ? Apr 23, 2024 15:22 |
|
|
Tarot: The Hanged Man 8th and Main: A Jake Malone story. 753 words Back in the day, I heard a song by a band named Megedeth called “Peace Sells”. I always looked at the title and the same thought would always cross my mind. Bull loving poo poo. If peace really did sell, we would’ve had it a long time ago. The only real peace one could truly have is the peace within themselves. There was this one gal I met, whom I still wonder to this day if she ever found it. I was over in the Bronx for a job, asked to look into a man named Jimmy Tweed. He claimed to be an ancestor of Boss Tweed, the head of the old Tamanny Hall. I looked into his home over on 8th and main, and drove over there, hoping to get some info from the man himself. It was when I got there that I first met her. Jackie O’brien was the kind of girl that she seemed like she might’ve been a servant for Tweed, but didn’t have the appearance of one. An average looking girl with an average looking build. She didn’t seem like the kind of person working for someone like Tweed. Soon after, I started talking to her. “Hello. I’m here to see Mr. Tweed?” “Oh, he’s not here at the moment. May I tell him you were here?” “No, no need.” I figured she might have some information, so I pressed on. “Jake Malone, Private Eye. Could I ask you a few questions?” “Uh…sure?” She seemed quite nervous. “How are you associated with Mr. Tweed?” “Though I don’t look like it, I take care of the house while Mr. Tweed is gone.” “Really! Does he pay you?” “Oh, he doesn’t pay me, I just work for him out of obligation.” The way she said it confused me. “What kind of obligation?” “I…” she paused for a moment. “Excuse me a moment, I’ll be right back.” She left the room. From what I heard, it sounded like she was going upstairs. Curious, I looked close by for some stairs. When I found some, I went up. I faintly heard a baby crying. Going closer, I saw Miss O’Brien with said baby. She was shocked when I came, then quickly calmed down. “Mr. Malone,” she said. “Meet my obligation.” She explained to me what was going on. She had the child under wedlock, and the father was none other than Jimmy Tweed. I put all the pieces together. Except for one. “Mr. Tweed, does he do all of this out of love? “Not at all,” Jackie said. “He threatened to expose me, and make it so, as he says it, ‘all of New York will know i’m a whore’.” “Let me guess, he threatened to kill you if you exposed that he was the father?” “That’s exactly right, Mr. Malone,” a man’s voice said from behind me. “And now you must die.” It was a big man in a suit. He had an aura of corruption, and was holding a gun. I knew exactly who it was. “You must be Jimmy Tweed.” “Come now, old boy,” Tweed said. “drat near everyone in New York has heard of me!” I knew he was running for mayor, but that was about it. “Do you consider Miss O’Brien a threat to getting elected?” Tweed laughed. “Threat? I already own New York!” In an act of desperation, Jackie ran out with her child and went upstairs. Both Tweed and I followed her. She was up on the roof, close to the edge. “I’m so sorry Malone,” she said. “I thought you could help me. But now I know you can’t! No one can!” and in an act of desperation, she jumped off the roof, her serene face looking towards me while jumping. Tweed ran back inside, heading downstairs. I started to follow. When I started to go through the door, a man stopped me. I recognized him as the NYPD’s commissioner. “Where in the hell do you think you’re going?” he asked. “Where’s Tweed?” I said. “Hold on, buddy!” The Commissioner said. “I was brought in by Mr. Tweed so you wouldn’t bother him anymore!” Tweed was right. He already had control of New York. I was playing a losing game from the start. “Now, let’s take you home, okay?” As I left Tweed’s home, I was haunted by Jackie’s expression when she fell. It seemed so peaceful. Perhaps she found peace within herself? Whether she did or not, it was too late to tell.
|
|
#
?
May 30, 2022 07:24
|
|