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kaom
Jan 20, 2007


All right I’ve convinced myself to give this a shot at least once, in.

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kaom
Jan 20, 2007


The prompt:

Tyrannosaurus posted:

I'm inhabiting multiple bodies. I'm not so much a bunch of clones as I am like an ant colony. I remember this being an important distinction in the dream. Because I have a lot of different bodies, I'm capable of doing a bunch of stuff at the same time, studying different subjects, working different jobs, meeting different people, but able to gain all of those memories as long as there's physical contact. High five, handshake, backslap, whatever. One of me bursts through the door with terrible news: another one of me was hit by a train. We head to the morgue to identify the body. There's like thirty or forty of me stuffed into this tiny metal room and we're looking at my body on a stretcher. I'm blue like I froze to death. One of me reaches out and touches the corpse and not only experiences what that death was like but, because this transference of knowledge is so outside the normal rules of life, also what their own death will be like further in the future. They fling themselves backwards, accidently touching other versions of me and creating a cascade of horrific experience transferal as they in turn flail wildly. I try and escape the room but there's so many of us in their that I can't get the door open. It just keeps jamming into different me's bodies. All I can do is watch as the horrible knowledge is pushed closer and closer towards me. It looks like a twisted version of 'the wave.' Like, the thing that happens at baseball games.

The interpretation:

This dream is a rumination on the question “what do you want to be when you grow up?” The colony of clones represents many possible futures. The forbidden knowledge is that every time you make a choice (what sport to play, what class to take, what date to go on), you narrow the options that remain open to each individual experience. The train forces you to confront a feeling of powerlessness: you can’t decide where it goes or when, just like you can’t control the outcome of your choices. This dream is telling you to let go of what might have been and instead be grateful for what you have now.




The story:

Court Case #TYR509 - Exhibit F
469 words

Exhibit F: Transcription excerpts from Erica Thorn’s personal journals
Entered into evidence 2026-02-22

[2022] Sunday June 26th
Chill day. Great photos of Bluff’s Cove.
Seeing Ryan again Thurs 7pm @Frankie’s.

[2022] Wednesday June 29th
Won the IBEX project. Good bye summer vacation!
Barely had time to pick up dry cleaning over lunch. Matt won’t take a hint.
Purple dress status: READY

[2022] Thursday June 30th
DON’T GO TO LITTLE HILL
Wrote in my sleep last night? Didn’t think melatonin caused that lol. Weird!
All day kickoff meetings. Whew!

[2022] Friday June 31st
Dinner was great. I DD’d. Was going to take Ryan to his after - 472 Little Hill. Stupid, but felt weird about the deja vu. Invited him to mine instead.

[2022] Saturday July 1st
Ryan’s apartment burned down. Fire dept thinks neighbourhood fireworks landed on the roof.
Four people died. More are missing.

[2022] Thursday Oct 27th
Ryan is moving in!

[2023] Monday Jan 9th
IBEX is behind. Holidays are over, time to get serious.

[2023] Friday April 28th
Manila envelope delivered at work today. Thought it was the job offer so opened it alone.
It wasn’t.
It was the IBEX report. Matt’s calculations were all there. Those are classified. My work was all there. I haven’t shared it with anyone yet. And it was finished. It agrees with the Novikov self-consistency principle and Deutsch's model.
There was no return address.

[2023] Monday May 1st
I submitted the report.

[2023] Saturday May 6th
Ryan PROPPOSED [SIC] […]

[2023] Thursday Dec 21st
We had an argument. He thinks I’m seeing Matt.

[2024] Tuesday Feb 20th
Another unmarked letter. A bunch of stuff I already knew. One new schematic. I’m going to prototype it tomorrow.

[2024] Wednesday Feb 21st
It looks good in the model. Shared it with the team.

[2024] Sunday April 14th
Ryan is still worried about Matt. I gave him my credit card and phone. I’ll pack lunches for a bit.

[2025] Saturday Dec 28th
We had a breakthrough. The physical prototype WORKS.

[2025] Friday June 20th
Strawberry test status: PASSED

[2025] Monday August 11th
Mouse test status: PASSED

[2025] Sunday August 30th
Ryan wants me to change jobs. I promised to think about it. I have to complete IBEX first. We’re close.

[2025] Sunday Sept 28th
Dog test status: PASSED

[2025] Thursday Oct 23rd
Chimp test status: PASSED

[2025] Thursday Dec 18th
Ryan left. Our bank accounts are empty.

[2025] Sunday Dec 21st
Still no answer.

[2025] Monday Dec 22nd
The banks are closed.

[2025] Tuesday Dec 23rd
My name is in the hat.

[2025] Monday Dec 29th
I opened a new account. But I don’t know how to tell HR.

[2025] Tuesday Dec 30th
My name was drawn. I verified the calculations myself.
Little Hill is a fine place.
Happy new year, happy new me.

kaom
Jan 20, 2007


Newbie crits incoming.


Death and the Emperor

A story that pulled me in, but with a narrator that distracted. The narrator doesn’t really make their presence known until the end of the second paragraph (jarring), and then they contradict themselves - the emperor’s words were explicitly lost, which I completely forgot about while reading the recounting of what happened because I was so into it, but then the narrator calls attention to that inconsistency at the end. So the framing device did not work for me, but I loved the story underneath. The father-daughter relationship where they’re each more worried about the other was bittersweet and I loved the series of beliefs about how Death works and how to thwart it. The prose was evocative of a time long past (I loved the little details, word choice and postponed adjectives like “shelter eternal”). This implied a much deeper setting without ever making me feel like it was irrelevant to the story.



As I Went Down in the River…

The tone went all over the place in this. It started out serious and magical, went extra silly, and then came back to serious at the end. Something about it didn’t really work for me. I also think you undermined the theme, having Jackson return to the river at all, because the ending would have been stronger without that (did he learn the lesson or not?). And the lesson itself, when they actually talk about it, was weirdly on-the-nose compared to the way the rest of this was written. In general I did really like the unexpected direction this took, I just wish it had more of that underlying threat like the alligator’s lunch running throughout - because I was here for it! I loved the opening and the ending. I like the idea of recognizing people with a shared experience via group signifiers like the alligator boots, and I think this really conveyed that feeling of uncertainty where dreams and reality blend together and you’re not sure anymore if what you remember actually happened, or if you’re remembering a dream about what actually happened where the details are wrong.

kaom
Jan 20, 2007


I’m also in. :3:

kaom
Jan 20, 2007


A Witchy Stroll in Guardian’s Grove
Word count: 704


Tiffany took a deep breath of gently swirling steam and let it back out into the depths of her china tea cup, pinky daintily raised. Mapping the ley-lines (fairies), cataloging local wildlife (mostly slugs), guiding strays home (cats and humans alike)—witching was hard work.

Felix, an orange tabby and a former stray himself, purred where he lay curled up on her lap. Tiffany obligingly rubbed under his chin.

What she needed was some help around here. A brownie would do nicely, if she could tempt one to her garden with a sufficiently stylish mushroom patch. She peered into the bottom of her cup at the soggy white peony leaves lumping together into a distinct four-quadrant shape. Outlook hopeful.

The china clinked as she set it in the sink for later and gathered her outfit to face the day: pointed hat, cloak and leaf-shaped pin, gloves, and, quite naturally, a pair of large purple gumboots.

She paused on the porch, appreciating the patter of rain on wood, and glanced back at Felix. He meowed and stretched out in front of the fireplace. Her home would stay expertly guarded in her absence.

Tiffany patted her hat once for safety and set off into the reliable embrace of Guardian’s Grove. Thick moss cushioned her footfalls. A brook babbled nearby, swelling in renewal at the first rains of fall.

The trees provided everything she could ask for—shelter, food (in the case of chestnut trees), and companionship. House sparrows called to each other across the woods, a seeking toodle here and a returning dee there, all fluffed up in their nests to keep warm.

And the tree roots, in particular, were of interest. Tiffany was far from their only beneficiary. She crouched down at the base of an elm, minding her cloak didn’t end up in the moss.

“Hmm,” she hummed to herself, carefully inspecting the small white buds emerging from the soil. “A liberty cap. Not quite right.”

She stood up and stretched her back. Mutualism was an important facet of nature. Like how she housed Felix and in return he kept her feet warm.

What she was looking for would most likely be found along a ley-line. She had come prepared, unfolding a hand-drawn map from the deep pockets of her skirt.

“Let’s see…” She scrunched up her nose. “North from the anthill, north again at the rock shaped like a duck, south from the chestnut tree with the knot below the bottom branch, south from turtle pond, west of the fallen log, veer right past the boulder with the heart graffiti, left at the old lost-and-found bicycle on the path, turn right off the path again at the stump that looks like Elvis, and….”

Tiffany glanced up at her surroundings. Her purple gumboots were now planted solidly on the ley-line that ran through Guardian’s Grove, invisible to the untrained eye under all the mosses that thrived in the undergrowth.

The map returned to the safe harbour of her pocket and she stepped forward, senses peeled. The woods smelled sweet and earthy, the aroma of the final days before the leaves started their transition into the mosaic of fall. Ferns rustled with the passage of small, burrowing mammals. A squirrel stared at her, cheeks full and limbs splayed across a tree trunk, before resuming its descent.

She watched it scurry off into the woods. Then—there! A hint of red under a pine tree?

Tiffany crept closer, until she could confirm the find with her own eyes. A cheery round cap in red with white spots. Fly agaric!

She bent down and worked a quick spell for the health and safety of the network of mycelium that produced such a treasure. Then, with great care and consideration, she scooped a single mushroom up into her hands, rich soil and all.

Tiffany thought it looked perfect in her garden, planted right between Bard the Elvis gnome and Don Fluixote, the gnome riding a flamingo. Felix, overseeing her handiwork from his perch at the kitchen window, seemed to think so too, yawning his approval.

That night, she settled into bed and closed her eyes to the soft lullaby of a brownie setting about its work.

kaom
Jan 20, 2007


In.

kaom
Jan 20, 2007


Week 519
Shoutouts to Chickam! :kimchi:


For the Love of Corn
1157 words


The instant I gain awareness I want out. My beak punches a hole to fresh air and I take my first breath. I wriggle but I’m trapped, no leverage.

Peep peep! I call.

No answer.

Several hours and urgent kicks later, my cage splits open and I tumble out, a soggy mess. Panting, I flex my wings and twitch my feet, fighting to get up. I blink away some of the goop and open my eyes to take in my new freedom.

I’m inside a small box. There’s nowhere to go, barely space to move. And all around me are fellow prisoners, still inside their eggs. I cry out to them, begging them to join me in throwing off the yolk of our oppression.

Peep peep PEEP.

Still alone, I probe the edges of the enclosure, clambering over the others to exhaustion. Sleep takes me, but soon I have strength enough to repeat the process, again and again until finally another faint peep returns my calls.

As my downy feathers dry out, waiting, the humidity of the box becomes unbearable. I’m deep in a haze when a rush of cold air disturbs me.

Then THE HAND intrudes.

I immediately rear up and run toward it, screaming. Despite its enormous size my ferocity startles it into drawing back from me, reaching instead for the remains of my first cell, the shattered eggshell.

The hand wasn’t here before. It comes from the outside, an entire wall of the box flung tantalizingly open. If I’m quick, if I’m nimble, I could make it!

I make a break for the opening but THE HAND effortlessly forces me back, the door already in motion before I can recover my footing. Press on and I’ll be crushed…

The door of my prison slams shut once again. I chickened out. I can’t do it alone.

***

Within hours, the hatch has finished and THE HAND has abducted everyone to larger accommodations, what it loudly and cheerfully calls the “brooder box.” The air is easier to breathe here, cooler and more comfortable, but it only serves as distraction from our predicament: impossibly high walls surround us, the glow of lights overhead preventing observation of what lurks outside.

I’ve been “given” a name: Sir Cluckington von Coopenheimer. How presumptuous. I’ll wear it, begrudgingly, for now.

My fellow inmates are Buff Orpeepton, R Broodingham, Princess Laya, and Eggcelsior. Buff is large and proud to be declared our champion of flight research and feather development. Broodingham is nominated chief lookout. Laya monitors our water and food, while Eggcelsior and I take care of preening. We’ll escape this ordeal as a flock.

Time passes. Our wings grow stronger, feathers longer. Buff begins leaping for the top of the water dispenser, but he can’t quite pull it off—not yet—and while Eggcelsior initially trills at him scrabbling around undignified in the hay when he fails, that passes quickly. We’re counting on him, and we need to be close behind.

The only interruption to our otherwise tedious existence—aside from Laya growing irritatingly agreeable and lazy—is THE HAND. It drops its trash on us, as though imprisonment weren’t enough. We are, naturally, distrustful, but find some of its dregs are edible enough and in rare cases probably discarded by mistake.

Corn is the clear winner. Sometimes THE HAND deposits an entire cob, but mostly it rains from the sky in small morsels, seemingly on its own. It must be growing there, just outside the walls we can’t yet scale.

When Laya becomes bold and comfortable enough to eat directly from THE HAND, I know our plan is in trouble. I peck at her to stop, but she prances away trilling about her latest treat like nothing’s wrong. She doesn’t even try to dodge when THE HAND captures and lifts her into the sky.

Laya squawks for help from outside the box. The rest of us flail but our prison is too small to evade capture and we’re not ready for flight yet! It only takes seconds before I’m the next victim chicknapped, whisked away firmly in the grasp of THE HAND.

What follows is incomprehensible—unfamiliar surroundings, an icy touch, and a sharp pain—before I’m hoisted through the air and unceremoniously dumped back into the hay lining the box.

Woozy, I stumble to my feet. I’m freezing. The others are all soon in a similar state, necks soaked and screaming. How could this happen to us so easily? We let ourselves get complacent.

Corn and worms rain down but I don’t let it distract me anymore. I climb onto the corncob and begin crowing defiantly. This won’t happen again.

***

Princess Laya is the first to reach the top of the lamp and successfully perch there. We call out to learn what she can see beyond the glow of the bulb. Is there corn? How close, how much? But she only fluffs up, shaking her head.

Buff doesn’t waste time sulking. Seeing it done once he leaps up, bowling her out of the way. He cranes his neck, peering around, before making another hop to the edge of the box. But he doesn’t stick the landing—he overbalances and slips off to the other side!

He panics, calling and scratching from the outside. We need to get him back in before the sound attracts attention and we’re caught! Or else…

Broodingham leaps for the lamp, falling just shy.

Or else we must follow.

I stretch my wings experimentally, one at a time, peering up at my target. Is this our moment at last?

I jump, flapping frantically as my foot connects with slippery metal. I can’t dig in to secure my purchase, but somehow I stay upright. Without allowing myself even a moment for fear to set in, I make the second jump to freedom, only barely clearing the edge of the box and landing ungracefully on the floor next to Buff.

The space we’re in is enormous, wide open and full of intriguing objects. There’s no corn, but there’s also no sign of THE HAND. Buff quiets immediately, and I call encouragement back to the others to follow.

Is there endless corn? No, but there’s freedom!

Broodingham and Eggcelsior join us on the floor in short order. But something is wrong. Laya doesn’t follow. She’s still imprisoned.

I peck at Buff. Did he hurt Laya when he pushed her off the lamp? He chirps defensively, a warning to drop it. Of course she wouldn’t be hurt by a fall like that. Something else is going on.

Lumberous footsteps approach our new environs. A door, impossibly large, swings open away from us. The owner of THE HAND is here already. We have to go!

Laya emits a solitary peep from inside the box. Stern and calm. Doing exactly what she wants to do.

There’s no time to persuade her. We race toward freedom in a fowl flurry of beaks and feathers.

Laya, may you roost in peace.

kaom
Jan 20, 2007


🐐 GOAT BRAWL GOAT BRAWL 🐐

The Battle of Highway 17
390 words

Highway 17 had sat in disrepair for many years, the brush-lined and cracking pavement neglected by poor risk assessment. The local government insisted all was well. But Breanna knew: fire was coming.

She was a clever woman, given to novel solutions. Fire had powerful allies in the winds and heat of the summer and few foes that could oppose it once it started to wage its campaign against the countryside. Retaliation was a fool’s game, and so Breanna decided to strike first.

Under cover of community centres, grocery stores, and barns she met covertly with her neighbours. Highway 17 wrapped right around town, and could be an excellent firebreak protecting them on all but their East flank—if they could claim it as their own. They spoke in hushed tones about target grazing. She rounded up every recruit in the area, every one fit and eager to serve, and one early summer morning they set out to wage their war.

The goats descended hungrily on their prey. Hairy vetch, horseweed, and giant ragweed fell before them in a horrible cacophony—munch munch munch. Uneven terrain and tight thickets of poison oak failed to stop their advance. When their energy flagged, Breanna and the rest of her company urged them onwards with inspiring promises of grainy rewards to come.

As they entered the last stretch of enemy territory, they faced their toughest foe yet: blackberries. Thick, thorny, and invasive, blackberry vines grew in dense mounds that crowded out friendlier plants. Their sweet fruit belied their nefarious nature as the stalwart ally of flame.

A murmur passed through the assembled crowd, and their resolve wavered. What about jams, and jellies, and compotes? But Breanna stood firm: the vines must go. No compote is worth loss of livestock and livelihood.

The order given, the goats pressed onward, munching and tearing and chewing. The sun rose high in the sky and the earth baked underneath it. Dirt crumbled under hoof and boot. Dust rose around them ominously.

Then, with a final determined tug and a decisive bleat, the last root was extracted from the dry soil.

A great cheer went up and Breanna raised her fist triumphantly. The last bastion had fallen—the blackberry vines were vanquished at last. When fire came to Highway 17 that summer it would find no allies remaining.

kaom
Jan 20, 2007


I N

kaom
Jan 20, 2007


Gang crit for:

PhantomMuzzles posted:

SURVIVOR: GOAT ARMY

We have a problem here - I’ve never watched Survivor.


I liked the concept of this and thank you for writing some explanation in the opening. Second stringers back for another shot at the prize, okay!

Then we get into the contestants and this lost me pretty quick. One is smelly, one screwed another over… but the one who was previously wronged isn’t back again? In fact none of them seem to know or have a history with each other, and there’s no hint at how the alliances might shape up (which is the part that seems funny to me).

I don’t know, are these real people? If so it might resonate with someone who knows the show, but then it’s basically fanfiction so I don’t know what I was supposed to take away from this. Could work, needs some kind of narrative to get invested in (exactly like a reality show). 500 words is not a lot but if you cut down the number of contestants and change the details about them you can frame someone as the real underdog, tell me someone is out for revenge, you know, give me something to root for!

kaom
Jan 20, 2007


Week 521

Taking the Plunge
1460 words


“So,” Lois said carefully, “this is an interesting career change for you, isn’t it?”

Across the coffee shop table, Sadie frowned. “What?”

“You know. The trades.”

The recently retired bronze medalist in women’s 3m springboard diving leaned in on an impatient elbow. “What exactly do you think ‘plunging’ is?”

“Isn’t it what plumbers do?”

Sadie burst out laughing. “God, no! It’s diving, Lois, diving. I thought my next chapter should be to advocate for something to expand the sport!”

“Uh huh.” Lois sipped her earl grey. “Okay. What’s unique about it?”

A grin broke on Sadie’s face, gleaming white against her dark skin. “It’s a stationary takeoff. No spring, no height. Points are awarded based on distance travelled.”

“Like long jump?”

“No no no, distance travelled in the water after contact. It all depends on strength.”

“So you don’t swim.”

“No. Dive and float. No movement is allowed.”

“And this was in the Olympics once before?”

“1904. It’s been seeing a resurgence lately!”

Lois smiled wryly. “I thought you didn’t submerge in the first place.”

Sadie slapped her knee. “Come on. Give this a chance! Just look.” She gestured insistently at Jonah sitting next to her, eyes roving up and down in sync with her hand as he smiled shyly back. “You should see him in action.”

“I know it’s a lot to ask,” he added quietly. “But there’s an event coming up soon. Could be fun to make a trip of it? I mean if you want to. No pressure.”

“Yes pressure,” Sadie insisted.

Lois had agreed to meet her old friend without too much probing on the specifics. She knew that Sadie had brought a fellow athlete for her to meet, one who’s career she was invested in. She didn’t know Jonah would be so close in age to them. Or that her position as part of the IOC organizing committee would be relevant to the coffee date. But it could be a lucky break, if it panned out.

“Okay,” she said finally. “Let’s see ‘plunging for distance’ in the flesh.”

Jonah flushed while Sadie cackled, and Lois regretted her phrasing just a little.

***

Two weeks later, Lois was spectating from the bleachers at an aquatics event six hours from home. The comforting scent of chlorine hung warmly in the air and cheers and buzzers bounced off the rafters. She had her notebook with her, already filled with several pages of research. No propulsion once in the water. Sixty second limit before distance is measured from the part of the body furthest from the starting point. Height advantage. Weight advantage (fat).

Jonah’s bit of heft was evident across the rec centre as he stretched in preparation. Pleasingly distributed, Lois thought. Shame he met Sadie first.

Her focus shifted, hawk-like, as the buzzer sounded to start the event. The competitors launched themselves off the edge of the pool (18 inches of height from the surface) and landed with a splash in the water. An appropriately small splash, to conserve kinetic energy for the horizontal distance they’d need to travel.

Then… they floated, face-down. No propulsion. For sixty seconds.

Sixty. Whole. Seconds.

The crowd giggled and murmured. The cheer when the final buzzer went off was distracted, polite, or amused. A child loudly declared, “But they didn’t do anything!” before being shushed by his parents.

Lois smiled weakly back at Jonah as he waved from the pool. She shut her notebook and stood, shoving it into her bag.

Sadie intercepted her on her way to the exit. “In a rush?”

“Yeah, I need to get back to my hotel. Gotta make a call.”

“You get it, right?”

“Get what?” She sighed and shook her head. “It doesn’t matter how much athleticism it takes if the audience doesn’t appreciate it.”

“Come on, Lois, don’t give up on it right away. It’s being added to competitions everywhere. Kids who got excited about planking ten years ago are converting their skills. It’s huge on TikTok.”

“Okay, there’s some merit to that. The Olympics are for all ages and need to stay relevant. We’re always reviewing our events. But kids aren’t the ones buying sponsorships and tickets.”

“Their parents do.”

“The sport needs to have fans, Sadie. It needs to look good on TV. Commentators need to have something they can fill air time with. For sixty seconds! What are they supposed to talk about?”

“It has a rich history!”

Lois raised an eyebrow. “So does tag. But we don’t compete in it at the Olympics.

The lost expression on Sadie’s face was hard to witness, but she rallied quickly, the grit that got her through her athletic career shining through. “You should at least speak to Jonah about it before you make any decisions. Talk to someone who competes. Understand his training regimen, how far he’s come from when he started. Get an inside look like I did.”

“Okay, fine. I’m already here. I’ll do you one more favour over a meal.” Lois adjusted the bag over her shoulder to shake hands. “But it better be on you.”

Sadie grinned, clasping her hand firmly. “Deal.”

***

The three of them went to a crummy little hole-in-the-wall taco joint for supper. It was okay, probably. Lois didn’t really mind.

Jonah turned out to have a major in biology, a minor in anthropology, and a whole lot of chemistry. He cooked, especially sauces from around the world. He volunteered with the local scouts. He worked part-time as a dog walker. He juggled, which got a rowdy cheer and applause from Sadie when he demonstrated it with their drink coasters, before ducking down into their cozy booth again, rubbing the back of his neck and smiling at them both. He was a good-looking guy, nicely tanned despite time spent at the pool.

They barely spoke about plunging, despite Sadie’s best efforts, and the round of cheap beer they ordered was something Lois downed faster than usual.

Back at the hotel lobby, Sadie stormed off to the washroom in a whirl, leaving Lois and Jonah in silence surrounded by pretty but uncomfortable chairs.

“Um,” Lois started awkwardly, but she couldn’t find something appropriate to say next.

Jonah finally wasn’t tongue-tied. “Hey, thanks for checking things out.” He smiled. “It was nice of you to come. I hope you had fun.”

“Sure.”

“Lotta time out of your schedule. Dinner was nice, too. I mean, the parts where I wasn’t embarrassing myself. Sorry.”

“For what?”

He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I probably shouldn’t have juggled where everyone would see me. Or talked about myself so much. I didn’t even ask you about your work.”

“Oh, it’s…” She swallowed hard. “About that. Plunging. I don’t know if I can make a recommendation to consider it for the Olympics, like you were hoping.”

“Then don’t.”

Lois thought she misheard him. “What?”

“I don’t think you should.” He shrugged. “The sport still has a long way to go. There’s a reason it’s not my full-time gig.”

“Oh.”

“It’s more important to Sadie than it is to me. You know she’s looking for her next win, now that she’s retired. That’s how it goes.”

“She deserves a win,” Lois said quietly.

“She’ll get there, she’s a tough cookie. But if she wants it to be plunging it’s going to be a long road. She knows that.” He looked over at her, eyes warm. “What about what you want?”

“That’s, um.”

“Maybe I’m wrong. But maybe you’d like dinner again sometime?”

“Wait, you and Sadie aren’t…?”

“Nope.”

He stood well back from Lois, one hand tucked into his jeans pocket, the other still hovering near his face tentatively, waiting. “I’d like that,” she decided. “Very much.”

His shoulders sagged with relief. “Okay. Yeah, we should exchange numbers, maybe. Here.”

They pulled their phones out and got close to each other. So close that Lois, emboldened by booze, was able to lean in enough to hint and then make contact. Jonah reciprocated, and the kiss was just turning passionate when—

“Lois!”

They broke apart. Sadie stood in the lobby, limbs akimbo. Her mouth hung open, face twisted like a pretzel, but no other sound came out.

“Oh.” Lois tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Hi.”

“Hi Sadie,” Jonah echoed.

“You.” She rounded on him, hissing, “This isn’t the kind of plunging you’re supposed to be focusing on.”

He smiled, shrugging innocently. “Whoops.”

***

Back at work, Lois sat down to pen her recommendation.

Regarding plunging for distance, due to lack of widespread competition at this time and other priorities…

Her phone chirped with a text from Sadie, set to the familiar buzzer of the pool. Coffee Saturday? New lead on a sponsor you gotta hear about.

Lois smiled and thumbed back, It’s on.

kaom
Jan 20, 2007


In for vanilla, please fill in the blanks for me!

kaom
Jan 20, 2007


Vanilla arrives.

Sitting Here posted:

A [telepath] agonizes over [calendar with all the dates scratched out]

A Spiral, Not a Loop
Word count: 999




Six, seven, eight, did I forget eggs? I think so, ten, eleven, this job better pay, I need a gift for Estelle for when she marries that dick Greg, fifteen, I can’t believe it, who does he think he is, marrying a mage when he’s just a guy who sells bikes, twenty, good looks don’t guarantee any kinda magical inheritance what is she thinking, actually I know and it’s gonna produce the kids, but that’s besides the point, and—

Xenia frowned. “You’re thinking very loudly, you know,” she informed her colleague.

“Yes,” Emichelle agreed without breaking stride, the ball of chalk on the end of her staff leaving a smooth line across the cool marble underfoot. “I’m concentrating.”

Xenia shook her head, trying to tune it out. They had a lucky, easy job: check some rich CEO-type’s new property wasn’t haunted or cursed before he moved the family in. And it had been going swimmingly until they tripped over the foyer rug and found… that.

An engraving: enormous, unrecognizable, and vandalized for good measure. Not how fellow mages would disarm a trap—the spiral of runes was painted over, probably local kids exhibiting artistic flair. A moustache here, nipples there, a set of angry eyebrows. It wasn’t helping them discern its purpose, and it wasn’t doing anything to disrupt that purpose, either.

Xenia sighed, passively listening to the ongoing rant. Telepathy was its own curse.

“…sixty-four, and done!” Emichelle twirled her staff triumphantly. “Summoning circle is a go.”

“Go.”

Emichelle’s eyes fluttered shut as she actually concentrated, chanting punctuated by tapping her staff at regular intervals. The light dimmed. A chill seeped into clothing and hair. Time for a cut, Xenia thought absently.

Then between one blink and the next, the ghost appeared. Formless mist, it drifted lazily around the inside of the circle.

“Hey,” Emichelle called sweetly as Xenia slid into her mind, copilot in a pair of dance shoes. “Place look familiar?”

Si.

The ghost’s psychic message touched Emichelle like cobwebs, grasping and sticky. Xenia was ready, and twisted her partner’s mind deftly aside.

“Great,” Emichelle muttered, unfazed. “Like I studied anything but Latin. Okay, yes and no, let’s go. This marking, it’s a spell?”

No.

She blinked as Xenia guided her in a mental two-step away, away. “So no curse. Is it magical?”

Si.

Xenia nudged Emichelle’s thoughts forward, unpredictable. “Is it active?”

Si.

Displeasure radiated from the ghost, so they pirouetted accordingly. Too much of this and Emichelle would get confused, already faltering, “D-do you know what it does…?”

The ghost was bound, but instead of answering it drifted inward, pausing at each rune, travelling to the spiral’s centre to settle like a fountain spout. Mist swirled in low ripples, covering the engraving. Once it filled the summoning circle, it let out a shriek.

Xenia hardened their minds into a pointed toe, forcing the spirit’s anger to pass to either side. She braced for more but the roiling mist dispersed until only the mass at the centre remained.

Nothing had changed.

“I don’t get it,” Emichelle complained. “But it’s not cursed. So, good enough?” She glanced at Xenia, but received a disapproving head shake. “Okay, okay… Your turn.”

“Well,” Xenia said slowly, sweat beading on her temples, “I could try a direct read. It seems a little calmer.”

“Too risky.”

“Any better ideas?”

Emichelle pursed her lips. “My idea to put the rug back was great, thanks. Still could.”

“Our insurance doesn’t cover lying, you know. First bump in the night, the owner will come calling.”

“Telepaths, always ruining things.” Emichelle stuck out her tongue. “Okay, I’ll tap out.”

She planted the chalk tip of her staff on the floor, and marked a protective circle to shut the ghost out—and Xenia, who snapped back to herself.

“Sure hope you put me in your will,” Emichelle said, muted like speaking through glass.

Xenia sent a tendril of her mind like a handshake toward the ghost. It didn’t race to meet her—a good sign—and it didn’t fight when she made contact.

She saw the foyer as it had once been, a slab of marble encircled by pillars. People in gowns and woven sandals carried heavy goblets, feasting, and the sun set into the earth. She took a step forward and food rotted. Another step and trees sprouted. Another, the revelers’ hair turned white, another and their skin fell off, their skeletons still laughing. A step to the side and constellations swirled, snow fell. A spin and the snowy blanket melted, rivulets running off the engraving, and…

“Oh,” Xenia said, and pulled away from the spirit. “It’s a calendar.”

“Are you kidding.

She glanced at a glowering Emichelle, disoriented by the disconnection of the protective circle. “No, it’s… just a calendar. Magical, but harmless.”

“So we put the rug back?”

The ghost wailed and Xenia winced. “I think we should clean it.”

“We aren’t housekeepers.

The ghost got louder and Xenia looked plaintively at her friend until she relented, throwing up her hands. “Fine!”

Emichelle redrew her circles to shuffle the ghost around, and they scrubbed off the paint. After a lot of complaining, they stood back to check their work, aching, and by then the ghost had fully dissipated.

“Finally!” Emichelle moaned. But Xenia felt the pride underneath.

“Look. A new rune.” Xenia tapped the end of the spiral with her boot.

“Whoa, we’re part of history. Okay, great. Can we leave?”

“Yep. Now the job’s done.” Then Xenia grinned. “The whole payment’s yours this time.”

Emichelle did a double take. “Really?”

“Really. On one condition—I’m your date to Estelle’s wedding. No, don’t interrupt. We’re going to talk to all of her hot fiancé’s hot friends.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’m always serious.” Xenia cracked her knuckles. “And I’m always snooping. Someone’s going to have latent talent, and I’m going to find it.”

Emichelle laughed. “I can’t believe you. You’ll trade for a date?”

“Yep,” Xenia said, running her fingers through her hair and planning. “In a heartbeat.”

kaom
Jan 20, 2007


This post is my intention to enter omega dome, and also my submission #2 for autobiography.


That Time We Were All Wonder Woman
Words 726


It was 8am and I was the only person in the kitchen who wasn’t hungover. The rest filed in one-by-one: my sister, my aunt, my cousin last, already wearing sunglasses. Each of us in a Wonder Woman T-shirt, foam headband, and velcroed-on cape.

“We partied on the wrong night.”

“Yep.”

“Are we really going to this obstacle course?”

“Yep.”

We dragged and scraped ourselves out of the room to the apartment’s hallway, locking the door behind us. And in front of us the fire doors were shut.

My aunt pressed on the bar, but they didn’t move.

My cousin made the sign of the cross. “Thank you, God.”

“We can’t be trapped in here,” I insisted. I pressed on the doors, too. Then I jiggled them. Then I went hunting around the walls for a release, and when I found it no one was happy except my aunt.

“Let’s go!” she called, already booking it down the hall.

We piled into the car. My cousin looked like death warmed over, didn’t say a word the whole drive to the course. My aunt cranked ABBA and belted along off-key. My sister and I scrambled for sunscreen.

We arrived just before our start time and baked in the sun for the safety presentation. Don’t attempt anything you aren’t comfortable with, we’re all here to have fun. 30 obstacles lay ahead of us on a 5km course, which everyone but my cousin had trained for.

The first obstacle we came to was a big plastic tube we had to crawl through. My sister went in first, made a lot of yelping, and came out with one knee bleeding. My aunt, wearing running pants, decided to brave the gravel-lined tube. My cousin and I decided we had nothing to prove.

The second obstacle was a 6ft wall. I took a run at it and scrambled over, picking up a splinter in the process. My cousin and sister stood on one side and pushed, while I guided and pulled, our aunt over the wall. Good enough.

When we reached the “crawling through mud with barbed wire” obstacle I passed. The Wonder Woman capes were not going to be helpful. My cousin looked like she wanted to hurl, dragging herself on her stomach more than crawling.

We crawled and climbed and tightroped walked our way for an hour before someone thought to ask, “Isn’t this only supposed to be 5km?” Which it was. My sister and I insisted we had to be close to the end, and the obstacles must just be grouped together or something.

Eventually we came to the big mud pits, the ones that came up to our waist. Still too many rocks everywhere, a hazard of the Pacific Northwest, but we scrambled through the first set with only some minor cuts and bruises. The next batch were full of rotating triangles we had to power ourselves, climb on top of to lift us out of the muck, and slide off the other side. Teamwork in action!

My cousin went over fine, clinging to one edge and then swinging her legs around at the top to land gracefully back in the mud. My aunt reached the top next and suddenly asked, “What now?” but it was already too late, the triangle had too much momentum, and she was dumped face-first into the mud on the other side, Wonder Woman cape sailing through the air gracefully.

She came up coughing and sputtering, “You should have warned me!”

“If you couldn’t figure that one out, there’s nothing we could have done,” my cousin stated grimly.

Luckily the professional photographers caught that one in action.

Another hour passed. We saw the wait for the biggest obstacle and passed. We kept running, my cousin too exhausted to speak. We were in the woods but there was no shade. By the time we reached the final obstacle, again lined up hundreds of people deep, we all bailed to the finish line where free bananas and cookies were waiting for us.

“I do not feel good,” my cousin warned us. We made it all the way back to our rooms, thankfully without puking, before she could check her phone and discover that, actually, she wasn’t supposed to be feeling good, because according to the emergency text from her doctor she was positive for mono.

kaom
Jan 20, 2007


Omega #2: Wonder

Lurking in the Depths
Word count 186


There’s only one thing on my bucket list I’ll have to cross off posthumously: visiting the bottom of the ocean. Not the shallow, sandy bottom where crabs lie waiting to inspire guilt for stepping on them, not the reefs tour guides will take you to in a little glass-bottomed boat, no, the bottom, where male angler fish spend their brief lives in search of a mate to parasitically attach themselves to, where the blobfish roam, and where we have yet to see 95% of it.

Most of what lives down there doesn’t even have bones, ironically weak against high pressures. Light can’t reach the depths, so animals create their own bioluminescence. Every resource has something that’s found a way to use it, like giant worms living on geothermal vents. Giant squid were supposed to be made-up monsters from a bygone age, but they aren’t.

Mostly, I wonder when the ocean will figure out how to eat plastic. Hermit crabs already live in it. Urchins wear it against the sun, or as camouflage, maybe both. It’s life’s cradle, and if we’re lucky, could be its salvation, too.

kaom
Jan 20, 2007


I’m in for this week. No I don’t know which prompt I’m using yet, I’ll post it with the story lol.




I’m new to TD this year and honestly I wonder if it would benefit from a second non-kayfabe thread for questions? Entering the “write it now!” competition was where I started instead because it was easier to understand how to. The TD thread is a little off-putting if you don’t know anyone who posts here because there’s zero chitchat allowed, just stories and crits. That keeps the thread nice and tidy, and I like the kayfabe, but I also had no idea how to participate without mucking up the vibe.

kaom
Jan 20, 2007


Week #542. Prompts used:

Antivehicular posted:

Prompt #1 (The Festive Panopticon):

Pththya-lyi posted:

Bodyguard, Alien

derp posted:

"kids we're getting a REAL tree this year" + a beehive that no one noticed


Skookum Shots Seasonal Special: Human Rituals in Review
619 words

Xeenaph the human research assistant scanned quickly through her photo references, eye stalks swivelling and flicking up and down.

“Further up.”

She shifted the garland around the tree accordingly, mouth a tight line. She was covered in glitter, from her spindly legs to the rough spiral shell on her back.

“Perfect,” she muttered. “It must be perfect for Kchuulu.”

The tree was impeccably decorated—a fluffy tutu around the base, sparkly garlands strung round the branches, and a lumpy candle on top, just like the reference pictures showed. Sap clung to Xeenaph’s delicate fingertips, the cloying smell competing with dust and cinnamon. She raked them over her shiny carapace while calling, “Kchuulu! It’s ready.”

Her acclaimed boss clattered into the display room, weighed down with documentary paraphernalia. “Oooooh, yes!” Her eye stalks stood up straight and bright. “You’ve outdone yourself Xeenaph. A real tree!”

“A real tree! Harvested just hours ago,” she confirmed proudly.

“Remarkable.” Kchuulu lugged a camera tripod around the tree in circles, pausing here and there to peer into the viewfinder. “I must find the perfect angle, where the light is caught…”

“Wait!” Xeenaph sprang forward. “We adjust that ourselves.” She struck a match against the edge of her shell and held it up to the candle jammed onto the top of the tree, lighting it.

“Ooooh! Perfect.”

“Perfect.”

The candlelight danced across their skin, the sparkles sparkled, the fir began smoking, and, just as the camera timer was set to count down, the bees came out.

“Oooooh,” Kchuulu said.

“Oh,” Xeenaph said.

“Bzzzz,” the bees said.

One landed on Kchuulu’s head, right between two eyestalks. They twirled to focus on it. To focus on another, smaller one that landed beside it, and began to gently flap its wings. Then another one. And another.

“OH,” Kchuulu said as the swarm descended on her in pursuit of their queen.

“Don’t panic!” Xeenaph took ten steps back across the room. “I will.” She turned and raced for the door.

“Xeenaph! I need the perfect photo for this year’s Human Rituals in Review and your credit will accurately reflect your contributions!”

She teetered on the edge of escape. Then she dutifully spun back around and retrieved her reference index screen, barking, “Minuscule! Buzzing! Pointy! Tree-adjacent!”

The machinery whirled, pulling up likely culprits—hummingbirds, mosquitoes, and—

“Bees!”

Bees live in colonies. They can be identified by—

She skipped ahead.

To defend themselves, they may bite or sting.

“Oh.”

Her boss stood frozen, eyestalks sticking up stiffly.

“Uh.”

Humans commonly harvest a sticky substance called ‘honey.’

Xeenaph eyed the sap staining her fingers and carapace.

The colony follows their queen, identifiable by…

She looked carefully back at the swarm climbing all over Kchuulu.

…pacified by smoke.

“I have a plan!” Xeenaph said, leaping forward with her sticky fingers extended. She drove toward the centre of the mass of bees, reaching for the queen, and came up with Kchuulu’s eyestalk.

“What are you doing?!”

“Uh.” Xeenaph attempted to pull back, but the sap held fast to both of them, threatening to tear their delicate skin. The bees began to crawl up her arm.

“Time for step two,” she declared with volume in place of confidence. Flinching, she grabbed Kchuulu’s arm with her other hand and marched them both toward the tree. The fire had spread somewhat, but the smoke was rising up and out of range.

“Step three?” Xeenaph hunted down the end of the garland and yanked hard, shaking the branches. She looped one end around Kchuulu’s shoulders, and put another loop around her own. Then raised what she could to meet the flames.

They both screamed as the garland lit up. The tree was burning. They were burning.

The camera shutter clicked.

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kaom
Jan 20, 2007


Since it seems to keep coming up I’d like to clarify my point was not about losing or ITT kayfabe or receiving crits. Only one, anonymous person has suggested they don’t want crits. I don’t agree and think that defeats the entire purpose of TD. I love that people here actually read my work and tell me how it landed for them, that’s invaluable. I also like the kayfabe and think it can help people step outside their comfort zone. Giving crits, writing even when you don’t have a “good” idea, it’s all skills that require practice to build.

My point was only that it means this thread is not a good place for discussion or questions. And I’m convinced it’s a need because it’s happening on Discord. If you aren’t in the Discord it’s impossible to tell that you can do story swaps in advance of submission or ask clarifying questions about the crits you receive or ask for advice on how to be a judge. That isn’t happening on the forums and from reading the thread there’s no way to know it’s happening elsewhere. I literally didn’t suggest changes to TD, just that we have somewhere on the forums for newcomers to get oriented, if new blood is what TD needs. I only participated in TD after joining the Discord, and I only joined the Discord because I volunteered to beta read a novel for someone via the fiction writing advice thread. (Of course I’m now torturing you all with terrible words, so this may not be a winning argument.)

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