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Strange Cares posted:Oh cool! Welp, time to figure out how to write critiques! When in doubt, this is a good template: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1gvEDkl4oV5tjwoKdsMJ_8yrVWIT0VxIgnIluO55YFPQ/edit
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Feb 15, 2023 04:05
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| # ¿ Sep 10, 2024 20:35 |
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In, flash plz
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Jun 7, 2023 01:22
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We need two more judges too!!!
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Jun 8, 2023 01:58
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City Limits 497 words flash: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jg7qrYqJ9ns (Nutbush City Limits) You want to know about the Cities? Who’s been telling you about those cursed places, one of your thick-headed creche siblings? I’m sure they haven’t got half of it straight, and the other half is just to scare you silly. I can tell you about the Cities though. I’m old enough to have crept through them in the Resource Patrol, back when we still risked those streets, before we lost too many to make it worth whatever forgotten books or medicines we’d gather in trade. Were they tall? Certainly some were full of steel towers, taller than the greatest tree, visible from miles distant. People used to live in those towers, shuffled up their height in Mechanisms. Now the only things that live in those monoliths have great wings of darkness and gaping maws of bloody teeth. I’ve seen more than one of your relatives carried off by a beast that was slippery to the eye, too indistinct to put a name to, and strangely easy to forget once you’d left the City. Oh no, they were far from the worst. All manner of beasts stalked those streets, not just the winged monsters. Huge, striding things with bloated bodies perched on spindly legs as tall as the encampment fence would move in herds, hunting for us as we hid in a blasted theater, pissing ourselves and praying that they would come no closer. Small, scurrying things that would ride you like a bad spirit, leading you by seductive nudges to go just a little too deep into the sprawl of broken buildings, where something much bigger and hungry waited, pulling the strings of that little beastie with its fingers in your brain. They were far from the worst though. The worst was the City itself. You see, when the world broke, it woke up all the Mechanisms, all the great machines with electricity for blood, that were servants to us for so many years. Something made them think on their own, and eventually they began to think together. And in places like the Cities, where they outnumbered us fragile humans, they started to tear the foundation of the world apart, and twist it around in ways we’ve never been able to explain or understand. You could feel it, as soon as you crossed the boundary of the City. There was a bent feeling that reached into your bone marrow and made you feel like the world was slowly spinning. Streets would bend back on themselves, time would twist around so that it was night on one side of a door and broad daylight on the other. The Cities themselves would addle your brain so thoroughly that you’d never find your way out, or even remember that you were trying to leave. Why? Who knows why the Cities do what they do, or what dread life they’re meant to sustain. It’s not worth dwelling on, boy. The Cities hate us, and that is reason enough to stay away.
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Jun 11, 2023 18:10
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Some quick post-judging notes for those who are new to TD: - One of the central tenets of Thunderdome is that anyone can crit anyone else's story, no matter your comparative levels of experience with writing, either in TD or otherwise, so if you read an entry and have something to say about it, you are welcome to share it here. Keep in mind that your opinion as a reader is a valuable and useful crit, so don't feel pressured to get deep into the weeds on analyzing someone's story-- even a brief "this element worked really well for me, I didn't really get this, wasn't a fan of this" can be extremely helpful. - We try to keep this thread limited to posts directly related to the weekly TD cycle--prompt posts, signups, entries, judging, and crits (with the occasional interprompts/brawls/other writing silliness, and this sort of "admin" post when necessary). If you have questions/comments about judging, crits (including questions about other posters' crits on your story), TD in general, writing in general, or your overall disgust with the unruly nature of words and stories, there's a (brand new) less formal companion thread for TD now: https://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?threadid=4033807 There's also a Thunderdome discord, which has slowly become a general SA writing discord, which would also be a good place for discussion & questions. Also there's a bunch of puppy pictures in one of the channels... but like, furious Thunderdome puppies.
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Jun 13, 2023 23:08
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I can hope, punkily. in and flash me please
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Jun 14, 2023 04:12
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Self-Maintenance 1195 words The screeching klaxon assaulted Anisa’s ears as she entered Core Containment. “Control, can you kill the siren? It’s not like we don’t know we’ve got a problem.” Once she was left with the blissful quiet of her radiation suit, she keyed her comms over to the private channel with Schenk. The new guy had a diagnostic pad in hand, the screen lit up with a myriad of warnings. “I think you’re owed a hearty ‘I told you so’ for calling this one. You’ve been saying those couplings on the coolant lines were about to fail since you started working here.” The new tech didn’t budge. Anisa couldn’t see his face through the shaded face shield of the suit. Tristan Schenk was normally a twenty-something force of nature, all knees and elbows and esoteric engineering knowledge. She couldn’t remember ever seeing him this still. “Are my comms working? At least bounce back so I know you can hear me.” Schenk shook his head in the bulky suit, like he was clearing away a fog. Great, our wunderkind new hire buckles under pressure, Anisa thought. She snatched the pad from his hands and looked over the diagnostics. Nothing serious, at least, just a couple of bad couplings. Maybe a couple hours work at most. “Sorry Nise,” Schenk said in a whisper, so low she could barely hear him over the radio. “My head is in the stars.” Okay, I’m officially worried, Anisa thought. Schenk was normally like a bot when it came to problems like this, systematically deconstructing them with an inhuman focus and staggering speed. “Everything okay, bud?” She regretted it as soon as she said it. Bud? She barely knew the guy, and it would have sounded awkward coming from her even if they’d been old friends. “Yeah, no, it’s fine. I’m here,” Schenk said as he opened the toolkit. “Just got some bad news about my dad.” Anisa keyed off her mic and swore. Schenk’s dad had been diagnosed with Piari Syndrome a couple weeks ago—a degenerative disease that a lot of spacer engineers got, something to do with long-term exposure to the synthetic materials used in migrant ship engines. Not as scary or deadly as full-blown radiation poisoning, and it could basically be stopped in its tracks with treatment, but it was still nothing to take lightly. She keyed her mic back on. “Is it further along than they thought?” “No, it’s not that. The colony won’t pay for his treatment.” “What the gently caress? Why not? Didn’t he help build this thing?” Anisa waved a gloved hand at the glowing reactor core. “Yeah, but before the colony was really established. No unions yet. He was a wildcat engineer in the eye of the governing council, like most of the spacers that got everything on its feet.” Anisa looked over the diagnostics in silence. She had a lump in her throat that was part tears, part fury. Schenk was too young to remember what it was like when the colony was just starting out, the constant fear of reactor containment failing and blasting radiation into the residential domes, or losing power and facing the bitter cold of Freya’s developing atmosphere. People like Hasan Schenk kept the colony alive in the early days. “I get it, the colony is doing good but our resources are still limited.” Schenk said. His voice shook, though he was trying to hide it. “If we offered medical care to every spacer who passed through the port we’d be tapped for medical resources in a week.” “But he’s living on the colony now!” “Doesn’t matter,” Schenk said hopelessly. Whatever was holding him together started to crack. “Since he went back to cargo hauling afterwards, he was never officially employed by the colony. So no healthcare, and we’ll never be able to afford the treatments on our own.” Anisa watched Schenk meticulously lay out his tools, select the necessary replacement parts, and assess the failing couplings. This was a routine fix that Schenk could do in his sleep. He’d probably been swapping couplings on his dad’s ship as a toddler. But there were some things he probably couldn’t fix. Hell, there were reactor functions Anisa had never had to deal with, the kind of cascading failures that kept her up at night as she pondered the cold void of space and the thin layers of plexi and plastic that kept it at bay. The kind of problems the old settlers still reminisced about over mugs of synthahol. Anisa paged through the diagnostic info. There were a few other little issues, routine maintenance that would keep those problems at bay a little longer, just minor hiccups that weren’t a big deal if left unattended. Something like a containment shield with a hairline crack. It was an easy fix, assuming it didn’t experience a sudden and unexpected stress fault while the cooling systems were off. Schenk always brought a full toolkit in with him, no matter the job. He’d told her once it was an old spacer habit, because you never just had one problem on the bigger ships, and it was a pain in the rear end to fetch a tool you didn’t think to bring, especially if the artificial grav went out. Beside his wrenches, pliers, and multitools was a big, old-fashioned mallet, because sometimes on the ships, you just had to hit poo poo. Anisa scooped up the hammer, and with a swift, well placed thwack, hit the sketchy shielding panel. Schenk jumped to his feet as the sound of metal under stress rebounded around the chamber, followed by their old friend, the alert klaxon. “Anisa, this is Control! One of the shield panels just failed! What the gently caress do we do?” We like to think we’re capable engineers, but we’re all just babes in the woods when it comes to the big stuff, Anisa thought. “How the gently caress should I know? I’ve never replaced one, we’ve always reinforced them before they failed!” Tristan turned to her with tools in hand. Anisa didn’t believe in telepathy, but she mentally screamed at him to piece together what she was doing here. “I think we can just—“ Tristan started, but paused when Anisa showed him the hammer. She still couldn’t see his face, but something in his posture showed he understood. “My dad. Call my dad, Hasan Schenk. He worked on the core when they installed it, he lives in Res Dome 3. Get him here ASAP.” There was a moment of silence as they waited for a response. “He doesn’t have Core clearance,” Control said. “So loving hire him and give him the clearance! He built the drat thing!” Anisa said. “We don’t have any time to come up with another option anyway.” “Thank you,” Tristan said on their private channel. “We owe him,” Anisa said. “Now let’s get started on this.” Tristan took the pad from her and looked over the diagnostics. “Well… we actually do need to wait for him. You really hosed it up, I’m not sure how to start here.” He began to laugh. After a moment of shock, Anisa joined in and pulled him into a hug.
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Jun 18, 2023 19:50
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ARE YOU HARD ENOUGH 78 words LOOK KID, YOU WANNA DO THIS JOB, YOU GOTTA BE ABLE TO PISS INTO A TORNADO AND COME OUT DRY AS THE SAHARA. YOU GOTTA BE ABLE TO CHEW UP CONCRETE AND poo poo OUT DIAMONDS. YOU NEED TO HAVE A HEAD SO COOL THAT PLUTO ITSELF WILL JUST GIVE UP AND IMPLODE OUT OF ENVY. UNLESS YOU STEP YOUR poo poo UP AND COME CORRECT, I DON'T THINK YOU'LL EVER BE CUT OUT TO BE A DENNY'S OVERNIGHT SHIFT MANAGER
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Jun 21, 2023 02:44
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in, gimme a gobliny attribute
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Jun 28, 2023 19:06
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| # ¿ Sep 10, 2024 20:35 |
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The Night-Shift Goblin 942 words flash: stealthy goblin Once upon a couple of weeks ago, I awoke from the depths of sleep in the middle of the night. For a moment, I was uncertain what stirred me from my slumber, until I heard a light clanging sound coming from the kitchen. I ventured forth to investigate, and discovered a small green man tinkering about in my dishwasher. “What are you doing, you rapscallion?!” I demanded of the fellow. “Why me, sir?” he responded, backing carefully out of the appliance. As he came into view I saw he was endowed with a long, well formed nose and a pair of sweeping, majestic ears, all of which ended in very clean and defined points. I was taken immediately by the composition of his form. “Yes you, green thing! What are you doing there in my dishwasher? Are you the reason it’s been acting up for the last week?” “Why not at all! I’m fixing it, sir,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, which in retrospect, it should have been. “It is what goblins like myself do, we wait until you fall asleep and go about righting the little wrongs of everyday life. Haven’t you ever wondered why sometimes, when you can’t get a tool to work, or something just won’t come out right, but works right after a good night’s sleep? Goblins are why, my dear sir.” I was shocked by this revelation. “I thought such things were the province of elves and gnomes, limited to the work of cobblers and cookie production,” I said haughtily, as if I knew anything about the matter. “No, no, not at all, sir!” said the green fellow, most patiently and politely. “Why you’d be hard-pressed to find an elf that was housebroken, much less one that could bake. And gnomes hardly bear speaking of—they spend most of the day drunken and idle, entirely allergic to anything that could be called work. “Well regardless of what mythical creatures do such nocturnal fixings, I would think I shouldn’t stumble across you doing these things. Isn’t that how it works? You slave away for my benefit, and I slumber soundly, completely oblivious to your many contributions?” I asked, quite rudely. The goblin let out a long-suffering yet dignified sigh and carefully placed a socket wrench in an immaculately organized toolbox. “That, I fear, is indeed my fault. You see, I normally have the gift of stealth, and may move about undetected in the realm of man. But I have been so taxed by the many beneficent acts I have performed for people all over the world, that my latent abilities have become worn thin. It seems I could no longer conceal the sound of my work from you. And once I knew I was caught, it seemed futile to hide, not that there’s anywhere I could hide in this pigsty of a kitchen.” I was suitably chided by the goblin’s complaints, though his tale of woe and overwork somehow failed to pierce the iron globe I had in the place of a heart. “So this is what you do? Wander around fixing things in the dead of night, for no recompense or recognition? It seems a patently silly existence.” The goblin looked wounded, but had too much essential dignity to acknowledge the cutting devaluation of his livelihood that I had laid out. “It is indeed what I do, sir. What all goblins do, in fact. We were once cursed, generations ago, to serve humankind in this way. But do not let the word ‘curse’ mislead you, for I at least find great joy and satisfaction in the fixing of broken things. In that way, the work is its own reward, and I have no great need of recognition.” “But surely there is some punishment that will be meted out by a higher authority, given I have found you and ripped the veil from the great subterfuge of goblinkind,” I said, since apparently I must know that others will suffer in order to sleep soundly at night. “Oh please, sir,” the goblin asked, raising his empty hands in gentle supplication. “The only way the Great Goblin Council will know is if you spread word of my existence. But do so, and I will be torn away from your employ! Think of all the work I could do for you now that you know I exist. I am no longer limited to what can be done in darkness, and fixing that which might feasibly have simply fixed itself. I can clean, and cook, and do all manner of tasks that plague your day-to-day!” I thought on this but for a moment. “Yes, indeed, this seems a highly beneficial arrangement for us both. I gain the help of a competent and uncomplaining goblin-of-all-work, and you gain a reprieve from punishment. I agree,” I said, and held out my hand. The goblin placed his small green hand in my own, and we shook. Little did he know I would come to abuse this relationship to the fullest extent. Now, I go about my day, entirely reliant on the service of my goblin housemate. I often wonder what I would do without him, but have yet to motivate myself to offer any sort of recompense or succor to the goblin, despite the ample work he does for me. Maybe one day, I will come to truly appreciate his contribution to my well-being, and stop leaving so much work undone, knowing that in the end he will swoop in and complete these tasks at the last minute possible—tasks like, for example, writing my Thunderdome entries.
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Jul 2, 2023 21:36
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