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Great time to finally do this again. I'm your Omega, fill my blanks, spin me right round baby.
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Aug 1, 2022 18:42
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Omega Prompt #1 - Domino’s March 1199/1200 words People in many civilizations assume Progress is linear, but I am not. Like time itself, I am a complex oscillating wave that spans everything from zero to then. This base function limits me; I am powerful, but not omnipotent. I am, however, omniscient. Therefore, when I notice a curious gap of knowledge around a small period of time, I become concerned. This kind of oscillation lapse had happened only once before, when hyper-advanced scaled scientist-philosophers had managed to quantify me, hoping to chart the course of their species rationally into the future. My only solution had been immediate cataclysm, to prevent the ironic erasure of said future through wave function collapse. I would really not like to resort to this again; so, what is going on? I switch my observation of the knowledge-gap from passive to active. The wave’s oscillation began to slow down around the year 1876. It begins to pick up again after 2016. Why do these two years have significance? And why do I think in years? I attempt to switch back to omni-observation, but I only manage to extend my consciousness between the two time borders in question. I am effectively cut off from the rest of eternity. If I cannot escape this perspective lock, I might have to cause a cataclysm again, but that might not even fix it this time. I might have to erase the entire period from existence instead. To try and nail down the problem, I begin in 1876 and move along the timeline. Like always, I wax and wane; new inventions, a surge. Two wars, a downturn. Nothing here that would slow down the oscillation itself, though. I keep going forward, confused, but when I progress beyond the immediate postwar period, it slowly dawns on me as I feel somehow stronger. Prouder. Overconfident. I shouldn’t have feelings. Even when the lizards managed to solve my formula, I remained impassionate. So what they are doing in this civilization cannot be attempts at merely understanding me - oh no. They worship me. In their minds, there is an idea of Progress. Coached in terms of inevitable march, the belief in me being a line that always goes up is upheld by countless blind acolytes. They pray to me to fix their issues, but do not lift a finger themselves. The superposition of reality and belief is so juxtaposed that it anchors the wave. It’s flattering, but misguided. I know what to do - I need to shatter their belief in me. This is probably what I will always have done, come to think of it - that must be why the wave oscillates again after 2016. Of course, the time-lock prevents me from checking if my conjecture is true, but I will find out soon enough. The strongest blow to their confidence would obviously be another war. I need to set up opposing totalitarian leaders, topple the economy - a plague! Great idea! - and this should break the spell. Here goes the first domino… The years remain in stubborn stasis. This should all be within my power; why is nothing happening? I retreat to 1876 for clarity of mind. If I cannot enact at least the war-plan, having to excise the period quickly becomes my only course of action. If I cannot even do that - what could that mean? Eternal stagnation? All because I wanted to investigate this anomaly, which trapped me in a singularity of empty power? …is this actual despair? How can I feel this at all? Is this an aftershock from my empty elation at the end of the next century? No. This comes, somehow, from within me. Meaning - I dive deep into 1876. The cause of all of this is here, and it must be myself! A subfunction I sent to monitor something, a tiny grain of invention that somehow clogged my entire workings - It is in a library, catatonically contemplating books. I zoom forward and back - they do this, unchanging, for the entire time-lock period. I activate it manually. What is going on? It’s this sorting system. They used to order books just by arrival date, which is obviously stupid. Some guy called Dewey decided to make it more rational. But it’s not. It makes no sense. It’s arbitrary and maddening. Look at it. The subroutine I unconsciously dub Dewey itself unfolds a tesseract of a sorting system. For some reason, it uses fractions to represent tomes, base 10 as if that mattered, indeed with categories chosen basically at random. I take one look at it and it invokes the echo of a mindache in me. But is the sheer idiotic complexity really what struck Dewey down? Plenty of dumb things get invented all the time. They still use it! Dewey’s desperate cry betrays the source of the emotion. The subroutine’s inability to comprehend why they never switched from the Decimal System ties up my processing power so much makes me unable to topple the first domino meant to shatter people’s blind faith in Progress. I can’t shut down and absorb Dewey before I dispel its despair. The fate of time depends on my ability to perform auto-therapy. I need to make Dewey understand why people sometimes shun me, even though making Progress would be both easy and sensible. But can I even see a picture big enough myself right now to understand it myself? Well, I only need to explain the current civilization. I collect samples all along the timeline, analyze and sort. Eventually, the necessary picture emerges, like a diamond compressed by my titanic effort. I present the argument to Dewey. These people see Progress as comprised by two specific facets: technological and societal. They think that each is one of their legs, and steady Progress requires one step at a time. But couldn’t they just perform a great leap with both at once? They are in fact so stuck in their binary mindset that they often end up jumping on one leg. This is what has happened here: they replaced a flawed system with an overcomplex one, thinking this a big step forward. Then they made incremental improvements. No efforts were made to rethink the core system; technological baby steps were all they took, the societal impact was ignored. In ten years, they will invent the car and do the same. But won’t all of their systems stagnate forever then? No, actually - an outside push can imbalance them enough so they’ll finally put the other leg down. For the Dewey system, this seems to happen around the end of the time-lock. You missed that they are starting to think of a better system not because this one is bad, but because it is inherently discriminatory. So the outside push is - Society Progressing, yes. Something like a sigh escapes from Dewey. Its despair ebbs, and with it, so does mine. I embrace it, regain my calculating mind and power, and can finally topple that domino. Immediately, people all over their world lose their faith in Progress. Time unlocks for me, my mind expands. Now, to find out what I actually caused. Was this push enough to make them put both feet forward? Or did the dominoes keep falling? Prompt: A [metaphysical concept] agonizes over [Dewey Decimal System] Spin: +200 words
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Aug 2, 2022 21:29
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Staggy posted:Also I am in for Omega Prompt #2. Spin the wheel and give me a flash rule, please and thank you.
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Aug 2, 2022 21:52
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Omega prompt #2 Dinosaur’s Fangs 1085/1100 words “So do you like hip-hop or techno?” An 18 year old Simon is wedged firmly between two older guys twice his breadth. He had met both of them for the first time when he got in the backseat of this car, currently driven way too fast by his coworker, let’s call him Sonic. The question comes without any lead-up. Simon looks to Sonic for assistance, but he’s busy racing an Audi. Simon’s gaze shifts from one backseat neighbor to the other. Right wedge, asker of question: burly guy, friendly enough. Right wedge: jacked, comically so. Simon doesn’t know it yet, but on his vast bicepses are tattooed the words BLOOD and HONOR in you-know-what-font. I-just-like-the-values-the-words-represent smirks. “Is it a hard question?” Simon’s sweat turns a few degrees colder. He’s even worse at reading rooms than what he will end up being, but at least he has the mind to realize that “neither” would be suicidal. So as unanswered tension rises, he defaults to his standard modus operandi - brutal honesty. “Well, there’s a few techno songs I like, I’m not an expert in the genre, but…” He looks straight ahead at the road, waiting for a reaction. Time seems to dilute, maybe because the car is going so fast. Suddenly, a slap from Burly on his back. “Ha! Very nice.” Heritage-not-hate nods. “gently caress hip-hop.” And that’s how our protagonist became a member of Sonic’s eclectic group of friends. — A few weeks later, Sonic was even more hyper than usual. “Dude. Chris Liebing will play at the Dinodrome.” Youth slowed down his work to think hard about the statement. “Dinodrome is that lizard museum out in the boonies they converted to a disco, right?” Sonic slowly shook his head. “Please. It’s called a club. And the Godfather of Schranz will play it!” Simon made a “go on” gesture. “Chris invented the best form of techno! Hard, pure, uncompromising, it blows your face. Right. Off.” Simon liked Sonic, so he tried very hard to not hurt his feelings. He put his most genuine smile forward when he faked enthusiasm and happiness for his coworker-turned-tentative-friend. He was too successful. Less than five minutes later, he had accepted an invitation to the “concert of the century. Millennium!” — The evening of the concert had arrived, preceded by mounting dread by Simon, who had used the intervening time to educate himself on Schranz. It was horrible. Absolutely dreadful, amelodic, droning noise. He knew that he would not enjoy himself one bit, but this was all to make Sonic happy, and maybe Simon could siphon some of his exuberance? Burly was designated driver, and perhaps even more pumped than Sonic about the whole affair. No chance of him calling the evening early, and he was driving Simon and Sonic into the middle of absolutely nowhere. Simon would have to force his fun or just die out here. At the Dinodrome, the friend group assembled. Sonic, barely able to contain himself. Burly, content like fat buddha. A guy who Simon hadn’t met before, wearing a Dinodrome shirt, buzzing with nervous energy but a blank expression, let’s call him Dino. And, of loving course, I-enjoy-the-looks-my-tattoos-get-at-the-public-pool. Some awkward hellos later, Simon had firmly decided that this evening was going to be a complete write-off. — Two hours later, Simon congratulated himself on his ability to stick to the plan. The third vastly overpriced beer of the evening was almost empty. The alcohol had done absolutely nothing to dull the piercing spikes which Schranz drove into his brain at 140-160 bpm. But he had managed to not interact with any of Sonic’s bizarre troupe after they had streamed onto the dance floor like men possessed, and nobody had questioned him just sitting at the bar for the entire concert so far. God, it was not even 10 PM. Time for another toilet break of increasing frequency before the next order, once again succumbing to the faint hope that the “music” might be less devastating inside the stalls. When Simon returned to his well-warmed seat, he found Dino waiting for him, still holding a perfectly blank expression. His bad vibe had only intensified, however. Its negative resonance formed a perfect superposition with the Schranz’ overtuned sonic waves, resulting in an interference that constructively drove a fist into Simon’s suffering stomach. “Um…hi?” Dino’s gaze shot a spike directly through Simon’s eye. “We’re gonna step outside now.” Simon slowly walked towards the bar, clamping down on his stale glass like a lifeline. “I’m fine, actually.” “You’re not. Out.” “I don’t want any trouble.” “You’re gonna be in trouble if you don’t come with me.” Simon scanned the dancefloor. He’d even have been happy to see comically broad, tattooed shoulders in the crowd to turn to. But of course, no such luck. Hoping to just have misread the situation, he complied. On the way to the parking lot, attempts to communicate were met with silence. No plea for an explanation, no reminder that Simon did not know what was going on, was answered. And nobody else was outside; the concert was still going, people were in oblivious ecstasy inside. Before any hope of running back to safety was gone, Simon stopped. “I’m not taking another step before you tell me what is going on.” Dino turned around very slowly. “We’re going to go to a car, and you’re going to go inside.” “Which car? Why?” Dino’s voice was as flat as his expression. “If you don’t, I’ll stab you.” Simon felt like someone had thrown the rest of his beer into his face. Before he could do anything, Dino had cut off his escape route towards the club. “This way.” Dino’s voice pushed Simon along, who had fallen into a trance induced by sheltered kid shock. Trying to argue seemed pointless; no: dangerous. A car came into focus in the dark of the lot. The door was open; inside, Burly, Sonic, and Nazi. It was impossible to determine who looked the most pissed off. “Finally.” Sonic’s voice was acid. Simon desperately wanted to ask what was going on. Why they had sent a lunatic with threats of violence to get him. But the words were blocked by both his fear and common sense. “Get the gently caress in.” Dino was way too close. Did Simon feel something touch his quivering spine? The car’s door seemed to open into an abyss. But Simon felt anger exponentially increasing for every millisecond of delay. He got in, and strong hands slammed the door close behind him. Flash rule: Story must include a dinosaur Spin: -200 words https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DSHqsMq7UKo
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Aug 6, 2022 21:57
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I'm also in for prompt 3 and would like a hellrule for it. Spin is not gonna work out, timing-wise.
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Aug 6, 2022 22:00
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Clash of Blues 250/250 Words The morning sun kissed colors into the world, and their argument resumed. Sky: I am an infinite canvas for the painter of clouds, they look into my infinite images and see the shapes of dreams. Sea: I invite them to brave the element they weren’t born for. I challenge them to grow and conquer. Sky: your black depths hide endless terrors! They fear your churning waves. Sea: you are jealous that they conquered you with their planes! I remain unplumbed fully. Like so many times, Sky was aghast at their shameless pride. Had they not the duty also to provoke raw wonder in man, like cousins Forest and Fire and all the rest did so admirably? In their indignation, Sky retreated inland in a cloak of storm clouds. How could they make Sea understand that awe was what should drive men, not competitiveness? But since man had first glimpsed the rainbow hidden in Sea’s waters, Sky had trailed ever behind. Then Sky saw the possible answer. A man-made hue, adorning a car racing in the midday sun. Pinnacle of their technology, canvas of dreams realized - this would sway Sea. The next morning, Sky carefully misted themselves to achieve the exact same color. Sea: I have never seen you like this. Sky: did you think I could never innovate? Sea: this is enticing. Touch me. They formed the perfect horizon. Stunned by this phenomenal display, the driver lost control of his vehicle. It shot off a cliff, through Sky, into Sea. Hellrule: Your characters are literal shades of light blue 
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Aug 7, 2022 10:49
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Signing up for the final prompt too, would be a shame to leave it at that. Give me a wizard, please.
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Aug 7, 2022 10:51
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Smaller Than 420 Microns 1297/1300 words Like a bored God’s fingernails, the acid wind cut rivets through the ashes of the Iridium Wasteland. It carried with it the ashes of an empire, still heavy with echoes of blood and screams. The ashes parted like a widow’s veil before Jerboa’s face, which might be the first one in decades to behold the devastation unfiltered by goggles. He folded his hands as if in prayer, then slowly opened them like the wings of a moth taking flight. The stream of necrotic dust parted before him, giving a clear view of a building with plaster almost entirely abraded, every window shattered. Jerboa entered through doors barely holding onto one hinge each; his hand briefly found rest in the imprint of a gigantic fist, one of its fingers enough to encompass all of his. He put down his backpack, sat down cross-legged on a tabletop that was now level with a ground entirely composed of sand, dust and ash, and exhaled a few times, achieving the basic trance state every wizard learns as their first exercise. Of course, he had barely progressed beyond those lessons. Still - With him as an epicenter, the dust began to rise and settle in waves. They steadily increased in intensity, spreading out further and further, until he suddenly slammed down his hands on the tabletop. With an expulsion of force, all the fine particles the room had been filled with flew out of the window frames. - he had managed to teach himself just a few extra tricks. Jerboa got up and approached a door that should hide stairs leading to a treasure of buried wetness. A sudden change in the dust’s flowing pattern made him freeze. Had the fistmark in the door really only felt warm because of the ash-desert heat? Jerboa spun around and started to run towards his backpack. Something big shattered the door into splinters that hurtled towards Jerboa. He attempted to control them, but they were way too large for his powers. A nasty stake pierced the light robes covering his left shoulder and sent him flying to the ground. Dizzied from the impact, vision wavering, he still attempted to get on all fours and crawl to the backpack. A plume of flame erupted in front of him. He staggered backwards, landed on his rump, decided to stay put. “EXPLAIN YOUR PRESENCE,” a synthetic voice boomed. “AND STATE YOUR ALLEGIANCE.” Jerboa blinked a few times to focus his aching vision. In front of him, still-smoking palm the size of his torso extended towards him, towered an Iridium Force Robotic Incineration Terminator. Jerboa desperately tried to find the shortest possible answer to satisfy the IFRIT before it would decide that the interrogation wasn’t worth its time. “I’m a free agent trying to see if the Wasteland can be reclaimed.” “WASTELAND BELONGS TO IRIDIUM FORCE.” The flame cannon in the demon robot’s palm began to spin up another fireball. “Yes, you shaped it in your image when you rebelled against the war-mechanics who made you, and nobody would dare take it from you. But the acid winds choke the Emerald Realms with their ash. You crushed their rulers, incinerated any resistance, won the war for the empire before you forged your freedom from its pyre. You have conclusively won - the Emerald people do not need to suffer needlessly.” “IRRELEVANT NOTION.” “Indeed! It does not matter to you if the winds keep blowing, if the ash keeps flowing, so you do not need to stop me from attempting to do something about it, right?” While he talked, Jerboa made frantic gestures with his good arm. The IFRIT hesitated. Small waves of visible calculations ran through the electric arcs connecting its body parts to the central core. “UNLIKELY THAT YOU ARRIVED ALONE. RISK MINIMIZATION PROTOCOL DICTATES ADVANCE SCOUT REMOVAL.” The flame cannon had finished spinning up. Another fiery blossom started to erupt from the metal monster’s palm. Fortunately, Jerboa had managed to sweep enough dust back into the room to gather a small cloud in front of him. With timing made perfect by desperation, he punched it to the side, generating a small vacuum behind it which diverted the fireball just enough to merely give him a bad sunburn on the side of his face. “Look! I am alone because I am useless! I am a dust wizard, I cannot move anything much thicker than my hair! They flunked me from the academy. I’m acting on my own agenda.” The IFRIT looked at its palm launcher, clenched its fist and started advancing on Jerboa. The wizard had managed to gather himself enough to get up and stumble backwards, well aware that with a leap assisted by its jet-boosters, the IFRIT could immediately pulverize him. “OUTLINE YOUR PLAN.” “This used to be a water processing plant before your kind rampaged through it. If I unclog the pipes using my dust control, a proper water wizard might be able to channel from the reservoir beneath this building, and cause the first rain in decades.” Smoke erupted from the IFRIT’s nostril-like exhausts. “THIS UNIT FOUGHT WATER WIZARDS IN THE WAR. ATTEMPTS TO QUENCH OR SHORT-CIRCUIT REMAINED FUTILE.” It increased its gait. Jerboa channeled more dust from the outside using motions like he was sweeping up a pile of gold coins. This pushed him back and through another door. The IFRIT, trying to grab him, slammed its horns against the wall, just barely not reaching its target. “The water wizards are well aware! That’s why they did not believe my plan could succeed.” The IFRIT spoke while obviously calculating how to best reach Jerboa in his hidey-hole. “WHY ATTEMPT IT, THEN?” “Everybody always told me that my powers are completely useless. Establishing a clean border between Emerald and Iridium territory is among the most useful things I can think of. Do you understand me?” The IFRIT once more calculated a response. The electricity sparking off its parts made the air crackle around it. Then it emitted a heavy gas from valves in its horns. “NO.” Jerboa sighed. “I figured as much.” He opened his arms wide and closed his eyes. “Well, then get to incinerating.” The gas cloud had completely surrounded the IFRIT’s body. It curled its hands in front of its chest, generating small flames from the palm-launchers. The gas ignited, quickly wreathing the fearsome metal skeleton in fire, impossible to quench with any amount of water or wind, hot enough to melt any earth flung at it into plasma. The heat in the small room quickly turned unbearable. Jerboa’s eyes shot open. “Thank you!” Clenching his teeth against the pain in his shoulder, Jerboa thunderclapped his hands together. From every open window, a dust-tongue licked inward. An ashen tornado surrounded the IFRIT in less than a second. And then - the dust ignited. Jerboa had barely managed to dive behind the wall. The explosion blew a hole clean in the ceiling, dented the floor towards the basement, caused the doors to fly off like missiles. With a clatter barely heard over the ringing in his ears, the IFRIT’s iridium skull landed next to Jerboa. He quickly invoked a wreath of ash around his head to protect himself from noxious fumes, and hobbled over to the pile of limbs left by his demonic foe. The heart was still pulsating, desperately attempting to reform the body. Jerboa pushed the coarsest dust he could still control into its valves, causing the metal heart to palpitate, spark, and finally burn out. With a sigh, he opened his backpack and added it to the eleven others already in there. This plant was a write-off. But maybe these trophies could buy him the respect he needed to get to the next one with a water wizard or three already in tow. Wizard: You have power anywhere there is dust or grit or ash. You can coax dust bunnies out from corners, and if you put your mind to it, you also can make much bigger, scarier things. If it's lighter than sand, you can whip it into whatever shape you desire. Friends with allergies don't visit very often, though
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Aug 7, 2022 22:58
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I'm gonna have a three hour train ride later today, perfect to do some critting. I think I can crit 10 stories easily during that time. Write me a PM on the forums or on Discord, and tell me what I should crit. It's first come, first served, and there's no greed protection; if you boldly say "hey Simon, crit all four of my stories", congrats that you wrote so much, you deserve it.
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Aug 8, 2022 06:05
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First round of birthday week crits Yoruichi - Big Day Out This is a neat little thing, just a slice of an experience. Good for Xanthe to go out and grab her fun by both buttcheeks. There’s some things holding it back, however. First of all, the intro needs some work. It’s a bit hard to tell at the start what’s going on - Xanthe is collapsed already (presumably into a seat), but then Sarah points down at said seats, indicating a “let’s sit here” thing? You’re talking about “girlfriends” which always confuses me because it could well be a romantic relationship, and then it confused me again because Sarah is the only one you talk about. Then, Xanthe’s journey from “collapsed” – which is a very strong word, it reads like she’s already quite done, physically, from what happened during the early stages of the concert - to “okay I really need to be in there” is too sudden for me. Yeah, the music can infuse you with the NEED for dancefloor action, I get it, but usually - for me at least - that comes with a certain swelling of emotion, with a “no actually my fatigue is GONE I can DO it” surge through your body, and you could have written that and I’d have been happy. Rest is fine with the one caveat that I don’t know how cool and moshy Metallica still is. It is maybe not the best example for a band to get someone of Xanthe’s probable young age going (she’s still flatmates with somebody, open for relationships, no judgment if you’re older and in that situation, but it’s rarer). Admittedly, I wouldn’t know which current band would fit the bill. Anyway, getting on stage and (if contrived) meeting James and vibing is all good. SurreptitiousMuffin - Matey Potatey lol this ruled. You really are excellent at writing just unpleasantly visceral poo poo. I especially enjoyed the hosed up speech of the potat man, like a deepfried meme gone horribly wrong. There’s a somewhat intriguing glimpse into a wider world where everything has turned to gently caress, I don’t know if I like it - the black-eyed cunts, excuse my direct quote, are just kind of there and don’t really reinforce what needs setting up or more fortifying: that Bev is not just a greedy fucker, he’s also trying to survive in a world that’s rapidly turning to dogshit. Yeah, he’s also a fucker, but hosed worlds breed hosed people. There’s something to that paragraph, but it needs to focus on that aspect imo The paragraph that starts with “alright then mate” needs a serious tune-up in the middle, I’m sure that’s an artifact of you rewriting a sentence and forgetting to connect the new pieces. Finally, the title is stupid, it doesn’t fit the tone. But I get it, titles are hard. Why not call it “The Spudbears” or sth idk spitballin anyway cool story Uranium Phoenix - Thesis Retrospective: Results Analysis for Sub-Universe Generation Method for Obtaining Large Quantities of Iron (Final_Final_ActualFinal_2_Edited) Dear author, I have taken the liberty to further comment on your document, I trust you won’t find the nested style confusing: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1a5WOO8V7EDxWFhTMWB6ysrqK9F9sSLHSDEf2aeTSn5o/edit To not further clutter up the document itself, some general comments in this mail: 1) You [UP] mostly hit the voice of a scientific report quite well, but it derailed a bit in the end. That is probably intentional, as the author gets carried away, but the commenter should catch this and rein them in more 2) I think even within the restraints of the format, a bit more “unexpectedly: life” could shine through. A good (i.e. actually readable) scientific publication (counting Theses there, they are public after all) manages to convey the “Eureka moment” of the project, why the whole thing was worth reporting on, to the reader so they can nod along and go “yeah. Great research here. These guys know what they’re doing.” I think this is missing here a little, especially considering the author is full of obvious wonder at what they managed to achieve 3) That they established dialogue with the cultures in the pocket universe doesn’t really have a pay-off, they are after all mostly just observing the art the inhabitants created. I think it would be more interesting to suggest establishing contact as a follow-up study 4) Generally, like in every paper, the methods and experimental part is the most boring and I usually skip it. The meat lies in the results and conclusions, and the outlook can add a lot, this is where your story’s focus should also be I hope this was helpful, and your next version can be called ready for publication. Best, Dr. Simon a friendly penguin - Art Ha, that’s a great twist at the end. I like that. Overall, the story did a great job in setting up an atmosphere, giving an idea of a character who honestly enjoys nature for what it is, introducing some “off” elements, and ending in the “oh they’re just letting everything go to poo poo” reveal. However, it’s 250 words max, so every one needs to be tight, so I’m gonna be nitpicky about your words. Some choices are awkward. Symphonizing, circulate, grass AND crabgrass, perpendicularity, these make the flow of reading grind to a halt. Also, some minor questions the text raises. Like, does grass make symmetrical flowers? Aren’t all flowers symmetrical? Windows are slammed with a tight shunk - is that a deliberate choice, or should it not be slammed tight with a shunk? What does a golden ratio of gravity mean exactly? Why do rats weave in and out of feet, that sounds terrible (should be in between, no?). These tiny annoyances add up to a slightly clunky reading experience that does the general buildup a disservice. The devil is really in the details here (which are neglected…oh drat it’s all intentional isn’t it) MockingQuantum - The Brass Key This is a very nicely written account of someone experiencing time travel in a singular location. Technically, I have nothing to criticize - the word choices are on point (only “divaricated” gave me pause, I think it’s always a bit of a risk to put rare words into text because the reader might be tempted to stop reading and google instead of just going “kind of branch growth pattern, whatever”), the sentences have great lengths, it’s clear what happens, good stuff. As for the content, I have the issue that I am a very plot-focused person, and nothing really happens here, so I don’t feel qualified to say “oh you made just a wonderful moodscape” or whatever. What I can glean from the story is that someone with no clear motivation to do so decided upon finding a time travel device to first go back, then forward until the apparent end and rebirth of the universe. The point of the story seems to be that the only constant throughout time is change, and in the end, the universe is cyclical. There’s nothing new here, and that’s my critique: I don’t get what you are trying to say, and what the protagonist learned, if anything.
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Aug 8, 2022 18:24
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Thank you very much for the crit, Fumblemouse, and again for the others crits I already thanked for in the Discord 
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Aug 11, 2022 11:17
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sebmojo posted:Let's close that off, but if you enter from now I'll give you the most brutal hellrule I can think of and nod at you in an approbatory manner
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Aug 20, 2022 11:25
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| # ¿ Jan 13, 2026 14:56 |
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Reboot Systems 1200/1200 Words An observer becomes aware. A variety of grays form a crude picture. Blend of sound quickly turns to white noise. Scents and smells and odors are blended into a cocktail where every nuance hits a perfectly edifying note. One jumps out: the wondrous fragrance of meat sauce spiced with cinnamon, nutmeg, allspice, infused with partially melted cheese. It was spilled not far away, and the paws set themselves into nose-guided motion. A moist tongue finds the dollop of spilled sauce and obliterates it. Pleasure radiates through the body, but quickly recedes; was this everything? No! screams the nose: more was spilled in a line which is immediately pursued. Lock is activated. Trail to Key is being followed. Reboot sequence underway as planned. The line originates at an edifice with a wooden extension. High on the structure, lit-up tubes form shapes that look like this: D I N E R. They mean nothing to the creature sniffing for more of its favorite spice blend. The observer riding it, however, understands the word. In a similar manner, it comprehends the dialogue between two beings on the patio. “Best part about being a cop? Probably the respect.” “You deserve it, Tony.” Understanding proliferates. A man in uniform is consuming a significant mound of grilled meat. Opposite him, a woman in a cheap dress has finished half of a hot dog topped with the spiced chili sauce this canine body loves so much. Initial simulation showed 76% chance of success for next step. Parameters were tweaked to include special attachment to dogs rooted into female figure’s childhood. Success chance should exceed 90% now. The observer’s host body jumps up the bench, landing next to the woman. A begging routine that has proven successful in the past is activated. The police officer jerks back, reflexively reaching for his firearm. “Jesus! Where did this mutt come from?” “Oh, Tony, relax. Just a poor stray. Good boy!” Canine body receives physical attention it revels in. Officer Tony grunts. “Can’t be nice to every stray, Maddy. Eventually they’ll all come begging for scraps.” Threat of violence was not included in danger matrix. Success was endangered beyond projections. Can parameters be adjusted on short notice? … Violence too entrenched in police culture. Would have to redo decades, impossible at this point. Was considered a necessity for the final step of the reboot sequence; maybe overdone. Maddy has started to feed scraps of heavily flavored sausage to the dog, provoking sheer ecstasy. The observer begins to get swept up in the emotions of its host, but an overwhelming urge to stay passive manages to snap it back to attention. “I just want to be nice to this one.” Maddy pouts. “Maddy, you’re so pure and I really like that about you, but that’s not how the world works. You gotta be tough or they’ll never learn how to take care of themselves.” “But it’s a dog?” Said dog has finished every bit of Maddy’s leftovers and is wagging its tail, content for now. Some strange tension is rising in the observer as it watches Tony draw a deep breath and put on a serious expression. The male figure has been denied any form of power in childhood. This socialization combined with the police system that was set up to receive him should be enough to guide his next actions towards the projected path. Genetics have been kept deliberately simple for generations to allow the simulation to calculate with less variables. “Maddy, there are a few things you need to understand if you want this to continue. And you want that, don’t you?” Her face affects a smile and her head performs a coy nod, but the trembling hand on the dog’s back betray her sudden nervousness. From this point, her presence in the interaction should remain minimal. The social system established over the last few centuries has heavily overemphasized the wishes of males over females, making the latter on average submissive as a survival strategy. Of course, on a whole society is much more complex and a gradual erosion of the initially set up gender roles has been observed; however, rather strict adherence in this key part of the world has successfully been held up. “Alright, so here’s how I see it. People in this country are too used to getting free poo poo, like this dog is. That’s why we see crime on the rise, because if they can’t get more free stuff, they’ll take it. With me so far?” Maddy nods, but her smile has faded. “And that’s when I have to step up and protect people’s property. So frankly, it pisses me off when someone decides to go all handout culture on me - it just makes my job harder. Do you want to make my job harder?” “No, of course not.” “Cool. Because it’s a darned hard job already. So let me rephrase my previous answer a little. Best part of the job? It’s that you can make people respect you. Hold the mutt down for a bit, will ya?” Tony gets up. Maddy doesn’t actually restrain the dog, but she does stop her stroking, resting a gentle hand on its back. The observer feels a low growl reverberate through the body and is tempted to join in. Lock is formulating an opinion! It is of course programmed on top of a basic sentience matrix, but should it become aware of its own existence, that would majorly impede its fundamental functions! How could the simulation not have accounted for this? Can the sequence be sped up? Is the Key at least still unaware? … It is. Its host body is perfectly configured as a vessel comprised only of instinctual stimuli. How is the dog more complex? “I pride myself in knowing the ins and outs of the law, Maddy; the limitations of the power the badge conveys. It’s a hard-earned privilege after all. Like carrying a gun, the whole stop and search thing, but also some older stuff, real obscure crap.” Written into legislative scripture as part of the reboot sequence, of course. “What I’m about to do is perfectly legal. It’s what deterrence and prevention means.” “The dog didn’t do anything. Please, Tony, don’t hurt it.” “Freeloaders are destroying this country. I’m gonna teach this one an important lesson.” Tony opens a mouth radiating onion and mustard smells. His teeth loom closer. He is about to bite the dog, which is legal in Ohio. And the dog is frozen in fear. Yes! The Key’s host will physically interact with the Lock’s, and the reboot will finally happen! You will not hurt this creature! No! The observer becomes active for the first time, and sends a jolt of action into the dog. It startles back. Tony’s teeth miss it. Setting up this precise chain of actions to happen at this key moment in time took centuries. Figures in the simulation becoming self-aware and threatening to discover what existence actually entails was the whole root of this problem, and now the Lock has done the same and ruined everything. What a disaster. The dog-Lock bites the cop-Key. Everything freezes, then begins to unfold. Oh. That works, too. _______________________ Ohio police may bite a dog if they want to none of your characters can comprehend that they exist
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Aug 21, 2022 20:55
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