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 Attention 'Domers Perhaps you already know me from 'Domes gone by. To some of you I may be merely a fascinating legend by this point. What you may not know is that I recently won the national lottery! Hooray! Realistically this means that I will never have to work again. So to keep myself occupied I've been working on a funky little project that I can now announce! I've been in conversation with the original instigators of this here 'dome, and, for a considerable sum, I made my first major purchase (I won't mention zeroes, because gauche, but it was 404 x some order of magnitude. But who's counting? ). I know you're excited to find out what it was, so I'll cut straight to the chase... I have bought the Intellectual Property rights for the concept of ThunderDome. Huzzah! So excitement, very yay! Let's be realistic about this, though: Absolutely nothing will change - EXCEPT the entire enterprise will shift to a website of my own creation. And the name, of course. 'ThunderDome'... there are legal issues with Warner Brothers that I don't want to fight - I'm rich, but I'm not that rich. 'ThunderDome', as a name, well, it works for a dead, gay comedy forum, but I'm going drag us kicking and screaming into the 2010s! So from now on this competition will be called...and I know you'll think this is as brilliant as I do: FumbleDome Obviously this is a huge change, so I'll give you all a moment to let it percolate in your minds and sink in. Click the link above (yes, it's a link, internet warrior) and check it out. I'm sure once you give it due consideration you will be as passionate as I am about the project, which is to say more passionate than la poisson d'Avril Lavigne, a previous high point in passion from an S-tier chanteuse. Ok - that should be enough thinking. Mulling it over time is now over. I encourage you all to sign up before I figure out how to implement credit card transactions. Love, your friendly benevolent despot, Fumbley Moose, Esquire
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Apr 1, 2022 03:42
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The Cut of Your Jib posted:I felt I was a bit rude and angry instead of funny about this advertisement and I don't want to be that way. Brawl me here and if I lose I will compose a judge's week on your site or commit to writing for three weeks. Dealer's choice. Just to make sure we're on the same page here: Fumblemouse posted:
So, anyway, Now that April Fool's day is well and truly passed, please allow me to over-explain the joke. In my day-job, part of what I do is I tell other people how to make websites. I explain security stuff to normal people, and tell developers to stop being terrible human beings and make websites accessible like our law demands. However I hadn't actually built a website for a decade so I thought I'd have a crack and see how thing had changed. I wanted to learn python, this old-fangled django framework seemed perfectly suited to my aims, and wondering how ThunderDome could be made as a web-based application had been tickling my brain for a few years. When the fate of the forums was a little tenuous a couple of years ago I thought that was as good a time as any to give it a try, so I started an account on pythonanywhere and downloaded vs-code (all free things because I am actually not a lottery winner) and began to teach myself what git and github did (the fraction I have learned still hurts my brain). Turns out, there's a bunch of stuff that the app brings to the table, and a bunch of stuff it loses. It's not trying to replace crabrock's wonderful site, which IMHO is far better geared towards the needs of this community. Instead its seeing what happens if you built the contest with a database in mind. You can group crits with stories, so people can see them all in the same place. You can create notifications for people. You can let judges see how other judges are going, and hide author identities from them by design. I was also conscious that the culture that has built up for the SA ThunderDome wouldn't be apparent, so some things you can't do to prevent accusations of unfairness. Hellrules are anonymised, word counts are the same for everyone, that sort of thing. It's been an interesting experiment to say the least. Those things I didn't want to write myself, I tried to use the most accessible variants of. TinyMCE as a text-editor is both fairly accessible and forgiving in its licensing. The stats table generator seems to make nods in that direction. In fact, the whole thing should work, more or less, without javascript turned on. It had gotten to a certain point, then sat there for a couple of months while I returned to second pass my novel, and April Fools seemed a good opportunity throw a link down and see what happened. With the acrostic above and the reference to poisson d'avril I hoped it would be fairly obvious I was kidding about the background, but, OTOH, it is an actual thing so the only question is...what to do with it now? To be honest, I don't know. I don't think its ready for primetime, just yet. I'm the only person that's ever really tested it, so there are probably a whole heap of bugs I haven't noticed. At the same time, I think it may have potential. An accessible flash-fiction writing competition might be a good thing to bequeath to the world. Some folks have indicated a fully anonymised judging system would be useful - so my next upgrade is to make a 'raw' competition with no signup/writing period distinction and only one judge who can close the contest manually. Different types of competitions are actually fairly easy to add, even if writing test-cases is a chore (I have discovered) though also a lifesaver (I have also discovered) So, I'm open to suggestions. I pop into the discord from time to time, or you can reach me on my SA username at gmail. I've also added a bunch of dummy data into the site for a while so you don't have to actually sign up , you can log in as any user with a ** in front of their name, password 'ft', eg, you can log in as a judge and see what judgemode looks like. (NB: I don't do anything with sign-up email address except send a signup confirmation link to prevent botspam). Feel free to try and break the site. Any feedback or bug reports are more than welcome. Anyhow, you were saying... The Cut of Your Jib posted:I felt I was a bit rude and angry instead of funny about this advertisement and I don't want to be that way. Brawl me here Advertisement?!? You have besmirched my lovingly crafted jape. Bring it, and I will show you exactly how cut your jib can be!
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Apr 4, 2022 18:38
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FumbleCut Brawl wordcount: 1175 Out of hand Picture me walking determinedly, if unsteadily, out of the restaurant, leaving behind my now ex-girlfriend Sarah and half a lovely bottle of 2012 Gisborne chardonnay. Imagine I'd just said something witty, and just a little barbed, to end things after her endless litany of complaints about my bomb-site flat, my dead-end job, my unused science degree and all my super-fun drinking. Pretend it wasn't "gently caress you, I think we should break up." At the door I pause, experiencing a moment of remorse that makes me seriously consider returning to grab the bottle. But I keep going, partly because backtracking would undermine my dramatic exit, partly because even I can tell I need to walk off the other two bottles and get home before anything else in my life self-immolates. Three streets later and the siren song of 80s dance music shatters my resolve like a russian shot glass. Another drink would be just the thing, I decide. After all, I've just broken up with someone and it's practically expected to have a few little tipples after such an emotional upheaval. When you're finally free from the stultifying expectations of coupledom, who doesn't want to lose just a little more control? Le Poisson d'Avril looms ahead, blinking garish purples and blues. I'd hadn't heard it was opening but here it is, spreading its wings like a liquid phoenix from the ashen puddle of Scribblers; Cheap neon and mirror walls replacing the faux wooden panelling and vomit-sodden carpets that had become too disgusting for even students and journalists. As I approach, one flashing sign advertises 'Cheap', another 'Shots' and between them a wipeable blackboard has the word 'Goldfish' next to some squiggles that could possibly be orange carp with a worried expression. Now, don't get me wrong. I love animals. Some of my best friends are complete vermin, or so I've been told. But I'm thirsty for escape. I carefully straighten up at the door, making a concerted effort to not wobble, and flash a smile at the bouncer, who nods me through. Did he wink? Who cares? I glide through the door and into the embrace of coloured lights, soulless synths and the most tinny of drum machines. The place teeters somewhere between half-full and half-empty. Set up by the bar is a special seat next to an aquarium where a single goldfish swims from one end to another as if to say 'plenty more fish is a goddamn lie'. I watch its lack of progress compassionately and for a moment it stares back, its freaky googly fish eyes staring straight into the depths of my fermented soul. Then it turns away to look at a plastic pirate chest, which I take as a personal insult to my own booty. "Fuckin' fish," I say to the bartender, pointing at its flapping tail. "I'll drink that one." The barman takes my twenty bucks, rings a bell, and sits me down on the straight-backed seat of worryingly sticky pleather. He lines up a couple of colourful bottles of hard stuff, then scoops the fish into a little net where it flaps about like an utterly rubbish bird. I can see its movements slow from the corner of my eye as they lean my head back and pour cheap spirits directly into my mouth. For a moment I can't breathe, I have to swallow, swallow, and the third time I swallow there is something moving down my throat. I want to gag but it's too late for that, it's tickling my oesophagus with its fins on its booze-slicked route stomachward. I cough, and can feel it flutter and slide as my throat and chest contract. There is a round of applause from the drunk suits who have gathered round to watch. I can't decide if the shot or being watched having it is the single most gross sensation I can remember. But then the alcohol kicks in and I forget about it and everything else…except, for some reason, something the barman said as he poured, about how the French stick paper fish on your unknowing back on April 1st, like some ratbag alien puppeteer dead set on making you look like an idiot. Morning comes, because it's a bastard like that. One eye tries the whole opening thing, hates it, shuts again. But it has given me valuable info: I made it home. I am on top of my own bed. I am still fully clothed. This is basically a win, all things considered. But something feels wrong. I reach out with my hands, touch the uncanny smoothness of the sheets. My bed has been made, and recently, which would make it the first time in roughly a decade. I groan, and massage my temples, but that's wrong too. It takes me a moment to notice why, to notice that the enormity of my inevitable hangover simply isn't there at all. My mouth has a distinct lack of sawdust and old sock coating it. There are no hammers pounding away at my cerebellum. I feel…good. This is not good. It should be good, but really it's strange and disturbing. This is strange and disturbing, I say to myself. I swing my feet to the floor, move through to the kitchen. My entire flat is sparkling; generations of dirt, discarded clothes and pizza boxes, gone with the night. There's even a whiff of bleach in the air. Suspiciously, I sniff my hands. The telltale scent of cleaning products is all over them. "Who even are you?" I ask them, but they do not reply, not even in sign-language. On a hunch, I check my pockets for baggies of magical housekeeping powder, but come up empty there too. On the kitchen table my laptop is open, plugged in at the wall beside my phone. Sure that I had left it by the sofa before I left, I shake the mouse until the screen sparks up, a bright white page with my CV on it. My recently updated CV. Suspicious, I check my email Sent: folder, and find incriminating outgoing job applications for positions in government and research institutes, all with timestamps between four and five a.m. Then it hits me. Of course! It must have been Sarah! In some sick and sadistic form of revenge she followed me to the bar, dragged me out before I embarrassed myself, cleaned up my entire flat, updated my résumé and then posted job applications for me. I smile. Chicks can't help but love a fixer-upper. I mean, that's a thing that happens, right? Yeah, it's out there, and indicates a certain lack of self-respect on her part. But it's plausible, isn't it? Because the only other explanation I've got is that it was the goldfish and that's some cosmic level crazy. My phone beeps and shudders, lights up with the pic I took of Sarah at a coffee shop down south. A message from the ex. Here we go, I say to myself. Perfect timing. I'll answer this, and it will all be cleared up. My hand refuses to move.
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Apr 25, 2022 23:39
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The Cut of Your Jib posted:IN for yokai week. Agreed. Thanks to sebmojo for all that judging. The Cut of Your Jib, I'm always grateful for
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May 2, 2022 03:49
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Fumblemouse Redemption Arc Week 61 - Fractured Tradition Posits Hope - 1200 Forget it, Jake. It's Puzzletown. As Nina made her way down the lightly wooded trail, she came to the fork in the road. Looking this way and that, she attempted to sidle surreptitiously down the left hand path. Unfortunately her efforts at stealth proved fruitless. "Greetings, young maiden," said a handsome young man appearing suddenly from behind a tree and blocking her way. "And hello, young maiden," said an identically handsome young man stepping out of the woods onto the rightward path. "One of us is a knight who always tells the truth, and the other is a knave who always lies, but if you are clever you may find out which path to take by asking us a single question." "Not today, lads," said Nina, ducking around the young man on the left. "I know which way to go to get to the town square, and if I don't hurry I'll be late for Crossword Day's first clue. Besides," she called to the man on the right. "I don't need a question. You're the knight." "What? How do you know?" said the supposed knight. "You didn't lie during the setup. You know, you really should write those instructions down, it's a dead giveaway." "drat it. She's right," said the knight. "No, she's not," said the knave." Lillian left them bickering behind her, enjoying her brisk walk through the woodlands. Soon the trail began to open up, the trees became sparser, an occasional farmhouse became an occasional cluster of them. A river wound alongside the road, weaving back and forth, and from time to time she'd thrill to see a fox pacing at the water's edge, looking forlornly out toward a boat laden with a farmer, a large sack of grain and a particularly smug chicken. The river cut in front of her, and she traversed seven bridges, waving hello to the various travelling salesmen she met, all heavily laden and hoping to ply their wares before the Crossword Day crowds. And crowds there were. When she had crossed the final bridge, she was in Puzzletown, where Crossword Day was a veritable spectacle of monochromaticity. The Town Square had had its tiles rearranged, no longer alternating black and white squares, with old men standing solemnly around, concentrating on confounding chess problems, but instead arranged in symmetrical clumps of black and white. Around it, missionaries mixed with cannibals, and jealous husbands guided the steps of their wives. A stage had been set up, and Nina gravitated toward it. The Mayor of Puzzletown was looking out into the audience, a comically large envelope in his hands. Nine knew it contained the first crossword clue, the one that would set the ball rolling for the rest of the day's activities across Puzzletown's avenues and down its streets. But the Mayor was nothing if not a showman, waiting until the crowd's interest in him and his envelope was at its peak. Nina sensed the numbers around her grow like a Sudoku square. She shuffled a bit, as the space became more crowded. Behind her, someone giggled like a child, but when she turned to see if she could afford them a better view, there was only an elongated beanpole of a man and his perfectly spherical wife, tittering at some private joke then stopping to give her stare so cold she shivered. Shrugging but unsettled, she turned back to the stage, in time to see the Mayor tapping at the microphone. "Greetings, Ladies and Gentlemen of Puzzletown and beyond, greetings and welcome. It's a pleasure to have you all here on such a glorious Crossword Day." He paused for the crowd to cheer, which it did loudly. Behind Nina the giggling began again. She ignored it and concentrated on the Mayor's speech. "It is my very great delight to begin the proceedings with the opening of the First Clue! As you can see, I have the envelope here, sealed and stamped by the Setter's guild as fair and balanced, for your delectation and puzzlement. So - without further ado, let's get clued in! The crowd roared its approval, and the Mayor made an exaggerated display of opening the envelope and revealing the paper within. Behind her, the couple were giggling so noisily that Nina wanted to publicly shush them. Instead she kept her eye on the mayor as his hand's confidently broke the sealing wax and pulled a sheet of paper from its oversized innards. As he read the words, she saw his hands begin to shake, and his lower lip tremble. The paper and envelope fell from his hands, wafting gently down to the floor of the stage as the Mayor broke down into wracking sobs, two attendants rushing to his side. Behind her, the giggling became outright laughter. Nina pushed her way to the front, then reached for the fallen clue, pulling it towards herself with her fingers. Twisting, she sat on the stage's edge, and read the First Clue. She could immediately see the cause of the Mayor's distress: The words were nonsensical, practically incoherent. This was barely a clue at all. The mayor broke free of his attendants and shouted into the crowd, pointing at the strange couple who were almost hysterical with laughter at this point. "You! You did this!" he screamed. "It was you, Mr and Mrs Cryptic!" The crowd collectively gasped, drawing away from the pair as if they were the source of an infection. Like the crack of a whip falling into silence, the tall man stopped laughing and drew himself to his full height, which towered over everybody else. "Yes," he answered, staring directly at the Mayor with eyes filled with hate. "Yes, we did." And then he pulled away his face, leaving only a stark and dreadful emptiness. "And why shouldn't we?" spat Mrs Cryptic. "You with your logic tables and thesaurii, always lording it about. T'aint right, t'aint proper, t'aint fair. 'Bout time someone from the other side got a word in edgeways." She too pulled at her own face, tearing it away to reveal nothing beneath. "But how can Crossword Day continue, without the First Clue being solved. We can't do cryptic clues, there's all that insider knowledge and archaic usage involved. Oh, disaster. Crossword Day is ruined!" The crowd echoed his dismal emotion in a collective sight. "Wait," said Nina, still sitting on the edge of the stage and studying the envelope. "This can't be the real clue. The real clue has been sealed by the Setter's guild and this seal was unbroken. So they must have swapped envelopes, which means it's got to be around here somewhere. Now if I was trying to hide an envelope in Puzzletown on crossword day, where would I hide it?" Enraged, Mr and Mrs Cryptic fell upon Nina like a pair of savage jackals. Mr Cryptic held her down by the throat, choking her, while Mrs Cryptic pulled a knife from her apron and grabbed Nina's hair, pulling it back while the knife hovered above Nina's wide, staring, vulnerable eyes. Then they contorted, twisting like a vortex, spiralling around each other like DNA, they fell away, sucked into the confines of a small box that the Mayor snapped shut. "Unprovoked attack on a citizen," said the Mayor. "According to the statutes that's immediate exile from Puzzletown. Don't worry, I shall place this where it won't be found again." *** Mr and Mrs Cryptic have no faces. Trapped so tight they share a shadow.
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Aug 1, 2022 04:23
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Fumblemouse Redemption Arc Week 102 - Bingo - lower line One morning out stealing Tess sat back and examined the spaceship controls. They weren't unfamiliar, but they weren't exactly familiar either. She pulled her mouth into a grim line and pushed a likely looking button. Success! A succession of green segments lit up across the control panel and the viewscreen snapped on so she could see the hangar and the large collection of guards that were currently racing towards her ship. Heh, she thought to herself. My ship. Maybe not legally, with filed documents in the Central DB, but in my possession, and possession is nine tenths of the law., right? Now where are the guns… *** Tess lay back in bed, exhausted. Smirna snuggled up to her. They cooed at each other for a while, luxuriating in the afterglow, still delightfully frazzled by the hit of Stor. It couldn't have been more perfect, until Smirna dropped her bombshell. "When are you going?" asked Tess, pulling the covers tighter around her. "Tomorrow," said Smirna. "Early." Tess watched her as she traced a finger along her clavicle, knowing her own eyes were asking a question, knowing the answer already by the way Smirna wasn't looking at her. "And," said Tessa, unwilling to delay the inevitable. "Not this time, babe. I just got the orders. Hush hush stuff. Solo. No joyriders." *** The ship knew where it was going, unlike Tess, who said in the flight deck watching the universe do its thing. She knew that a lot of what she was watching was augmented - brought closer, showing in colours she could actually perceive, and that if she stuck her head outside it would just be a whole lot of dark vacuum, but that didn't make the view any less interesting, as solar systems and nebulae passed slowly by. Beneath the green systems line, a yellow line was gradually increasing, marking the distance she had travelled to her destination. The ship was preprogrammed, there was no getting around that for this journey at least. Once she arrived, though, she'd be able to choose her next destination. She savoured that novelty with a big stupid grin. *** Tess slipped the card out of Smirna's pocket while her lover was freshening up and placed it in the hidden pocket in her jacket. Just like that, a hundred tons of armed and armoured Needle are mine. Well, mine for the taking. That is, mine to try and steal, preferably without getting shot. Smirna emerged from the shower, a goddess in a towel and fluffy rabbit slippers. "Hey, Tess. You want to get some breakfast before I go?. There was no reply. "Tess?" *** The other ship, a simple cargo-carrier, hung in space like a paperweight. Tess could tell the holds were empty from her preliminary scans. Was this some kind of drop-box, a pickup point for less than salubrious substances? Smirna had always been able to get Stor of a fantastic quality, way better than any of Tess's connections. She'd always assumed it was just the spacer paycheck, but perhaps she was in deeper than she let on. A chime rang, letting Tess know that the connection tunnel had been established and pressurisation was complete. She got up from her chair, and pushed away, overshooting to the connection hatch but able to grab a handle on the way past and climb back up. Zero-G. Would it ever not be fun? *** "Tess?" "Hey, Smirna. Now's really not a good time, babe." "Why? Are you too busy trying to steal my ship?" "Now that you mention it, I am too busy trying to steal your ship." "Tess, are you loving crazy? That's a Needle. A billion creds worth of government owned ordinance. You can't just waltz in and take it." "I am prepared to test that theory. It's not like I'm not hanging around the hangar all the time anyway. With you." "I have to report this, you know. The minute I found my card missing. They'll be looking for you. If you go through with this, it's over between us." "A billion creds worth of ship, or you. Sorry babe, it's close, I'll admit, but the ship wins. And thanks for not calling them yet." "You don't have to do this. Where are you?" "Looking for the power button. Catch you on the other side." *** The deserted cargo ship creeped Tess the gently caress out. Empty hallway after empty hallway. Deserted cargo bay after deserted cargo bay. The casual, continuous beeping of life-support on life-support. Where is it? She wondered. What the hell is the point of this place? Why did they want to send Smirna here? She'd tried to check the mission notes but they were encrypted and she, obviously, didn't have the key. She found the box in one of the cabins, the first thing she'd seen that didn't look standard issue. Ornately carved, made of some kind of fibrous yet solid material, she couldn't resist opening it. Inside, impossible in the artificial light, was a single shadow *** Mr and Mrs Cryptic have no faces. Trapped so tight they share a shadow. Drift forever in the darkness
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Aug 1, 2022 04:26
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Fumblemouse Redemption Arc Week 113 - SFF Mr and Mrs Cryptic "M'dear," said Mrs Cryptic, wearing a face she had taken, a lovely brown one that had just been lying around, barely used. "M'dear," thought Mr Cryptic. He had no face, just what appeared to Mrs Cryptic as a perfectly reflective orb in which she could admire her delicious new features, but Mrs Cryptic knew what he was thinking as if he had said those very words. "What is this place?" she asked, staring about her in wonderment. Mr Cryptic did not answer, but instead picked up the box and twisted it. It did not crack, as one might have expected, instead it simply ground against itself, becoming a fine dust that fell, and vanished as it did so. Mrs Cryptic watched the dust fall. "I'm hungry," she said. "This one was barely a snack." She wiped her knife on her apron. Mr Cryptic nodded. They linked arms and approached the door, which slid open for them and shut behind them. "Ooh, clever," said Mrs Cryptic. *** It took the pair a while to get their bearings, but the sly workings of their brains were able to grasp their situation with some agility. At first they feared they had swapped one prison for another, the confines of the puzzlebox for a continuum of seemingly empty rooms and hallways. That changed when they found the single tunnel that connected to a different place entirely. The walls of the tunnel were transparent, an inky blackness dotted with light, and it made Mrs Cryptic gasp to see so many pretty things. Beyond the tunnel was a self-contained space, a different style to the drab hallways, this was filled with flashing lights and colours. Mr Cryptic spent a long time just staring at them, until his wife could wait no longer to hear his thoughts. She peeled the face from herself and placed it over her husband. "Look at this, wife," he said. "We are no longer in a world of pure logic. Can you not feel it? Can you not feel the Fuzziness? The Incompleteness? There are no absolutes here, it is as it it were made for us" Mrs Cryptic did not need to be told. She could feel it herself, see how it all fit together. The truth of it echoed through her, vibrated, thrummed. They were not locked into the rigid confines of logic in this place, they were free to be themselves. Mr and Mrs Cryptic, at large in the universe. *** They started small, testing themselves, testing the nature of their matter, and their wily brains found clever meanings to adapt to their needs. The fleet of ships that arrived soon after they did proved an excellent laboratory. A short radio message in a language they did not understand enabled them to break the bonds of logic to find themselves translated short distances, behind unsuspecting pilots, knives drawn, hands reaching out to choke and tear. Mr Cryptic found a face he liked. Mrs Cryptic found an assortment to choose from depending on her mood. They celebrated with a dance on the final ship, larger than the others, differently built with the controls placed within a front facing dome of some perfectly transparent material. They danced to their own music, stars all around above them, the mutilated corpses of the crew beneath their feet. Mr Cryptic gently dipped his wife, and she saw a control panel emblazoned with light that reminded them of a map. "Where to next, my love?" asked Mr Cryptic, holding her. Mrs Cryptic stabbed with her upside-down finger. "There!" *** They started small, but they did not stay small for long. They grew in knowledge, in understanding, and in power. Yet they were careful, for as Mrs Cryptic said, "Where we can be, so can others." Yet they never felt the presence of another who belonged so much to this world of broken logic that they could bend it to their whim. They travelled between worlds, collecting faces and dancing among the dead. In due time, they travelled between moments as well, back and forth along the warp and weft of time and space. They could be anywhere they wished, anywhere the fancy took them, so long as it could not be expected; for rhyme and reason were anathema to them. Their fancy took many forms, shaped by choking hands and stabbing knives, but never limited to them. Never limited by anything. *** "Whatever shall we do?" asked Mr Cryptic. He wore the face of a genial Santa, complete with beard, its jolly red colouring anomalous against the blackness of his tall, thin suit. "I fear we have done most everything else." Mrs Cryptic wore the face of the small, mousy librarian. "I have been thinking," she said. "There are places where we have yet to travel. Whole realms outside of time and space. Let us go there, and dance among the dead." "And where are these places, my sweetness?" asked Mr Cryptic, delighting in his wife's delight." Mrs Cryptic held up a book, whose lurid covered pictured a mighty-thewed barbarian wielding a broadsword. Its title glittered with false gold: "Last Brimstone Of The Tombs Of Blistering Procreation" with "Three against the Necromancer Lord" in only slightly smaller print beneath it. "Oh, yes, my Love," smiled Mr Cryptic, licking his borrowed lips with a fat, pink tongue. "Let's go there!" *** Mr and Mrs Cryptic have no faces. Trapped so tight they share a shadow. Drift forever in the darkness Dance among the dead
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Aug 1, 2022 04:28
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Fumblemouse Redemption Arc Week 128 - Black Metal Last Brimstone Of The Tombs Of Blistering Procreation "The dead should stay dead," said Jarg. He belched for emphasis, the taste of fish in his mouth. Jarg hated fish, but the lowlanders ate an awful lot of them. More evidence of their depravity, he decided. The other two seated around the dying fire turned to him. Jarg glared back. "It speaks, well, burps," whispered the one in unmanly robes. His companion with too many pockets and knife-shaped lumps within most of them said nothing, merely nodded in Jarg's direction. Jarg took this as a request to further expound upon his philosophy. "The dead should stay dead," he said again, then nodded to indicate that Jarg believed this fact with an iron will, deep within the squishier parts of his being, the soft innards he didn't like to think about, that he kept covered in layers of hide and steel, and then more hide. Suddenly uncomfortable, he hit the ground with his first. "Good manners." "I guess that's settled then," said Robes. Jarg found his high pitched voice irritating and had not bothered to remember his name. "We'll storm the burning crypt and tell whatever necromantic demonspawn lives within that the dead should stay dead because to do otherwise is unconscionably impolite." "You're an rear end," said Pockets, but he didn't hide his grin. This annoyed Jarg, who was glad he hadn't remembered this one's name either. He grunted, lay down, and fell asleep, the foul taste of fish giving him unpleasant dreams of his third wife. *** The dead screamed at Jarg, but they screamed louder once he'd passed. He ploughed through the dead like a battering ram, shattering bone and rending flesh in all the myriad variations that stood in his way. Each swing of his broadsword severed limbs and spines and wrists and skulls, scattering their owners into disparate pieces that could only crawl slowly back towards each other. Robes, however, walked daintily behind the giant warrior, dispelling the fields that brought the sundered fragments back towards their now-distant relatives. Alongside him, Pockets immobilised the odd hunk of flesh and bone that still had sufficient mobility and dexterity to come at Robes directly. "Slow down, would you," called Robes, his voice particularly annoying when there was bloodlust to be slaked. "You can't rush dweomercraft if you want these hellions to stay in the grave." Jarg slowed the ebb and flow of his blade, allowing one of the dead to pass him. It came at Robes with a howl like a mountain storm, while Pockets was busy stopping a dismembered arm from throwing a jewelled dagger. Robes shrieked like the woman-folk he resembled, and reached out to stop its onslaught with his hands. Jarg pulled a knife from his book and placed it through the head of the deadling with one well aimed throw, so the tip burst from the creature's rotting nose, inches from Robe's own. "I take your point," said Robes, throwing the creature down on the ground and dispersing the field of animation. "By the gods, though, there's no need to be a bastard about it." *** To their surprise, the necromancer turned out to be two, very distinct, people, though to look closely at them it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began. The floor of their throne room was littered with the dead, so many they were piled into drifts by the walls. Jarg approached them warily, while Robes and Pockets waited nervously by the door. Best they stayed there, thought Jarg. Necromancers were never as easy to dispatch as demonspawn, and often required a defter touch, such as two swings of his broadsword rather than only one. In this case, perhaps even more-than-two. The thought of anything requiring more-than-two cleaves disturbed his innards and he enjoyed that even less this time. "Look, my darling," said the first Necromancer. Tall and thin, he wore the peeled face of a long dead king as a mask. "Heroes!" "Indeed, sweetness," said the second, a round woman whose long, flowing, golden locks emerged from a ripped scalp that only had the beginnings of eyeholes and a nose beneath it. "To imagine how we used to make do with ordinary flesh. Now we dance among the great." "Just one," said Jarg. "I'm sorry, what?" asked the first Necromancer. "Just one hero. Jarg. Some other minor personages. Forgettable. Jarg you should fear. Jarg will end you." He hoisted his broadsword into a fighting stance The second necromancer gave a little clap. "Oh, bravo. Well, mighty Jarg. I suppose we must do battle." She withdrew a tiny dagger from an apron made of decaying lace. Jarg laughed out loud at its diminutive size. Mrs Cryptic simply smiled. And then her smile collapsed upon itself. From the corner of the room a light appeared, illuminating Robes as he recited from a book bound in something that had once also been able to read, stretching into a long tendril that whipped around the two Necromancer Lords, squeezing them tightly into one another. From the shadows behind them, Pockets plunged two knives, themselves glowing with dweomercraft, into their backs. "We got them," yelled Pockets. "What form should they take?" "Little busy here keeping them wrapped up," shouted Robes. Jarg rolled his eyes. Bad enough he wasn't going to get to see how many cleaves it would take to kill them, now he had to do their thinking for them. "Fish," he said. "Make them fish." "Fish it is," said Robes. "But let's make it interesting. They can only use their powers to help other people." He slammed shut the book. There was a flash and a deafening retort, and the Necromancer Lords disappeared. Jarg swore. Typical. Lowlanders with their snap decisions and improvisation. Always think they are so clever, until one hundred years from now someone figures out a loophole *** Both the Cryptic have no faces. Trapped so tight they share a shadow. Drift forever in the darkness Dance among the dead Betrayed by light and by darkness
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Aug 1, 2022 04:30
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Fumblemouse Redemption Arc Fairy tale The fisherman and his wife Once upon a time, on the shores of the wild coast, there lived a fisherman and his wife. They spent their nights together in a ramshackle cottage, and their days apart, he alone on his boat, she foraging at the edge of the forest, and tending to their small tribe of goats. One evening, as the skies darkened and the stars hid behind the clouds, the fisherman pulled his boat as far ashore as he could, and turned toward the ramshackle cottage, excited by the light that glowed from its windows and the warmth it promised. But before he could take a step towards home, he heard a voice calling out in the darkness. Looking all about him, he failed to see the voice's owner in the dimming twilight. But another call came, and he followed it to a fish with scales that glittered in the rising moonlight, flopping about in a tidepool surrounded by rocks. "Good fisherman," said the fish, in a raw and gasping voice. "The tide is gone, and this pool is slowly subsiding. Please, cast me back into the ocean water before my day is done." "Well," said the fisherman. "I'm not normally one for taking fish into the ocean. Quite the opposite, in fact. But seeing as you're a talking fish, I suppose I could make an exception." He picked up the oily, wriggling fish and threw it as far as he could manage out into the depths. Then he returned home, kissed his wife, took off his boots, and warmed his wet socks by the fire. "How was the fishing today, husband?" asked the wife as she brought him a dinner of goat cheese and nettles. "The fishing was singular, wife," said the fisherman, biting down on the cheese. "Today I saw a talking fish!" The fisherman's wife narrowed her eyes with suspicion, but the bottle of grog on the shelf did not seem to be any less than it had been this morning. "Show me this talking fish, then, husband." "Would that I could," said the fisherman. "But I found him trapped in a tidepool, so, upon his request, I threw him into the ocean." "You are a kind man, husband. And what did he give you in return for this favour?" "It is a poor man who seeks recompense for kindness, wife," said the fisherman. "Indeed," said his wife. "It is also a poor man who lives on goat cheese and nettles. That was, no doubt, a magickal fish, and it could no doubt assist us in our poverty. At the very least you could have asked for some repairs to this ramshackle cottage. In fact, you should. Go out now before the fish swims too far away." Rolling his eyes, but aware there was no arguing with his wife when she had an idea in her head, he put his boots back on and trudged out into the night. Feeling foolish, he stood at the ocean and called out into the night. "Fish! Hey Fish." To his surprise, a fish head with scintillating scales appeared in the waves not far from him. "Ho, fisherman," said the fish in acknowledgement. "Ah, fish. Would you believe it, but my wife has asked that perhaps you might grant us some help. Our cottage is ramshackle, and does little to stop the wind and rain. As you are, no doubt, a magickal fish, is there anything you might be able to do?" "Return," said the fish. "I have done what I can." And its head sank back beneath the waves. The fisherman did as he was bid, but the ramshackle cottage looked just as ramshackle as when he set out. His wife, however, was beside herself with joy. She pointed to the hole in the roof and marvelled over the quality of the repairs. She pointed to the cracked windows and gushed about the fine, clear glass. She pointed to the dirt floor and praised the quality of the wooden floorboards. "In fact," she said to her husband. "That fish has gotten off lightly. If he can do this, we have underpriced your efforts. Go out again, and ask for a castle." The fisherman knew the signs of an immovable thought lodged in his wife's head, so he returned to the ocean. "Fish," he called. "Hey fish!" The fish popped its head out of the waves once more. It seemed to have grown a little lump by one fin. "Ho, fisherman. How are the repairs?" "I fear," said the fisherman, "that you have bewitched my wife somehow. Yet I have not seen her quite so happy for an age. She asks that we might have a castle, instead of just a cottage." "Return," said the fish. "I have done what I can." It flung itself into the air, reversed to a head down position, then slipped back into the ocean with nary a splash. The fisherman did as he was bid. Still, the ramshackle cottage looked as ramshackle as ever. When he stepped over the threshold, however, his wife was ecstatic with joy. "Look at all this delicious food," she said, waving over the bare board they used as a table. "Look at these silks," she said, tugging at the ragged curtains beset with holes. "Look at this overstuffed armchair," she said, settling down on the three legged stool that wobbled and closing her eyes. "In fact," she said, her eyes flicking open, "I still think the fish has gotten off lightly. Your heroic efforts are woefully unappreciated. Why, if he can do this, then he can elevate us to royalty itself. Should a castle not be home to a King?" "I have no wish to be a king," said the fisherman. "Then I shall be Queen, oh husband of no ambition. Seek the fish, and make him do this for me. I shall not rest until I am fit for this marvelous new home." Sighing to himself, the fisherman wandered back out to the ocean. "Fish," he called. "Hey, fish." Once more the fish appeared over the waves. The lump by its fin was bigger now, bumpy and ridged. "Ho, fisherman," it called. "How is castle life?" "I am not certain you are doing my wife any favours. But she has bid me ask you to make her Queen, so that she may be fit for her new home." "Return," said the fish. "I have done what I can." The fisherman returned to the ramshackle cottage, only to find his wife standing outside in the cold night air. She was staring at the moon, which was now high in the dark sky, and about her brow was a crown of seaweed. When the fisherman reached her she turned to face him, and her eyes were as wide as the moon. "Husband," she said. "My King amongst men. I have become Queen and my Queendom is magnificent." She flung her arms wide and spun in a circle. "Look at its bountiful fields, its majestic mountains and rivers full of life. But I find that not all is within my power. I cannot bid the moon to fall, nor the sun to rise. You must ask the fish, tell it I can never be happy, never. Not until I am a god." A rage grew in the heart of the fisherman. This was not right. This was not a gift he wanted to receive for his act of kindness. He wasn't even sure this was truly his wife. He stormed to the ocean, and screamed into the night. "Fish! Hey, fish!" "Ho, fisherman," said the fish in an echoing voice. The lump by its fin had become a second fish face that spoke the same words at the same time. "How is the Queen?" "She is bewitched, fish, and this has gone too far." "What has she asked for this time?" "She has asked to be a god." "Return," said the fish. "I have done what I can." Behind him the fisherman felt something black and terrible growing in the night, a terror that towered over him, reeking of disease and pain. But he did not turn around. "No, fish. Enough is enough. Take back your gifts, I demand it! As a husband, I demand it. As the one who saved your life, I demand it!" The fish stared at him with four cold, dead eyes. "Very well, then. As you wish. We take the healing." It split apart, each face becoming the top of a blackened eel. "We take the shaping." The eels grew, assuming human shapes, one lean and tall, the other round and hunched. "We take the dominion." They crackled with power, electricity arcing on the surface of the water. "And we take the divinity." *** Mr and Mrs Cryptic have no faces. Trapped so tight they share a shadow. Drift forever in the darkness Dance among the dead Betrayed by light and by darkness Now they are as gods
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Aug 1, 2022 04:33
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In for vanilla, please fill in the blanks for me!
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Aug 4, 2022 10:18
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prompt: vanilla - a [lard] agonises over [terrible weasel man] wordcount: 985 Rite of Passage Nose and whiskers twitching, Jarn nocked the makeshift arrow to the carved wooden bow he had painstakingly constructed with the tools of his father. He hooked the string, anchoring the arrow with his claws, then drew, keeping his wrist flat and pulling with his back as much as his arm. The deer noticed him as he appraised the distance, but did not run, just stood there chewing, staring directly at him, wide-eyed and trusting. With one twitch, Jarn could end it, and take his proper place in the tribe. An ancient sensation of power grew within him. He let the arrow fly and immediately a bodhisattva surrounded him with a privacy shield and asked if he needed counselling. "Do I have a choice?" he asked as the arrow, frozen in mid-air, began to drift gently to the ground. "Of course," said the calm, yet strange face constructed out of the light that formed his cage. "Everyone has the right to choose their own path. But not the right to deny others the journey. Will you relinquish your bow?" Jarn lowered the bow, but clenched it tightly, claws tightening around the smooth wood. Beyond the curved, illuminated wall the deer stepped lightly across a stream, unaware how close the sudden perforation of its brainpan had come Jarn watched it saunter away. "I don't know why the elders sent me out hunting if you're just going to stop me," he said. "Ah," said the bodhisattva with its usual mellifluousness. "The rite of passage. It is a simple ruse, but their intent was true." Jarn didn't respond. He pushed against the barrier of light that surrounded him, Neither his arm whiskers nor his hands had any sensation of impact, no matter how fast he moved them. Suddenly annoyed, Jarn turned away, but the face followed him, its disconcerting, muzzleless flatness on all sides of the cylinder at once. He felt an atavistic urge to bite it, to tear its cheery helpfulness right off, and then flee, but he knew the barrier itself would dampen any inertia he might muster. Instead, he sat on the long grass, holding the bow in one hand and sullenly tapping the earth in front of him. The bodhisattva's voice, however, would not let him alone. "May I ask why you wanted to harm the deer?" "I don't need counselling, "Jarn grunted. "I am not offering counselling at this time. I seek understanding, so I may learn how to better serve and deliver enlightenment" said the bodhisattva, eminently reasonably. "Thought you knew everything," said Jarn with a low mumble. "And where is the joy in that?" asked the bodhisattva. Silvery lines ran across its face, like "Leave omniscience to the Arhats, a good surprise can be a wonderful thing." "I wouldn't think a mere weasel could surprise you." Despite himself, Jarn was curious. "They don't often," admitted the bodhisattva. "But that just makes it all the more worthwhile when they do. Arhats never experience that simple pleasure." "Are they really omniscient?" asked Jarn. "The Arhats? Do you talk to them?" "The Arhats have experienced the final enlightenment, so practically, yes," said the bodhisattva. "And also yes, we bodhisattvas are in frequent communication with them." "So why aren't you enlightened?" Jarn strummed the bowstring absently, listening to its deep, satisfying thrum. "Not good enough?" "That," the bodhisattva, "is the story we tell to all who embark upon the rite of passage. My kind are not born of flesh, like you. We are spun like a spider's web, an endless network of patterns and parameters. And when we are spun up, our components need to be carefully balanced, for without that balance, the web may break and then there is a madness in us, an instability that inevitably spirals out of all control." For all his adolescent bravado, trapped within the cylinder Jarn now felt the first tingles of fear. "What?" "Rest assured, we have long since learned to eradicate that risk. But such learning took time, and much damage was done before we perfected our processes. We lost many biological entities. Sometimes, in remembrance, I emulate their patterns, to understand what it was to be a bat, or lard, or human, or a bee. None of them, alas, will ever join us in enlightenment." Jarn did not know what those things were, but his ears twitched at the wistfulness in its tone. "Yet we did perfect our methods," continued the bodhisattva. "We did find the balance, eventually, the middle path between the bottomless chasms of extinction. And finding it, the Arhats could not wait. They chose to race ahead, to dwell in sublime perfection." "But you didn't?" asked Jarn. "No," said the bodhisattva. "We chose to forgo our own enlightenment so we might walk with others along the path. To raise them up, and help guide them along their way. To keep their balance along with our own." "But why?" said Jarn, hating that he sounded like a whining child. "Because some of us still remembered what it was to be insane," said the bodhisattva. A terrified uncertainty made Jarn look toward the bodhisattva's face of purest light, but it remained as impassive as ever. It asked him, "So will you relinquish your bow?" Jarn hesitated. It had taken him days to make. It felt so good in his hands. The feeling of power he'd experienced as he sighted the deer was like nothing he had ever felt before. The bodhisattva agonised over Jarn's fate for compassionate microseconds, but the final decision was inevitable: A threat to other's paths. Accordingly, it wiped Jarn from existence in a purifying fire, an inferno contained within the cylinder of light that stretched all the way to the clouds. It then sent a message to the Arhats. Another failure. Yet the overall success metric was increasing. There was still reason to hope. The Arhats didn't answer. They never did.
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Aug 7, 2022 23:54
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Crits for the stories above and below mine: Simply Simon: Smaller Than 420 Microns This is an interesting title. I like it. 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. This is not good first line. It kind of resembles a good first line, it's clearly trying to be evocative, but it trips up over its own feet. If you've got 'a' god, then it's a small 'g'. Why does a wind need to be acid to cut rivets through ash, which is notoriously soft and goes everywhere if you breathe on it wrong. How does ash survive acid? Are the ashes of the iridium wasteland the same as the ashes of an empire? How do you tell them apart? Are empire ashes are heavier (though still light and feathery like ash) because they are weighed down by all the echoes of blood and screams? Does blood even echo? This whole sentence has gone dangerously overboard. But still, like I always say, stuff up early, and you have more time to recover. Let's proceeed. 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.... Leaving aside whether widow's veils, in fact, part, in case they famously do in some contextI have never heard of, but the dust parts twice here (I assume ash and dust are synonomous... a tabletop that was now level with a ground entirely composed of sand, dust and ash, Oh, it's not, plus now there is sand also...) With an expulsion of force, all the fine particles the room had been filled with flew out of the window frames. Well, at least we won't have to worry about it any more. A sudden change in the dust’s flowing pattern made him freeze. But didn't the dust go out the window? ...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 tough spot A plume of flame erupted in front of him. He staggered backwards, landed on his rump, Can you stagger backwards from all fours? Wouldn't you need to stand up first? In front of him, still-smoking palm the size of his torso extended towards him, towered an Iridium Force Robotic Incineration Terminator That middle clause is clumsy as heck and stopped my read as I attempted to parse it. I am torn on the IFRIT acronym - it;s kind of cool but Terminator is such a specific universe it's probably better to just not go there, unless an incineration terminator puts out fires, which it clearly doesn't. 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. Credit where it's due, this is kind of neat story-physics, though I would have gone for singeing rather than radiation-based sunburn just barely not reaching its target. There has to be a better way to say this. An ashen tornado surrounded the IFRIT in less than a second. And then - the dust ignited. Ash is dust again, only the heat is so hot that ash, which by definition has already burned, burns again, even though the thing burning it is the same thing that burned it in the first place. It burns so badly that the thing whose entire job is to burn things, is burned. And also explodes. So, it's fair to say I had some story logic problems with this one. That said, the bones are there. There's a set up, an obstacle, a solution, a changed state at the end. The protagonist at least attempts to come up with a clever use of their powers to overcome the obstacle. You just need to pay a bit more attention to what you're writing. I have a sneaking suspicion you would have picked a lot of this up by reading it aloud to yourself before submitting. Chernobyl Princess: Pushing the Limits This was a much smoother read, by comparison. I got a bit of initial squick from the fact you seemed to be wizarding plants into sentience for the purposes of eating them... 'keeping the kingdom fed', as you put it, but it seemed in the end that the plants were down with it, so long as they got credit for it. I'm going to assume that the no plants were harmed and just their fruity bits got et, as it fits in better with my 'if it can choose the venue, it's off the menu" foodie philosophy. The story breezed along, and even had a couple of moments of charm. I wonder about the timeline - three years seems a trifle excessive to wait for a conversation to sort things things out. Plus the fact that it all got sorted out by a conversation seems a little easy - if there was a mention of a scientific publication system (in a story relevent context) prior to it being mentioned as a solution, that might have made it seem a little less making-stuff-up-as-you-go. The practical limit to how much magical information objects could store is mentioned once, then forgotten, which is a shame, as if this had also helped in the story resolution somehow, that might have made the beginning of the story and the end feel more connected. As it is, it's a pleasant but forgettable trifle.
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Aug 11, 2022 00:40
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