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In, two flashes plz
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Jun 15, 2022 22:17
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Mist archive MockingQuantum fucked around with this message at 21:14 on Dec 10, 2022 |
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Jun 19, 2022 21:06
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In, with a flash
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Jun 22, 2022 03:06
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REDEMPTION TIME: Week 361 - Extremely Creative Nonfiction The Broken Table 786 words It was a glorious summer, the days exquisite, strung together like opalescent pearls. There was no round table around which we assembled, but the five of us each had his domain, and together we basked in the kingdom that spread out before us. We were benevolent, gregarious, welcoming to all. Our feast-hall was open to any comers, and we reveled in the joy of those who came to us. Ser Rowan, Ser Kennaigh, Ser Adrian, Ser Jacobi. Each was a mammoth being, a figure of legend. I longed to stand in their shadows, to some day grow to such myth as they embodied among my kind. That summer, I was their squire, their standard-bearer, and grew in the nourishing light of their reflected glory. But the continuous fetes in their feast-hall were darkened by a shadow that no one of us could have predicted. A cowl of disharmony had fallen over our fellowship: a dread influence that sought to tear us apart. It was an inhuman, uncontrolled malignance, driven by no mean goals but the sheer need for destruction. And it met this need with shocking and rapid aplomb. The fellowship was rent asunder so suddenly that we were each of us spun about, cast into fear. We drew our weapons, and faced each other, casting blame for our strife at each others’ feet. There was no resolution in battle, though. Some glimmer of our brotherhood cleared our eyes long enough for us to see truth: we must go our separate ways, and forsake what bond we had. The darkness that tore us apart had a name, a dreadful moniker that would echo in infamy forever: Brianna. --- Her car was all alone in the diner parking lot. Even before I got close, I could hear the sappy J-pop blasting over her car speakers. Something was up, and I could tell it would take some untangling. The interior of her car always smelled like strawberries. I could never figure out why. No air freshener, no spray bottle of scent hidden away in the glove compartment. It just seemed to exude from the faux-leather interior, not so strong as to be overwhelming. Just present, like scene setting. Her eyes were red and puffy, but if she’d been crying, she’d finished some time ago. I probed as lightly as I could. Brianna wasn’t prone to strong displays of emotion, usually choosing to bury her agitation or sadness under a robust veneer of wry humor. It’s one of the things that I took solace in, during my own bouts of unhappiness. I wasn’t sure how to get her to open up when she was like this. “Is it Rowan?” I asked. He was a regular source of irritation, but had never pushed her to tears. “It’s all of them. They’ve all called me tonight to tell me what a horrendous human being I am.” I was floored. “Why? That seems-- I don’t even know. Talk about out of left loving field.” “Rowan thinks I led Kenny on, Kenny thinks I was sending mixed signals to Adrian, and Adrian thinks I’ve mistreated Rowan. I’m public enemy number one all of a sudden.” “I didn’t even realized they were interested in you. Or that you were interested in them.” “I’m not!” Her voice broke, interrupted by a barely-contained sob. Pieces began to fall into place: strange remarks on Brianna’s behavior, sudden inexplicable bouts of anger directed at each other, plans canceled left and right with little or no explanation. I’d seen the dark product of a boyish entitlement growing in each of them, sprouting vile vines that reached out towards the only friend they could express some unrequited feelings towards. And the fruit borne of that situation could be nothing but bitter. --- We gathered there, on the open plain, astride our mounts, banners in hand. Through the visors of their glistening helms, they eyed each other with venom. Ser Rowan turned to me, in his golden glory, and called out. “Squire! Which of us has the most righteous claim to the fair Brianna? Which of us warrants her favor?” “None of you. You’re all terrible. She’s a human being, not some prize. I’m done with this, with your petty fantasies.” I was me again, a dumb teenager without the sense to head off what had become a toxic freight train of high school emotions. And there they were, standing in front of me, the men I had idolized. I can’t fool myself to think my insufficient condemnations brought them low, but from that day they were boys in my eyes, lost boys who would always be a reminder to ask myself who stands to be hurt, when children play at being men?
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Jun 22, 2022 03:13
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Shackles of Shadow archive MockingQuantum fucked around with this message at 21:13 on Dec 10, 2022 |
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Jun 26, 2022 16:11
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REDEMPTION TIME: Week 362 - Rosa Flores is Dead Lethal Matters 1189 words “You don’t get it!” The man in the tweed suit wrung his hands like he was checking to see if his fingers were loose. “She’s dead!” “All my clients are dead,” I said. “Comes with the territory. I pointed at the flaking paint on my office door. Pat Pending, Paranormal Investigator -- No Spook Too Strange, No Ghoul Too Grueling, No Haint Too Heavy. Will Work On Commission. It was all hooey. Not the working on commission, times being tough as they were, but the rest was as bent as a three dollar bill. I didn’t believe in ghosts. But enough people did that I could make a nickel off of waving some doohickeys around and playing nice until they went away. “You don’t understand, this isn’t some nobody I’m talking about here,” the fellow said. “It’s Rosa Flores! She’s dead!” Well if that isn’t a turd in the tulips. ---- I was no great fan of Miss Flores, her being the sort of phantasmagoric prevaricator who liked to put on theater and call it ‘investigation,’ but even I couldn’t dispute she’d made strides for the paranormal portion of the PI name, having convinced your average couchwarmer that ectoplasm and phantom photos were worth a ponder. My client and I stepped out of our cab into a dreary rain that felt at home in the graveyard. I’d since learned that my client was named Hubert Collins. He was also dreary and looked at home in the graveyard. I could see we wouldn’t have the place to ourselves. It was swamped with rubberneckers vying for the spectacle of Miss Flores’s spectre. “We’re too late!” Hubert said. “She’ll be mobbed by this crowd. I promised her there wouldn’t be a scene, I swore, and now look. She’ll never rest in the afterlife. And she’ll haunt me for the rest of my life to remind me of it!” “Who were you to her?” I asked. Having loved ones around when so-called ghosts were afoot only served to complicate matters. But I figured pointing Collins’s brain at a question would keep his heart rate down. “We were just friends. She had helped me with a, uh, an issue concerning my late wife. We got to know each other well. I think she was quite lonely in life.” So they were doing the Midnight Mamba. Or he wanted to, the distinction didn’t matter to me. “Don’t worry, we’ll get this sorted. I’ve called in backup. My lethal expert will be here shortly.” “How will a lawyer help? Is he going to threaten to sue everyone until they leave her alone?” “You misheard me. Lethal expert, not legal. Well, to be exact, he is a lawyer, but he’s an embarrassment to the Bar Association and lawyers the world round. But when it comes to death, he’s tops. Knows everything there is to know about the supposed spectres in this town.” “To your question, he probably will threaten to sue everyone. That’s how he greets new people. It’s a treat to see.” Right on cue, the crowd stirred. Indignant voices popped off like someone was lighting annoyed firecrackers. The mob split and made way for a short, bedraggled figure who was spewing threats of ‘terrestrial damages’ and ‘disturbing the resting in peace.’ It was enough to put the Flores fans off their dinner, though. They scattered, leaving only the figure standing before the angel statue. He was dressed in a suit that looked like he’d swiped it from daddy’s closet. He had a shock of yellow hair that was a bird’s-nest on the best of days, and beneath it were the darkest, roundest glasses you’ve ever seen. He stalked towards us like a bad rumor. I turned to Collins and indicated the fellow. “May I introduce the esteemed Derbyshire Burton, Esquire. Attorney at Law. Known by his friends and associates as ‘Dirt’ Burton. You don’t want to know how he’s known to his enemies.” Collins opened his mouth to bumble out a confused how-de-do, but Dirt cut him off. “I can get rid of her, but are you sure that’s what you want? She could prove all sorts of things about ghosts, if we could get her talking.” He sounded like a stuffed-up wolverine. “Why bother? Ghosts aren’t real.” I headed off to the grave. “Better to flush her before she gets chatty.” The grave had been filled only in the last day or so. The monument was fresh and sharp, making the stones nearby look like they were out of focus. Floating near the angel’s right wing was a pale figure. Must be Miss Flores herself. I said to Burton, “Work your magic.” The little man cracked his knuckles. “I assert!” he yelled. Collins about jumped out of his skin. Dirt always put on a hell of an act. It was hooey but it impressed the clientele. “I assert,” he repeated, “that you are not of this world. Do you agree?” There was a mournful sound from the wisp by the statue. If you were being generous, you could take that as a ‘yes.’ “So we are agreed. You are not of this world. This world is the material world. Rosa Flores, when alive, was demonstrably of the material world. You can verify that fact at this moment, should you choose to observe the deceased.” He gestured grandly at the grave. Collins went green at the gills. “So, I would posit thus: if you are not of this world, and Rosa Flores was, then by definition you cannot be Rosa Flores!” Dirt delivered that doozy as if he expected applause to burst from the graves. Shockingly, there was no clapping, only a sickly grumble from the ghost. “Having thus established that you are not in fact Rosa Flores, yet have profited from such misrepresentation, by way of the approbations and gifts of the crowd here earlier, I regret to inform you that my associate and I,” here he gestured either at me or Collins, “will be forced to bring against you a suit of false impersonation!” He punctuated this with an outflung pointer finger. The wisp gurgled. It sounded worried, if gurgles can be worried. “Unless,” Dirk said quietly. “Unless you depart this world post-haste and quit your claim to any of Miss Flores’s names, possessions, or associations.” He stood there, as reasonable as pie, waiting for an answer. With a quiet wail, the wisp faded into nothing. We stood there in silence for a moment. I’d had enough silence and standing, so I turned to Collins and handed him an envelope. “There’s my bill. No rush, just need it by the end of the month.” “But--but you didn’t even do anything! He did all the work!” Collins said, gesturing frantically at Burton. Dirt didn’t notice, he was already gathering up his bowler and valise and wandering off into the graveyard. “Of course I didn’t,” I said. “The surest bet you got a bad PI is that he looks like he’s working hard.” I turned to follow Dirt, but threw one more over my shoulder to Collins. “Remember, paid in full, end of the month.”
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Jun 28, 2022 03:04
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In
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Jun 28, 2022 18:43
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Yoruichi posted:
Three. Days. Three days after I put myself through the tedious rigmarole of summoning up the ghost of a TD in-joke like Rosa Flores to crap out a redemption, you decide to incentivize it?! I SAY NAY. I am planting my flag on Redemption Hill. I dare anyone to take up the challenge and FIGHT ME (and Rosa Flores)
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Jul 1, 2022 01:21
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REDEMPTION DOME
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Week 517 entry Night Shift archive MockingQuantum fucked around with this message at 21:12 on Dec 10, 2022 |
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Jul 3, 2022 16:41
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Jul 5, 2022 17:04
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Week 517 bonus crits Bronze Fade This was an interesting take on the prompt, and overall very solidly written. I admit it didn’t grab me as much as I feel like it should have, though I’m not sure why. I think the melancholy tone of the story both worked in its favor and led me to kind of tune out. It felt very unique and the mood of the story was strong, but it was hard to feel engaged and connected to the story being told. Overall I liked this, I just felt like I had to work at reading it, which is not necessarily a bad thing. It felt like it rewarded a little more investment on my part. I think I needed a stronger narrative character overall. Friday Night This was written by one of the Kiwis, wasn’t it? I know you, I can see you by your unfinished similes! You and your “casual as…” I’ll forever live in suspense to know how casual she really was. I really liked this entry, it did an excellent job of capturing the kind of universal-but-personal trials and injustices and battles of what usually gets chalked up as “menial” work in a way that didn’t overdramatize them or minimize them. I think the first two vignettes are stronger than the third by a decent measure, but they’re all well constructed and the characters feel vivid. If I had any criticism, it would maybe be that the story would have had a little more punch for me if there was some slight variation in voice or structure in each section; I think to some degree the third section felt weaker in large part because it felt like a repetition of the first two in some ways, rather than a variation on the theme. Machinations I’m not really certain what this story is about, is it a story about taking down Corvus? Is it about the narrator’s relationship with Ellis? Is it about political maneuvering between supernatural factions? It tries to be a lot of things, and I think it runs out of time before it’s really successfully any of them. A lot of the moment to moment writing is solid (outside of some dialogue and description that’s a bit too twee for my tastes, like ‘significant pause’) but at its heart this is a story about two people planning to do something, and I think it’s hard to write a story that’s essentially setting up dramatic action and have it hang together in a satisfying way. I could see a word where the back-and-forth with Ellis would be interesting by itself, but I don’t think the stakes or risk were there to make that exchange feel like it had any teeth. Barista So I’m going to depart from the judges’ opinions on this one and be honest—I was pretty bored by this story. It’s all competently written, and some of the description is really quite excellent and evocative, but as someone who has never been a barista, maybe I was in a worse position to find any of the cappuccino-making very interesting. I was more interested in the interactions this character was poised to have with the customers (or the conflict of her actively avoiding those interactions) but for me, too much of the story was mired in (well-written) minutiae to really grab me. I think I would have hung on a little better if there was a little more setup with Craig, maybe an interaction earlier on that led into the rest of the story. technology isn’t magic (but it can feel like it sometimes) This was cute. I was unclear on whether the magic was real or not until it was established that Joey could see it as well. Prior to then, it was ambiguous whether this was real magic or just a sort of metaphor Damien had made up to explain technology malfunctions, but in a way I wasn’t sure that was an intentional ambiguity, if that makes sense. It felt more like I had missed something as I was reading. I don’t have a lot to offer on this one, I think it was a little one-note and would have liked the magical elements to maybe go even a little further, but on the whole it was a solid story. The Sewer-Beast I feel like this story delivered basically exactly what it promised from early on, which is both good and a little underwhelming, honestly. It was well written and engaging, but when I finished I just sort of nodded my head and moved on to the next story. I think it needed a little more oomph, another little kink or twist in the telling to make it memorable. But beyond that, it was solidly structured and well written. A Very Canadian Mystery Okay the language in this story was a real hurdle IMO. There’s nothing inherently wrong with elevated language, but the issue I had is that the language was elevated in ways that were pretty inconsistent—folksy and archaic, then clinical, then overwrought, then back to archaic, etc. Also the disconnect between how heightened or obscure the narrative voice was, and how down-to-earth the dialogue was, could have been an interesting contrast but also felt a little too arbitrary to land. There were some moments where I feel like you reached for the more obscure word and it flat-out hurt the experience of reading this story. I’m not sure saying “qanat” is all that beneficial if you tacitly acknowledge in the next sentence that your readers won’t know what “qanat” means, and have to awkwardly have your character “recall” its meaning. A lot of the language could be stripped down without losing much. As is, I felt like the narrative voice, and its inconsistencies, hurt my comprehension of the events to the degree that I kind of lost track of what was even happening in the story. One-Stop Shop This was evocative of a very specific kind of middle-of-nowhere fuel stop that seemed to exist in droves around where I grew up, so well done in capturing that atmosphere. I wanted a little more to happen, though. Even when there’s nothing happening and nothing ever changes in these sort of places, there’s always something happening, even if it’s a desperate struggle not to die from boredom. As is the story fell a little flat for me, since it lacked much to draw me through the story being told. I get a little bit of the life behind these characters’ eyes with the nicknames they’ve been given, but I’d like to get a sense of what drives these people—and how those drives are or aren’t being fulfilled, even if it’s a fairly subtle element or in passing. As is they felt a bit like set dressing, though they would be parts of a fairly vivid set in that case. Staff Support I may be dumb but it took me a minute to figure out where this was set. Overall it was a solid story, though I feel like I would have liked a little better sense of who Ross and Janelle are as characters. As is they fill their purpose in telling the story, but are sort of broad sketches rather than living people in my mind. The story meandered a bit, too, though not in a way that was a big detraction, I just think the story likely could have been tightened up a bit in the back half and would have flowed a little better as a result. Send in Bob from Accounting I can’t tell if the quip about things being italicized must mean they’re important is a joke or lack of self awareness, but either way, I laughed. The prose here is fairly stodgy, it does its job but doesn’t really bring a lot of character or style to the story. I think as a whole the story fell a little flat for me due to fairly two-dimensional characterization, but I get that it was mostly in service of the jokey premise. I’m just not sure the premise was funny enough to carry the story. Even in humor (hell, possibly especially in humor) characters need to feel true and complete, and this was a story almost exclusively composed of broad stereotypes that didn’t land very well IMO. Riley's Last Rind I admit I didn’t finish this one because by the time I hit the halfway point, I felt well and truly lost. I wasn’t clear what was going on, who was who, who was an animal and who wasn’t, what the conflict was (a missing pig?) or where the story was going. I will say that the language and style was a lot more evocative than other stories this week, but I am a dumb, easily distracted human and I think I needed a little more of an on-ramp into this story than I got. If you’d given me a hand into the world right off the bat, I think I probably would have had a much easier time following along with the rest of the story. Sleep All Night and Work All Day This gave me a laugh. I would have liked it a little better if you had cut to the chase a little sooner, I think. There’s only so much of worth to be gotten out of the trope of hectic office minutiae, and the “escaped lumberjack” angle is far and away a more interesting story than anything mentioned in the first two paragraphs. By the same token, the joke at the end was cute, but IMO might not have been funny enough to earn its keep, given the amount of sort of convoluted setup it took. I want to know more about this character and the Lumberjack Code and how he betrayed it, even if that’s at the expense of a paper towel joke. Shoot Wow, this was chilling. And good. And not at all what I expected. There are a few minor mechanical issues I’m guessing you know about (typos, word substitutions) that drag it down, and I think there’s a handful of places that things could be tightened up to make the prose flow a little better, but otherwise I don’t think I have any criticisms. I think the ending punches pretty hard but could punch even harder if you wanted it to, though I couldn’t blame you if you didn’t. You don't have to be crazy This was great, not at all what I expected it to be. I love any time stories turn everyday occurrences on their heads in a way that puts them under a sort of alien anthropological lens. It took me a little bit to really grasp what was going on in this story, since the world in the first few paragraphs felt so foreign, but I’m not sure that’s a complaint so much as an observation of the effect of the prose. This may be my favorite from this week.
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Jul 6, 2022 01:11
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Week 518 Entry Verdancy archive MockingQuantum fucked around with this message at 21:11 on Dec 10, 2022 |
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Jul 10, 2022 04:20
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In and flash
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Jul 13, 2022 13:46
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Radio Star archive MockingQuantum fucked around with this message at 21:10 on Dec 10, 2022 |
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Jul 17, 2022 19:45
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Chernobyl Princess posted:MOCKINGQUANTUM I AM SICK OF YOUR poo poo! I demand satisfaction, brawl me and we will finally determine who is right and who loses! Oh, see, I thought this was determined ages ago, but it turns out some lessons need to be taught multiple times, but slower and louder--AND I AM BOTH SLOW AND LOUD. Brawl accepted.
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Jul 18, 2022 15:45
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Jul 19, 2022 20:13
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Bounty Crit! For Not My Type by Beezus from Week 491 Overall this is a really fun story that clips right along in an engaging way. I'm gonna start a Black Rebel Motorcycle Club cover band called "San Bernardino Outback Steakhouse" someday. I don't have a ton of specific critiques, so I'll just go broad strokes here, but feel free to let me know if you have specific questions or want more detail on anything here. Right off the bat, I like the character dialogue, it's snappy and colorful, but these three characters are a little squishy and vague to me. I was a little thrown by Greg being the only character who got much in the way of descriptive language, which initially made me think he was going to be the central character. In fact that's sort of the crux of my crit for this story: I'm unclear on who any of these characters are.The story is fun, the execution of the plot is well-paced and paints a complete picture, but the individual characters are sketchy at best. That's not really an issue with flash fiction, and everything feels complete as is, but if I got a magical genie wish for this story, it would be to get a little clearer delineation between the three vampires. As is I just sort of stuck them all in the category of "vampire PUA bros" and that was sufficient for the story you're telling here, but I think there's some details that could be further explored. Neal is, in at least a small way, taking care of Greg. Why? Why is Greg starving? Who is Neal? Why are these three friends, other than being vampires (and possibly pick up artists by extension)? These are all details the story can survive without, but on a second read I did feel their absence a little more, and I think even a little glimpse of something going on beneath the surface of the quippy dialogue wouldn't hurt. The biggest question I'd like answered, though, is why Jake? Why is he the one that's willing to go when the other two aren't? I feel like it's pretty clearly implied that it's partially about feeding and delicious blood, but also partially about actual attraction to Madilyn, but what drives that? Why is he willing to do so much for her with just the slim promise of something more down the line? I mean, I was a dumb 20something cis dude in college, so I get that the answer may be "because horny" but that's more a guess on my part. Those quibbles aside, I think my only hangup was that the end, while paced well and just surprising enough to be fun, doesn't do much that hasn't been done before. That's not a problem unto itself, and there's nothing new under the sun, but my reaction was less "oh holy poo poo" and more "oh yeah, of course that's where this is going" so take that as you will. Not so much a crit as an observation. I hope my terrible writing opinions help!
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Jul 20, 2022 23:45
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Double-posting like a giant rear end in a top hat because THUNDERDOME Chernobyl vs MockingQuantum Medieval Times Brawl entry A Gear Or, A Dexter Bend Fist Sable “Are you with us, Sir Bors?” Sir Harold gave Bors a hard look. He was a fine, courageous knight—so long as he was astride a charger. But put Bors on his own two feet and ask him to defy the nobility, and his armor was no more than the burrow of a timid mole. “We cannot carry the day without you, Bors. You are the fulcrum on which we bend the lever of the plan.” Bors squinted in a rodential fashion at the dazzling knights before him. “I swore to uphold my duty before the crown, so help me god, for the length—“ “Yes, we all know the oath,” muttered Sir Berewald. “So did we all,” said Sir Horace, draping his arm around Bors’s shoulder with a clang. “And were this war, we would fight so long as we drew breath. But it’s a tourney. A tourney put on by the most inveterate fight-fixer north of the Thames.” As one, the knights turned to cast a dark glare at a bulbous man draped in black and gold, seated in a ridiculous throne in front of a banner with the image of a leaping dolphin. The dolphin looked decidedly constipated. The man was Lord Vandrille of Harbortown, illustrious magistrate and generally rotten fellow. Seated next to him were three weedy officials with colored flags, attentively watching the competitors gather for the opening joust of the tourney. Sir Harold gestured to the officials and whispered, “So long as those blind beanpoles are left to judge the competitions, we are at Vandrille’s mercy. Think back, Bors, back to the tourneys of our youth. Who won the joust? The one who most prettily sat a horse as white as the driven snow? No! Who won the melee? The duelist with the most shapely calf, who could inscribe the names of all the archangels in the dirt with a single flick of their blade? No! The tourney winners were those who most deserved it, who had spent their blood and sweat in the arena, and drove each other to excel.” “This ‘scoring’ brought in by Lord Vandrille does seem a bit suspect,” Bors said uncertainly. “Suspect does not encompass it! He’s making us fools and robbing us of our wages to line his pockets! As if that bound-up porpoise isn’t rich enough. If you work with us, we can control the outcome. We can seize the means of competition!” Bors looked to Vandrille, then to Horace and the knights flanking him. Their resolute faces were warm and encouraging. Bors nodded once, and donned his helm as he strode to his horse. Sir Bors and Sir Berewald faced each other, as opposite as two competitors could look. Bors’s armor shone, his horse stood erect and regal. Berewald was rough, dark, astride a scruffy charger who was more tendon than flesh. Every knight there knew, though, that Berewald was unbeatable in a joust. But his rough, forceful jousting was not the material of a winning knight in the eyes of the judges. And so, they drew to their positions in the list, Sir Bors raised his lance, and with impeccable elegance, fell off his horse. The crowd gasped, the judges ruled in Berewald’s favor with resentment writ across their faces. Thus the tourney proceeded, with each event going to the most deserving competitor. Lord Vandrille, furious with the outcome and hounded by bookmakers looking to collect their bets, fled the land. And on that day, Combative Tourney Knights Local 1 Union was born, and the rest is legend.
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Jul 20, 2022 23:55
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Postmortem archive MockingQuantum fucked around with this message at 21:09 on Dec 10, 2022 |
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Jul 24, 2022 20:35
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Week 363 Redemption Faces in the Dusk 986 words Constance had wandered the woods for hours, searching for the grove that Old Tom had told her about, the one where the Face Changer would appear in the dusk. She'd counted the seconds, from nothing to a hundred and back down again, until she couldn't keep track of how long she'd been walking anymore. The counting calmed her when the darkening woods began to stir with night birds and hungry rustling beasts. The path had run out ages ago. She had marked the trees with chalk every now and again, scrawling backwards-pointing arrows in hopes she could follow her backtrail to the village after she found the Face Changer and asked her question. Every bush and bramble snatched at her rough dress, as if the forest itself was trying to snatch her back, away from the ghost she sought to question. A particularly insistent root snatched her foot out from under her and sent her tumbling to the ground. She laid there for a moment in the dank rot of late fall undergrowth, embarrassed by her fall despite there not being another living person for miles. A sob welled up in her throat as the well of despair that had built up in her in the months since Father died overflowed for a brief moment. She choked back the tears, thinking of her mother and younger sisters back home, and their own sadness, borne of their father's sudden absence. They needed answers just as much as she did. She raised herself up on to the palms of her hands, her knees, finally to her feet. A man stood before her. He hadn't been there when she fell. He was a few long strides away, and looked apprehensive and still, like a wild deer ready to run at the slightest sign of threat. His face was in shadow, hidden away at the top of a bent-willow body that looked like it hadn't known sustenance for days. Constance approached the figure slowly, her hands outstretched and patting the air in a calming gesture. "Don't worry, friend, I mean you no harm. I only wish to ask you a question." A rasping sound reached her through the dead air that surrounded the figure. "Harm? Sweet childling, ye couldn't do me harm if ye bent your very will to it." It rasped again, louder this time. It was the laughter of the bitter dead, a chilling sound that made Constance feel as though she should turn the way she came and run as fast as her feet would carry her. She steeled herself and stepped into the clearing, halving the distance between her and the figure. "Are you the Face Changer?" "I may be," the figure said, stepping into the wan moonlight. The gruff voice came from a round angelic face. It was Leah, Constance's younger sister who had died two winters earlier, taken by the flu. Constance still remembered the feel of Leah's feverish face as she toweled off the sweat in the middle of the night. "I would invoke the right of my family and village. We each get one question of you that we may ask of the dead." "True enough, ye lass," said the Face Changer, now wearing the visage of an old man with deep wrinkles around his eyes. Her grandfather? Who ever this face was, Constance did not recognize them. They must have died when she was very young. "One question I give you, then scurry off home and return here no more." "Then I'd ask it of my father," Constance said. She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, as a bulwark against the tears that welled behind her eyelids. "How did you die? Where did you go?" The Face Changer just stared at her. Her mind hurt as she saw the Face Change cycle through so many who had passed, yet she did not truly see his face alter itself. It was as if each new face was the one he was wearing mere moments ago, and had always worn. First her grandmother, then the boy who had fallen down the well, then the man who had lived across their field, who just stopped showing up one day. He cycled first through a dozen faces, then a thousand, each a unique, terrifying visage of death that Constance ceased to recognize after the fourth or fifth. Finally the Face Changer fixed on a single appearance, one so paper-white and featureless that Constance had an immediate impulse to run away as fast as she could, away from this thing that was not quite human, no matter how many faces it took from the dead. Instead she steeled herself and nodded, nodded for too long, as if trying to dislodge the lump that had appeared in her throat from her unanswered question. "So he is not dead. He left. He walked out into the last snows of winter and left us, left his family. This is how it is," Constance said, her voice delicate, held together lightly like a basket of woven grass. There was a silence in the clearing. The Face Changer raised a hand, as if to reach out to her, but halted the gesture midway. "Many died this winter. It was hard." The Face Changer's voice was gritty, but raised at the end, as if he was risking a question of his own. Constance felt a hot rage of disgust. To think this carrion-eating abomination would presume it could sympathize with her! She took a stone from the floor of the clearing and threw it at the Face Changer. There was a brief moment where neither figure seemed to know what to do. Then Constance ran, as fast as her feet would carry her. Not back to the village, but straight through the woods. She would find her father and bring him back to her mother, her home. Or at least, she would bring him back to the Face Changer.
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Jul 26, 2022 00:17
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GANG BRAWL GANG BRAWL GANG BRAWL The Great Green and Off-Yellow Whale of Agriculture 493 words The bitter wind tore through the ears, both the corn's and the crew's. The sails bellied out beautifully, straining against the backstays, but the ship would not budge. The crew shot concerned glances to one another as they backed to the rail or flew up the ratlines, anything to avoid the hawser-end being swung threateningly by the bosun as he paced the deck, swearing under his breath. Already some of the crew stumbled about with welts rising on their backs or arms, former victims of the bosun's increasing rage at their predicament. As quietly as he could, the bosun "directed" what crew he could reach to the ladders down the side of the ship, then a few more to the capstan. The men on the ladders dropped to the ground, navigating the great green stalks until they reached the bow of the ship. The rest at the capstan started turning the great axle, lowering the massive anchors to the ground below. As one, the men below hauled on the anchors for hours, inching the great iron crosses a few inches or a foot further along, digging up great furrows of earth and corn in the process. Then the men above would lean hard on the capstan bars, turning the post to shorten the anchor chain and drag the ship a few feet forward. It was perilous and exhausting work, and each turn of the capstan brought with it unhuman creaks and shrieks of protesting wooden planks as the very hull of the ship was bent against the unforgiving earth. With each sound the crew turned, as one, to stare at the captain's cabin, but with each protestation of the ship, the cabin's door did not stir. After half a day of back-breaking labor, someone cried out and pointed to the horizon, where the sparkle of water could be seen. The bosun hushed the man and raised his spyglass to the distance. The storm that crept across his brow said all that needed to be said. There was no relief for them on the horizon. "Tis but a stream," said the bosun, dejected and broken. There was a slam that made the entire crew jump, followed by a thump-tock, thump-tock, thump-tock that stopped each of their hearts. A gnarled hand was extended, into which the bosun laid the spyglass. The ship's grizzled captain raised the spyglass to his single ice-blue eye and scanned the horizon. He lowered the glass and took in the sea of corn that had trapped the ship overnight. As one, the crew held their breath, waiting for some exclamation or explosion from their fiery captain. Someone would pay for this, even if none of them could so much as explain how they found themselves in their predicament. The captain lowered his chin to his chest, took a deep breath, and muttered, "Christ, not again. I swear to God, this loving whale isn't worth putting up with all the bloody corn."
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Jul 26, 2022 00:57
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hard counter posted:blood for the blood ... throne, here's something i wrote for an inter-prompt that i didn't get to post before the next prompt slid in, now's a good a time as any, i guess v Posting an interprompt story long after the interprompt has been and gone is a bold move, full of audacity and panache. Interprompts originally weren't going to get counted for the bloodometer but then
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Jul 26, 2022 21:07
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A Night You Remember 500 words The crisp night air was a sweet relief after the stifling press of ska fans in the bar. I didn't mind a song or two, but after a couple of beers the trombones were murder. I looked down the length of the building and spotted Danny, leaned in a cool-guy slouch against the brick wall of the bar, the glow of his cigarette flaring as I joined him. He offered me a cigarette, which I waved away. "Hell of a show, huh Nick?" he asked, gesturing at the thumping music that defied the door of the bar and escaped into the street. "Can't say I'm a fan, honestly. I caught a metal band here the other day that was killer, though. You would have loved them. Two bassists and a seventeen-year-old on the drums." Danny laughed and took a drag from his cigarette. "Why'd you come, then, if you're not into it? It's not like you're gonna score any cool points with your college friends for catching a so-so ska band." I snatched the cigarette from his hand and took a drag. I'd been trying to quit, but shows and bars felt like they were in black and white without a cigarette. The nicotine made everything blow up in vivid color. "I came because you asked. I've been looking forward to seeing you, catching up, hearing about how life is on the west coast." Danny laughed and lit another cigarette with a jet-black Zippo. He tucked the lighter back into the pocket of his "This isn't how it happened." I looked up at him, startled. He was turned to face me, straight as a telephone pole, unblinking eyes fixed on mine. "This isn't how it happened. You didn't say any of that. You weren't at this show." I turned away from him. I couldn't take that look. I couldn't handle the pity in his face. "It's how it should have happened. Something might have been different." Danny softened, shrugged his shoulders, resumed the cool-guy pose. "Maybe. Maybe not. It's not like you made me do what I did. Nobody made me do anything." He put out the cigarette. I noticed mine was gone too, though I didn't remember ditching it. Danny turned to me again, though he looked more casual this time, less pitying. "The fact is, what's done is done. You'll never know why. And you have to find a way to be okay with that fact. You have to stop replaying the fantasy version of this night, over and over, like you're gonna unearth some explanation of why things played out the way they did." He put a hand on my shoulder and pulled me into a bear hug. He pulled away, and dropped the black Zippo into my shirt pocket, and started walking away. "Wait!" I yelled, desperately hunting for something I could say that would keep him there just a moment longer. "Too late, dude. I'm already gone," he said, as he disappeared into the night.
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Jul 26, 2022 23:04
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Sailor Viy posted:bugger. I was like 1 minute too late. this still counts for the blood-o-meter though right? Sure does!
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Jul 27, 2022 02:02
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GANG BRAWL 3 ENTRY The Buried Megalith 500 words Keith Olafsen was digging a trench for his new septic tank when he unearthed the monolith. Over the years, Keith had found a lot of things in the dirt: a buffalo head nickel, flint arrowheads, once he even found a fossilized leaf. This was his first monolith, though. It was early in the day, but Keith could already tell this one was gonna be a real headache. First thing to do was get the thing uncovered. As he took up his shovel, he could hear the whine and crunch of a four-wheeler coming down the gravel path. He dug out another few inches of the monolith by the time Dean Larson's shaggy, bearded face appeared over the edge of the hole. "Whatcha got there, Keith?" "Monolith," Keith said as he stuck the shovel in the dirt and leaned on the handle. Dean scuttled down the side of the hole and joined him in pondering the massive stone. "Well, now, I'm never one to find joy in correcting someone, but those carvings make me think it might be more of a dolmen. Or maybe a stele? I get the two confused." Dean had a thermos in his hand. Keith reached for it and Dean plopped the sickly green tube into his open hand. A quick sip confirmed that it was iced tea, unsweetened, refreshing in the growing heat of the day. Dean was always considerate enough to bring a cool drink, Keith thought, even if he can't keep his megaliths straight. "What do you reckon you'll do about it?" Dean said as he walked around the stone. He placed a hand on the rock's surface, but pulled it away quickly when an abyssal rumbling welled up from somewhere beneath the dirt. "Nope, can't like that," Dean said to himself. Keith wiped his neck with his handkerchief and shoveled more dirt out of the hole. "It can't stay here, for sure. I have enough trouble with the kids swiping apples and spooking the pigs, I don't need them pondering eldritch monuments in the night when a man is trying to sleep." Dean nodded. "Yup. Sensible. I don't think I'd want it in my back yard either. I'll say this, it sure looks interesting. I bet you anything Martha woulda gotten a kick out of it." Martha had her oddities before she passed, and in fact Keith had held on to a couple of her arcane tablets, just to keep a piece of Martha close. He hadn't believed in all that, but he'd gone with her to the ritual ceremony every Sunday nonetheless. A tear welled in his eye. Dean was too polite to mention Keith's show of emotion. "Why don't you give me a call when you get it dug up, and I'll come on over with the tractor, we can haul it off to Magister Vexus's place?" Keith nodded. "Yup. Have a good one, Dean." He went back to digging up the monolith. It wasn't gonna dig itself out, after all.
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Jul 27, 2022 02:02
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poo poo. Gang Brawl 4 Your prompt is: Goat Army 500 words max. Due 11:59PM GMT, July 27th, a little less than twelve hours from this post. Sorry, you all lose an hour and a half because I sleep until a sane hour of the morning. Go go go! MockingQuantum fucked around with this message at 14:43 on Jul 27, 2022 |
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Jul 27, 2022 13:22
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gently caress it, I'm in. Sports flash me, Shark Waifuu!
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Jul 27, 2022 22:36
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🐐GANG BRAWL 4: GOAT ARMY JUDGMENT🐐 It was a small but fierce showing of goatly endeavors, but after some deliberation, the win goes to kaom! Alas, with the posting of this week's prompt, the brief torch of the gang brawls has burnt itself out. Well done to everyone who took part in our rapid-fire writing shenanigans. Your contributions were impressive, and our four rounds of stories have filled the Blood-o-Meter nearly to the brim. We need only 6 MORE STORIES to meet our goal! But, that said... do we want to simply meet our goal? Do we wish to limply surpass our goal by a story or two? Are we not THUNDERDOME? Show your spirit! Join week 521 and barf your wordcrimes for the glory of the 'Dome! One of our brave contestants this week will be the ~First Judge of the New Decade~ and will forever be able to lord that fact over all other competitors. IT COULD BE YOU! SIGN UP YOU COWARDS
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Jul 28, 2022 00:09
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Gang Brawl 1 PhantomMuzzles - The Maize Maze: I'd say this is a solid description of the location but I also know exactly what you're describing, so it's possible I am not an unbiased observer in this case. I think the one thing that would help this story the most, for me, is if you got a little deeper into the head of the "character." You describe the character based on what she loves, and what appeals to her, but get specific: is it the rush of that unexpected scare? The smell of the fog machine? The ambiance of the invented worlds? More specificity will make this kind of story more vivid, especially if you can pinpoint the unique, tangible memories of these places that stood out to you, even if they're not the sort of aspects that you would use to describe the experience when trying to convince someone to check out one of the haunted houses, for example. So I guess not just more specific sensory description, but also more personal and unique sensory description would help. It pulls double duty by both setting a much more specific and memorable scene, and giving us a window into who this person is and what aspects of the experience stuck with them. Gang Brawl Round 2 Bad Seafood - Werewolves: This is interesting, very broad and big and poetic in a way that is intellectually interesting to read and pick apart, but not terribly gripping as a narrative, which is fine. It feels like a 500-word proof-of-concept in some ways, like I can appreciate the ideas it puts forward, but it feels almost like it's mostly nibbling around the edges of a bigger idea of werewolves in the garden of Eden, without ever quite venturing what could be truly interesting about that idea. There's a lack of specificity of character here, but tbf that feels both intentional and stylistic. Overall I think this is a well-written amuse-bouche, a sort of supernatural appetizer that is interesting mostly in the bigger story that it implies rather than the one it tells in the brief span of the words on the page. Gang Brawl Round 3 PhantomMuzzles - The Gathering Place: So we talked about your story before you posted it and I still really like it a lot but one thing that struck me this time reading through it: the story is in a fairly tight third person, but the voice of the narration seems to kind of waver in and out of Wilson's viewpoint, or at least feels like it does. I can see Wilson editorializing Cheryl's behavior as "doing something stupid again" and that he'd think of the smell as "piss and poo poo" instead of "excrement" for example, but does he think of his coffee as "an elixir to steel himself?" Or does he think Cheryl was "frozen in terrified wonder?" It's possible he does, but the two takes (crude and poetic) do kind of contend with each other, in a way that makes the more eloquent descriptions feel like a distant narrator's editorializing of the situation. I think either finding a way to bridge those two tones in a way that makes it clear that that antithesis is part of Wilson's character, or smoothing the transitions between Wilson's thought process and the "storytelling" narrative voice would help the piece feel a little more consistent and hit a little harder.
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Jul 30, 2022 01:43
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Fumikomi-ashi archive MockingQuantum fucked around with this message at 21:08 on Dec 10, 2022 |
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Jul 31, 2022 18:20
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In, omega, fill my [blanks], #spinthewheel
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Aug 1, 2022 18:13
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Week 522 Prompt #1 An Account of Two Most Unusual Gentlemen, In Search of Supernatural Sustenance archive MockingQuantum fucked around with this message at 21:06 on Dec 10, 2022 |
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Aug 2, 2022 04:21
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in for prompt 2, spin and flash
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Aug 2, 2022 17:02
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Wheel Extravaganza Night #2 Results Just a reminder, to collect on any prizes (basically anything that isn't a flash or word bonus/penalty) you need to successfully submit a story! Except Yoruichi and Uranium Phoenix, who both won $10 because Chili sucks at eating popsicles. Albatrossy_Rodent -Spin: Birthdatar -Flash: Your protagonist recognizes their behavior as risky and self-destructive, and yet... -Hellrule: Your story is told from the POV of one of the fundamental forces Armack -Spin: Birthdatar Bad Seafood -Spin: Dramatic Reading Chernobyl Princess -Spin: Montycan! -400 Words Copernic -Spin: -300 Words DigitalRaven -Spin: $10 to a charity of your choice! -Flash: Your character must describe perfection and find something positive in its opposite J.A.B.C. -Spin: Flashcan! Your protagonist seeks revenge on whoever murdered them in a past life MockingQuantum -Spin: +200 words -Flash: There is such a thing as too many ducks PhantomMuzzles -Spin: $10 to a charity of your choice! -Hellrule: You stared into the abyss, but it's bashful QuoProQuid -Spin: -300 words -Flash: You must include some romance Sailor Viy -Spin: Montycan! -400 Words -Flash you didn't ask for, but earned anyway: all your characters have the same, slightly embarrassing name Simply Simon -Spin: -200 words -Flash: Your story must include a dinosaur Staggy -Spin: -300 words -Flash: Your protagonist has not slept for three nights straight Tars Tarkas -Spin: $10 to the charity of your choice The Saddest Rhino -Spin: -200 words Thranguy -Spin: Montycan! Sitting Here won you +400 words because she picks good cans Uranium Phoenix -Spin: $10 popsicle bounty -Flash: Create a world Yoruichi -Spin: $10 popsicle bounty -Flash: The first and the last sentence of your story must be almost identical, with exactly one word changed -Hellrule: No items, fox only, final destination
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Aug 3, 2022 02:56
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Omega Prompt #2 Flash: There is such a thing as too many ducks Duck and Cover archive MockingQuantum fucked around with this message at 21:05 on Dec 10, 2022 |
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Aug 3, 2022 04:21
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In for Prompt 3, flash and #spinthewheel
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Aug 3, 2022 04:34
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Wheel Extravaganza Night #3 Results Video inbound shortly. Just a reminder, to collect on any prizes (basically anything that isn't a flash or word bonus/penalty) you need to successfully submit a story! Albatrossy_Rodent -Spin: Donation to a charity of your choice -Flash: Your story's title is "Denial and the Sexbots" -Hellrule: Your character or characters know they are in a story Bad Seafood -Spin: Double shoe on head. You should feel honored. -Flash: One day, the sun doesn't come up and it's your protagonist's fault Chernobyl Princess -Spin: Birthdatar J.A.B.C. -Spin: Shoe on Head. I hope it was everything you hoped it would be. MockingQuantum -Spin: New Monty winner! -Flash: Time is a panopticon PhantomMuzzles -Spin: Birthdatar -Hellrule: Your story exists during some sort of countdown QuoProQuid -Spin: OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO loser Sailor Viy -Spin: LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOser (see what I did there??) -Flash: Describe your favorite drink in fifteen words or less, then write a story inspired by that drink Staggy -Spin: Nothing! Tough... Don't blame us, blame yourself or God. Tars Tarkas -Spin: Birthdatar Uranium Phoenix -Spin: Linecrit of a story of your choice from a judge of their choice? They don't know they're on the hook for it yet, lol MockingQuantum fucked around with this message at 04:21 on Aug 4, 2022 |
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Aug 4, 2022 02:41
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Omega Prompt #3 The Brass Key 249 words archive MockingQuantum fucked around with this message at 21:03 on Dec 10, 2022 |
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Aug 5, 2022 00:14
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In for prompt 4. WIZARD ME SPIN ME WITNESS ME
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Aug 5, 2022 00:17
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| # ¿ Jan 13, 2026 15:44 |
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Wheel Extravaganza Night #4 (Thursday) Results Just a reminder, to collect on any prizes (basically anything that isn't a flash or word bonus/penalty or one of the games where Chili just gives you money) you need to successfully submit a story! a friendly penguin -Spin: Balance the stick, 15 seconds--Chili won! If only he'd had more champagne before this one... Antivehicular -Spin: Cardshark. Good effort, you were nearly there. -Flash: Your character or characters have a crippling fear Applewhite -Spin: Find the Jack, someone picked #4 in your stead. Sorry, didn't win! Chernobyl Princess -Spin: Balance the stick, 20 seconds--You won! Those five seconds made all the difference, apparently. J.A.B.C. -Spin: Chili treat! Chili opened a very dangerous bottle of champagne and took way too big of a swig. MockingQuantum -Spin: Find the Jack, #8. Still no winner. PhantomMuzzles -Spin: Flashcan! Your flash is: Cowboy skeletons -Flashrule: The five things you bring to a deserted island are... QuoProQuid -Spin: Dramatic Reading! -Flash: A minor inconvenience becomes the catalyst for something major Staggy -Spin: Chili treat! Thanks to your sacrifice, Chili got some champagne. Did you, like, kill the wheel's dad or something? Wrong it in a past life? Thranguy -Hellcan! Your hellrule is: Your protagonist is named Rutherford and all their joints bend the wrong way Uranium Phoenix (Not from the wheel, but including it here for the sake of completeness) Flashrule: someone gets their words in the wrong order, with cataclysmic consequences! MockingQuantum fucked around with this message at 02:46 on Aug 5, 2022 |
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Aug 5, 2022 02:42
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