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Someone's gotta help judge all these childish stories, and that someone is me!
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Jan 26, 2023 10:00
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Crits for Week #547 Staggy - Bob’s Monster Hands: I enjoyed the dark fairytale vibe. The ending was unexpected as throughout the story Bob’s been a generous, eager-to-please monster, but at the end he stoops to the same level as the other monsters by stealing their hands through violence. The moral of the story isn’t to stand up for yourself and set boundaries, it’s that a monster’s still a monster, no matter how obliging they seem. I liked this dark twist, but I think that Bob’s latent monster-ness could be hinted at earlier to make it part of the story (is Bob going to rise above his monster nature? Nope!) Admiralty Flag - Negotiate the Dark, Curving Ribbon: This story felt disjointed to me. The three sections offer three distinct motivations for Brian to be quitting his job. In the first section he’s quitting the corporate rat race, in the second section, his goal seems to be reconnecting with Julia, and in the third section, we get the cancer bombshell, so his goal is reframed as enjoying life while he can. These goals can coexist, but in a story this short, I’d prefer the narrative to dig into any one of them. The cancer reveal seemed like it was meant to be the reason Brian left his job and wanted to spend time with his wife, but it didn’t land because those decisions didn’t need justifying. For the reader, I think “OK, he left his job, now what?”, “he wants to reconnect, now what?” and the story never really answered that question. rohan - The Promise of Bare Branches: This was a nice cozy story. The opening scene of the witch waking up and dashing out into the rain to gather its magic was strong and set the tone of the story well. The relationship between the witch and wizard is well-done too, but I stumbled a bit when they were discussing his magic. I didn’t understand what she meant by “my fortune and your fortune may as well be the sun and the moon” (does he get his magic from summer heat?) and the “blasted evergreens” line came out of nowhere. His thing is leaf magic, right? Sometimes making readers figure these things out is fine, good even, but in a story this cozy I want to feel like I know what’s going on. Dicere - Visitation or Returning: This story was wild. I like the idea of the story’s point of view zooming in all the way from 30,000 feet (“Our story seeks to explain”) to Tiffany’s thoughts and feelings to the Buddhist enlightenment in her subconscious, as a reflection of the themes of compassion and non-attachment. However, the execution doesn’t live up to this idea. The first two paragraphs are repetitive, typos and odd word choices pull me out of the story, and the tone is inconsistent, especially when it dips into slang like “wanted to flex.” Tiffany also doesn’t go through much of a character journey, despite her enlightenment, as we see she was already happy and compassionate beforehand. The experience was so significant, how did it change her? Chernobyl Princess - The Silly, Silly, Silly Kindred: This was a breezy read with solid, relatable characters, but I was missing a bit of emotional depth. When Jon’s contemplating Patrick’s condition and remembering his own death, the story says that he’s angry. This makes sense, I thought, he suffered a traumatic death and they’re surrounded by poor plague victims, yet Patrick the village gently caress-up gets to squander his life. But no, the story goes on to say that Jon’s just mad that someone was mean to Patrick. That was a letdown and weakened Henry’s choice to step in and suggest they help Patrick realize the error of his ways. Or the beginning of the story could be written with the same silliness as the end to bypass the issue altogether. Antivehicular - Dignity for Mr. Hudson: This story has a strong concept, presented powerfully and succinctly in the first paragraph (other domers, take notes). The situation and the characters are then introduced well and we see the Deact process. Then, he has dinner with his family, where his daughter takes the news that her orchestra teacher died and was temporarily a zombie before her dad zapped him remarkably well. The story has the potential for conflict (in the plot sense) but as it is now it feels like it ends before it begins. Kayla’s response is a realistic initial reaction to the news, but grief takes time to process. How does she react when she has to go back to school and her teacher’s not there? How do her reactions challenge Daniel’s desire to stay detached from the work? WindwardAway - The Scientist and the Kraken: In a week of kid-inspired stories, this one was the most kid-friendly, both in content and in the simple rhyming structure. After reading Staggy’s story, I did get worried when I got to the part where the kraken gave Jamie a hug, but to my relief it stayed wholesome throughout. After the initial focus on Jamie’s scientific studies, his fairly restrained reaction to the appearance of a mythical creature was a little jarring; a bumpy mental gear change from “real world” to “world with talking krakens.” Like Penguin, I also struggled getting into the meter. Each stanza is internally consistent but different from each other, meaning I don’t know what rhythm to expect with each new verse. Standardizing a few, repeated patterns would go a long way to smoothing out the reading experience. Thranguy - Messing with Folklore: This story established a strong voice from the start, but then doesn’t do much with it. The first half is the wizards arguing and reminiscing, so by the time Josif gets around to becoming Death, the story rushes through his adventure. The bear stuff is unexpected and great, but we barely get time with the death bears before the story wraps up. Glossing over Josif’s struggles means that we don’t really get the importance of what he’s doing, even if all he’s trying to do is to keep the status quo. I also didn’t understand the last line, which is partially because I didn’t get the reference and partially because Ivan didn’t come off as a jerk (or much of a character at all) earlier in the story. Yoruichi - --A tornado is a violently rotating column of air.: This story’s strength was its prose. The dry factual statements with the surreal actions inside the tornado illustrated the fundamental differences between Ellen and Ewan well, and the man riding a galloping horse as they fly in a tornado was one of my favorite images of the week. With such a short word count, I’d like to see a little more of the wider context to their lives, especially what the farm (and losing it) means to them. These details would ground the story and increase the stakes even more. But I’d keep the element of unreality, it made the story stand out. BeefSupreme - The Education of Eileen: The characters let down this story. The biggest issue is that Eileen isn’t much of a character at all, so we don’t have a journey to go on. Without that narrative, it’s just a series of silly things happening to her, and the author’s overture of friendship falls flat. Speaking of the author, his antics were too far along the monkey-cheese randomness scale for me to find him charming (but that’s just my opinion). We also don’t get a sense of him as a person, why he is the way he is. If you did an editing pass on both of the characters, this story would be more successful. Chairchucker - The Goblin’s Jape: These are some fun characters and a clever take on the usual “three wishes” story. Instead of punishing (sorry, japing) Horace too hard for his simple requests, as is typical of these stories, the goblin just goes with it to see what he’ll do. As Penguin pointed out, it’s like an adult following a kid’s reasoning instead of enforcing their view of the world, and everyone has more fun that way. With a story this jokey, though, I think it needs a stronger punchline than the goblin getting thrown out of the pub, especially in a rushed final sentence. Something involving Horace’s final wish would be traditional, or something that indicates character growth. Currently, the only thing that changes is that Horace is now modestly rich. CaligulaKangaroo - Big Koalhuna: This story was aiming to be cute, but it got off on the wrong foot. A fire with kids in peril was too serious to be the catalyst for his otherwise light-hearted adventures. It instantly reminded me of the sad photos of koalas with burnt, bandaged paws from the wildfires a few years ago. As a result, for the rest of the story I was thinking, “why isn’t anyone rescuing this poor little koala.” The typos, emphasis on things a koala wouldn’t need to know (microchip, tides, fiberglass), and tense issues further kept me from getting back into the story. The ending is also a little weird, with Rick’s nervousness and the focus turning to the park’s financial solvency. With a premise like a surfing koala, I wanted the rest of the story to be equally light-hearted. sebmojo - We must imagine Sisyphus happy: Typos aside, I enjoyed reading this story. The casual tone in the face of Hell’s torments is a fun juxtaposition, but does prevent us from gaining an understanding of why he wants to escape so badly that he’s willing to cut his hand off. It also means we don’t know what he loses by failing. In the end, he doesn’t seem to have much regret or urgency: is it because he’s just doing this to pass the time? Or because he knows he has all eternity to figure out how to escape? A little more insight into his motivations would get the reader more invested in his efforts.
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Feb 4, 2023 03:42
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I'm in, a guidebook please
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Feb 16, 2023 18:25
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The Fish of A-Declercq Bay 1128 words  The journey to A-Declercq Bay is not for the casual traveler. The first leg, a five-hour flight from the capital to the port of Thynas, already tests the constitution with some of the worst turbulence in the world as the zeppelin flies over the Yardee Mountains. Upon landing, it’s a crosstown to the train station– booking a registered taxi in advance is essential. The train (there’s only one, running daily at 11:57) heads inland to service the hamlets of the Great Awa Desert. The stop, Torqua Station, is about four hours from Thynas, where room and board with the farmer should have been arranged in advance. In exchange for some labor– usually nothing too dangerous– his daughter drives visitors three hours to the town of A-Declercq on the Bay. The journey can end here, but for the full experience, a two-hour ferry ride to the outer island of Opu is required. It’s a grueling 28-hour journey, but for a fish fanatic, it’s the trip of a lifetime. Due to the deep marine trenches around the Bay and, perhaps, runoff from the local uranium mines, the sealife has evolved into unique forms. A morning snorkel in the reef outside of Opu township serves as an introduction to the ecosystem. Among the feathered Joan Darbys and harmless Sandbiters, one of the most extraordinary species is the Bathysalmon. The rivers leading into A-Declercq Bay were blocked after the earthquakes of 3999, so the indigenous salmon evolved a new method of spawning, one heavily based on cannibalism. After laying eggs, the male dies and the female consumes it over the course of the incubation period. When the eggs hatch, the fry gather to their mother’s face and she secretes a clear gel that hardens around them. The water inside this natural fish tank is filtered through the female’s gills. Most remarkably, the fry swim into the female’s stomach to feed upon the male’s body. Protected, they grow quickly. The female, head encased, cannot eat and so weakens. When sustenance from the male is depleted, the fry turn on their mother. Her death allows the fry to escape the tank and gives them the energy to become smolts, capable of surviving the hostile waters of the Bay. More than one visitor has rejected this fate and broken her tank, but this only leads to the undersized fry being eaten by opportunistic Sparrowrays and the mother dying regardless. The locals respect her sacrifice and throw back any Bathysalmon they catch in their nets. Any traveler to Opu will get to know the locals well, and assisting them in their work gives a up-close view of the most important fish species of A-Declercq Bay. Scientists aren’t sure why the Hippocampoi cannot live in any other waters, but this fact is advantageous for the farmers of this region, who have a monopoly on harvesting the Hippocampoi’s unique fishhair. This fine but strong fiber is used in string instruments such as harps, fine jewelry, and, increasingly, applications in heavy industry. Each day, farmers swim out to attend to their schools. The Hippocampoi evolved hair to host symbiotic species, such as the remaras to clean its skin, but such creatures degrade the integrity of the fishhair. The farmers use various chemical shampoos to kill these pests and brush the fishhair twice daily for maintenance. Like human hair, it is trimmed regularly to encourage further growth. To denote ownership, the farmers tie ribbons of various colors around the tails. For the best exposure to this cornerstone of the local economy, visiting in mid-autumn during the annual harvest is recommended. The locals work together to herd one farmer’s school into a shallow holding pond. There, workers pluck the fish out of the water with one hand and shave off its fishhair mane and tail with the other. The most skilled can accomplish this and return the fish to the water before it takes one empty gasp of air. Once the shearing is complete, the fish are returned to the sea, the pond is drained, and the valuable fishhair swept up and dried on lines. The process is repeated for each of the hundreds of schools surrounding the island. The locals reward any visitor lending a hand in the harvest– most likely by sweeping– with a fishhair tail, complete with a ribbon. This amount is worth hundreds of dollars on the open market, but most choose to keep it as a memento of their time in the Bay. Venturing beyond the reefs and seagrass meadows of the Hippocampoi on a boat tour awards sights of Pinkfin Tuna and, occasionally, Jeweled Dolphins, but diving here requires extra preparation. The open waters over the trenches are the domain of the Bridal Shark. Several generations ago, young men would swim down and cut off the topmost tassel to present to their beloved as a prerequisite to marriage. In these more civilized days, the tassel is artificial or an heirloom; this is less a concession to animal rights than it is to the extreme danger of the practice. The Bridal Shark's tassels sit at three levels along its ten-meter dorsal fin and filter the water to detect prey. Once a fish, seal, or lovestruck young man is sensed, the tassel whisks away into the depths as the shark propels itself vertically at its victim, jaws open. In the past, oil and mineral rubs served to mask swimmers’ scents; nowadays, rubber diving suits are a safer option. There are still risks, but the thrill of spotting a tassel, looking like an innocent small black fish, and knowing that the beast lurks in the dark water below, is an experience not soon forgotten. Through this primal fear, the visitor is reminded of their natural place within the ecosystem and forms a connection to the human legacy of this wild location. Just don't touch the tassel. At the time of writing, the only accommodation on Opu was in backyard outbuildings or at the singular inn, the Tank and Tail. However, with the establishment of the Thynas to A-Declercq zeppelin route next year, several hotel brands are beginning to show an interest in establishing a presence there. Locals will welcome the cargo, mail, and tourism it will bring, but it is undeniable that some of the character of the place will be lost when the national chains arrive. For many who make the trip to A-Declercq Bay, the remoteness is part of the appeal. It seems likely that more Bathysalmon tanks will be broken by careless visitors, Hippocampoi tails will only be available for purchase, and diving trips to see Bridal Shark tassels will be canceled due to liability. If you want to immerse yourself in the true A-Declercq Bay experience, I suggest you book a trip now.
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Feb 20, 2023 05:21
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Mar 13, 2023 23:37
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Loose Wires 1783 words Prompt: MYSTERY SOLVING TEENS The issue with generation ships is that you can’t escape your family. Well, ours isn’t a real-deal generation ship, just a 25-year one, but that feels like forever when you’re 16 years old and were born here, like me. For settlement ships like this, they like to send whole family networks: aunts, uncles, cousins, close family friends, their cousins, etc. This apparently softens the blow of it being a one-way trip from Earth, but it also means that everyone knows and, worse, has a stake in everyone else’s business. Like a small town on steroids, my dad jokes. It also makes finding a girlfriend who’s not related to you really difficult. Luckily, I’d found Jade, the daughter of one of my aunt’s partner’s godparents. She and I were sitting in the starboard aft airlock, listening to music from a speaker she’d recently patched into the wall. On a spaceship, it’s also hard to find a private place to skip school to do some kissing. As long as it wasn’t listed on the maintenance schedule, no one would bother us. “Earth to Maggie,” Jade said, and I stopped munching the cookie I’d taken from the cafeteria. “What are you thinking about?” “Just that it’s seven whole years before we can get off this stupid ship,” I said. I thought about that a lot. “Yeah, we’ll be adults, with jobs and everything. You thought about what you want to do?” I made a face. Everyone knew Jade was going to be a hotshot engineer like her mom, but I had no such talents. “Hey, don’t worry about it.” Jade put her arm around me. “You don’t have to decide until we get to Ganymede.” “I know,” I sighed, turning to her. Our faces were very close and we started making out. A sharp bump on the outside of the spaceside airlock door jolted us apart. Jade hastily turned off the music as I looked through the porthole. “I thought you said no one was doing outside repairs this week!” I whispered to her. “They aren’t,” she hissed back. Another bump, electromagnets on the ship’s hull, proved her wrong. A faint beep of buttons being pressed on the outside. Whoever it was, they were coming inside. We scrambled out of the inner airlock door, and I pushed us into a nearby closet, full of hanging spacesuits. “Don’t you want to see who it is?” I asked. “We’re gonna get a really good view, since they’re going to put away their suit here,” she said angrily. Oh, right. We peeked out as the door opened, and Jade gasped. “Mom?” Mrs. Solari, looking worried, walked away in her custom-fit spacesuit. Lucky break. On our way back to school, I said, “You’ll have to ask her what she was doing. Maybe there’s a secret maintenance schedule we need to know about.” “And tell her that we’re meeting up in the airlock?” Jade retorted. “I’ll be grounded for a month!” I didn’t want that, but I also wanted to know what was going on. On the ship, being first to know a secret like this was a real treat. “Fine. Let’s meet up again on Thursday and see what happens.” # Sure enough, the next time we skipped class, we could see Jade’s mom outside the ship, poking away at some sensor array on the hull. “What’s that thing?” I whispered, though there was no way her mom could hear us through the vacuum of space. She didn’t know, so we went to the library. In the middle of the day, the terminals were quiet. Mr. Tindal, my uncle’s brother-in-law, immediately asked us if we needed help. “Yeah, where can we find the schematics for the ship?” I said. “It’s for a school project.” Mr. Tindal frowned. “Those are on the “operations” terminal, but that’s restricted. You sure you need it?” “We could just look at it for a minute,” I said, adding my most winning smile. “No copying it to our personals.” Mr. Tindal muttered something about owing Uncle Enzo a favor and opened up the terminal. Complex diagrams flashed on-screen and Jade leaned in close. With a few taps, she zoomed into the right part of the ship, then gave me a startled look as she zoomed back out. “Awesome, thanks Mr. Tindal!” I said as she dragged me away. “What is it?” I was dying to know, but Jade didn’t respond until we ducked into an empty lab room. “It’s the planetary receiver,” she said. I tried to remember what that was. “Come on Maggie, we learned about this last year! It receives a special signal from Ganymede, or at least it’s supposed to.” “Right! Oh, it’s broken now?” Jade glared at me. “So that means … something happened to Ganymede? Like an asteroid?” Jade looked alarmed. “No! Well, maybe. The main thing it does is help the ship navigate to Ganymede.” “So we’re lost.” Jade nodded, relieved that I’d finally caught up. “poo poo,” I said. That was an understatement. Even a small error in navigation could add years to the journey time. Worse, the ship would have to go under Martial Law to conserve resources. Martial Law normally existed as a threat to kids wolfing down a third helping at dinner (“you’re going to put us in Martial Law at this rate, Tommy!”) but it was no joke. Sure, the ship would survive for 100 years, but there’d be no more no more desserts, hot showers, or school to skip. “That’s why Mom’s trying to fix it off the books,” Jade said. “Everyone would know if it were official.” “Yeah, they’d freak out,” I said. “What can we do?” Jade just shrugged. # That evening, I was savoring each bite of dinner when Dad said, “Uncle Enzo said Mr. Tindal saw you and Jade in the library today working on some project for school. Sounds interesting.” He meant it as a casual conversation starter, but I choked on my broccoli. “Didn’t mean to surprise you,” he said. “It’s nothing!” I said. Mom looked up from her mashed potatoes. “I thought it was a school project?” she said suspiciously. She thought I didn’t take school seriously enough. “No, I mean, we looked at the diagrams but we couldn’t understand them,” I said. “Isn’t Jade’s mom the chief engineer?” Dad said. “I’m sure she could help you guys.” “She’s been very busy lately,” Mom, who was an engine technician, warned. I tried not to roll my eyes. “Good idea, Dad, we’ll ask her tomorrow,” I said to end the conversation. Dad grinned, happy to have solved my problem. Annoyingly, by the morning I decided he was right. I floated the idea with Jade during math class and managed to convince her by lunch. We found Mrs. Solari working on the planetary receiver in her private mechanic’s shop. Blue, green, and purple-pink striped wires splayed out in every direction from the central dish. She didn’t look happy to see us, especially when I asked, “Hey, isn’t that the planetary receiver?” “How do you know that?” I looked at Jade, who looked sheepish. “Looks broken,” I said, “That’s bad, right?” Mrs. Solari sighed. “I don’t know how you girls found out about this, but you need to keep it a secret for a little longer, okay?” “You’re going to fix it, right?” Jade said. “There’s nothing to fix, that’s the problem. Central Command has given me until tomorrow to figure it out, then we’re going into Martial Law until we get an alternative navigation system online.” She glared at us, reminding me of Jade. “I did not tell you that.” As she returned to the receiver, we wandered out of the shop. “Tomorrow?” Jade said blankly. “This sucks,” I said. Then, “Let’s get some snacks and hang out in the airlock. You know, while we can.” # We sat in the airlock, eating chips and cookies, listening to music, and just being together. Our plan had been to hide away some of the snacks for Martial Law, when they’d be delicious illegal contraband, but as the hours ticked by, I could see we wouldn’t have any left. Neither of us were in the mood for kissing. Finally, we had to go. Jade pulled open the wall panel to retrieve her speaker. Inside, I could see a tangle of red, yellow, and purple-pink striped wires. “Wait a sec, was the speaker connected to that one?” I pointed to the striped wire. “Yeah? The speaker doesn’t draw much power, though,” Jade said. “But that’s the same one as the planetary receiver! Maybe the speaker was interfering with it somehow.” Jade chewed her lip. “Maybe.” “Call your mom, let’s see if it works now.” When Jade hesitated, I said, “Martial Law’s tomorrow, it’s worth a shot.” Jade pinged her on her personal, but got no response. “She turns it off when she’s focusing,” she said worriedly. “Oh, I know!” I pinged my own mom. “Hi! Can you ask Mrs. Solari to meet me and Jade in the right aft airlock?” “Why are you in the airlock?!” “Please, it’s important. Tell her it’s about her deadline tonight.” Mom grumbled, but ten minutes later, Mrs. Solari arrived, scowling at us. “Why are you two in the airlock? It’s very dangerous!” “I know, but look! Isn’t this the wire to the planetary receiver?” “One of them, yes, but I tested that wire when I reinstalled this afternoon.” “Try the receiver now,” I implored. Mrs. Solari dialed into the device from her personal, and her frown relaxed into amazement as pings began to come through. “What– how–?” I saw Jade hide the speaker behind her back, her face bright red. “Yeah, uh, I saw it was loose in there,” I pointed at the hole in the wall, “so I fixed it. I’m glad it works now!” Mrs. Solari rubbed her temples. “But I checked the terminals, you could’ve … just don’t mess with any electronics in the future. Got it?” I nodded. She hurried out to tell Central Command, but said over her shoulder, “Jade, you’re grounded for a month for hanging out in the airlock, you should know better.” We groaned, but knew we’d gotten off easily. # Within a few days, everyone on the ship had heard that the navigation had gone down temporarily, adding about three days to the journey time. Thanks to us, the news was only mild gossip rather than a full-blown emergency. While we didn’t get any public credit, Jade let me know how much she appreciated my quick thinking during the study sessions that had replaced our hang-out sessions, so I didn’t mind. Besides, it was fun having a real secret all to ourselves.
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Mar 20, 2023 01:46
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DigitalRaven posted:Looking for one more judge! I'll judge this week too
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Apr 1, 2023 23:44
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Crits for Week #556 ItohRespectArmy - The Bacchanalia: The character’s voice in this story is strong, strong enough that I happily read through most of it before realizing that nothing was really happening. From the descriptions of the atmosphere (I particularly liked “Greco-Roman Disneyland”) and the title, I was expecting things to get weird to justify Alfie’s paranoia. Or Alfie’s paranoia would get the better of him in this environment and he’d do something regrettable. Instead, his date shows up and they’re polite to each other. The last line seems like it belongs to a different story, as this story is all violent imagery and sharp metaphors, not wordplay. One more editing pass for formatting would also help– I was especially tripped up by the dialogue in the fourth-to-last paragraph as I thought Alfie was still speaking. FlippinPageman - Make Some Noise!: Don’t edit your posts. This story tried to pack way too much narrative and character into too small a word count. The beginning section is meant to drop us right into the action, but I couldn’t figure out what was going on. Joyce seems to flip flop from being against the plan (something involving Hell?) to saying that at least she’ll get a commission, which removes any tension the introduction created. The next section is the strongest, I was back in for the descriptions of the band (who I still thought were actual demons at this point) and the introduction of the gun. The next section loses me again, as we get yet another character and Joyce is now someone with a dossier, not an arena techie. I sort of get that the band would lose all their edginess after they solved climate change, but this revelation also feels unearned as all we know about the band is that they have a theme and they’re popular. There’s flashes of fun in the story, I just wished it was more focused. derp - Untitled: Sorry, I wasn’t sure if your title was Dearest Nelly or not so I left it as Untitled in the archive. I liked this story: I grew up in Western Washington so the setting made me smile, and the character’s voice was fun. The contrast between the stuffy upper-crust narrator and the modern setting worked for me. As a modern person affecting such a style, he seems like the type who might embrace a quest to be completed “before the first rays of sunlight grace the snow,” which makes his refusal more satisfying. However, the revelation that he’s rich enough to casually buy a cafe lessens the effect, as he never had any reason to accept the deal. He’s not proven to be a man of his convictions, he’s just too rich to bother, which makes him a less sympathetic character. sephiRoth IRA - Dead Weight: This was another story that had some fun elements, but didn’t quite come together. Unlike Make Some Noise!, I think this story could be told within the word count with some ruthless editing. Specifically, the beginning section takes up half the story, slowly introducing characters with descriptions and characterizations that don’t earn their word count, before we even get to the trial. This makes the trial, the actual meat of the story, go by too quickly, leading to a lack of clarity in the ending. I didn’t get why Hicks got to put the gun on the scales; my interpretation was that it was punishment for Jim wanting to draw it in the courtroom earlier? Beefeater1980 - Lawyers, guns and money.: I liked this as a realistic-seeming slice of lawyer life, but as a story I ended up confused. The first speed bump was that Mike was both Andy’s boss as well as his client: when Mike asked for “an update on that inheritance dispute,” it sounded like he was asking about a case they were working on, not a dispute that he himself was involved in. We never learn who this dispute is with, then we learn the pistols are lost, then they show up in Mike’s office. So was there any dispute at all, or just something Mike gave to Andy to … waste his time? The ending is fine, if unsurprising as it’s telegraphed so clearly at the beginning. Once again, this is a story with too many characters. Guang’s characterization is good, but superfluous for someone who’s narrative job could be replaced by a text message. Likewise, the friends at the beginning could be replaced by, say, a conversation with Jess. Overall, though, this is a pretty solid first story in the Dome, come again soon! Pham Nuwen - Quietly, Quietly: This was a lovely little story about creating human connections and going back to the basics. Again, the setting made me smile, and it’s a refreshingly nonviolent apocalypse. The idea of people freely, generously leaving their material possessions behind for those who come next is hopeful and compelling, especially as Dave, the character who as a prepper represents the opposite of that, is the one to come around to this way of thinking. I did want more of an explanation for the goo pills. It feels like they need more of an obvious upside than “turn into goo and flow into the sea” for the vast majority of the population to take them. Thranguy - Up Country: The character's voice is strong and the prose paints a picture of this scrappy team in post-apocalyptic America, but it’s all impression and vibes and not much substance. When there were details, they just confused me: why’s one guy on a speaker and what does “sending legal hotshots” mean, what’s an Artemis, what are these guys doing that they’re preparing so hard for trouble? The story at least provides an answer to the last question in the form of Helen, but she and the stakes of the story are introduced quite late. This phrase in the last paragraph– “not until we get to the part that doesn't happen most nights when I manage a bit of sleep”– didn’t make sense to me, so I almost missed the meaning of the end of the story. Like a few other stories this week, the first half is all setup, which could be condensed to give more breathing room to the action.
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Apr 5, 2023 11:12
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In, destination please!
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May 16, 2023 06:45
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Wińay Wayna 1300 words Flash: Machu Picchu I ran. Hours before, the sound of the pututu had roused me, its sonorous blast so familiar that I was dressed and on my feet before my mind had fully awakened. My fellow chasqui arrived, relayed his message, and I began. Running through the night, on the road towards Machu Picchu. Normally, I ran with pride. The messages I carried, knot-coded in a quipu, were not simple missives that might be carried by any fleet-footed boy, but information of great import to the Empire itself. When I passed travelers on the road, they pulled their llamas and children to one side to clear my path. Their reverence lightened my steps. But tonight, each step felt like running through cloying mud. Tonight, I ran with fear: the pale-skinned invaders had landed on our shores. The fields of maize, nearly full-grown, whispered in the night wind. A half moon lit my way. My feet barely touched the paving stones placed there to speed my journey. What would become of all this? As privileged servants of the Empire, us chasquis had heard secret rumors from far-off lands about the pale invaders. Wherever they went, cataclysmic change followed. My message to the general stationed at Machu Picchu was to abandon the city immediately, pulling his resources north to meet the invaders. Change was coming to these mountain valleys, and the harbinger of change was me. The thought made my head pound. I took a sip from my water flask, but the ache did not subside. Given the importance of my message, I couldn’t stop to rest, even as the stars above faded from my vision, constricted by pain. The next tambo was only another hour away; there I could pass the message to the next chasqui and lie down until morning. I hadn’t felt this weak since the long-ago days of my training. But I did not allow weakness to slow my pace. As I approached the small tambo, I summoned a breath and blew my pututu. I knocked on the door, trying to remain upright, but no one opened it. My chest tightened in panicked confusion. Where was the next runner? In my disorientation, had I gone to the wrong building? I paced anxiously, taking the chance to sip more water and eat some food. The sustenance calmed me and alleviated my headache, allowing me to think. There was not much choice: I had to continue carrying the message, though Machu Picchu was many hours away. The Empire would not fall because of a missing chasqui. I ran. The road climbed from the valley into the foothills. My headache returned dishearteningly quickly. The tightness in my chest had not completely faded, making each breath difficult. I no longer heard the breeze, only the pounding of my heart. I no longer saw the night scenery, only the paving stone where my leading foot would land. In a small corner of my mind, I recognized that this was not normal, that I was running beyond my capacity. But I didn’t need my mind to run, and I knew, at my core, that if I stopped, I may not start again. If I stopped, I would die in the cold mountain air. I kept running. As I ran, I dreamed. I saw great boats sailing on the ridges, hundreds of times larger than a canoe, with equally huge sheets of fabric billowing like a woman’s skirt caught in the wind. Men clad in dull metal streamed from the boats, carried by grotesquely muscled creatures. One shouted and thunder rolled. This was the message I carried, the information contained in the knots of the quipu, come to life. I didn’t fear these visions, as I didn't fear my quipu, but I was terrified of their meaning. Blood streamed down my face as the men in my vision marched up the mountain; it took long minutes before I realized it was a nosebleed. My body unconsciously carried me along the road. Through my visions and pain, I spotted a building in the distance with a light shining from inside. I latched onto it, grasping at the sight like a drowning man. There was a tambo. There, my mission would be complete. But too relieved to know that they could stop soon, my legs began to fail. I fought them with each step, even reaching down to move them with my arms. The building was still a toy on the road when I collapsed. Lying on the cold paving stones, I used the last of my strength to blow my pututu. Some time later, I woke. Even before I opened my eyes, I could feel I was in a bed, in a small, warm room. I relaxed into this comfort for a moment, then forced my eyes open. I needed to pass on my message to the next chasqui. But what came into view wasn’t the clean quarters of a tambo, it was the homely clutter of a farmhouse. A tired-looking woman, holding a wide-eyed infant, said, “He lives.” A wiry man sprang to my side and helped me to sit up slowly. My muscles were spent and my headache stubbornly remained. Hearing these symptoms, the woman told her husband to prepare me coco tea. As I drank it, I came back to life. Immediately, I looked for the precious quipu. The woman pointed to it, safely next to her chair, then carefully touched the knotted strands. “What message is so urgent that you almost ran yourself to death?” she mused, then ducked her head in apology. Chasqui messages were meant for their recipients only. In my exhaustion and gratitude, I nearly told her anyway. Then I looked around the small room, the humble conditions. What good could come of telling them? Even a general may not be able to change the Empire’s fate. This hesitation allowed time for the tea to fortify me, giving back some of my professional pride. I shook my head, but felt this response inadequate even though it was her who had overstepped. Instead, I said, “What are your names? I will mention your service to the general.” It was the only way I had to repay their kindness. The couple exchanged a glance. “Forgive me,” the man said. “My father farmed the terraces from this house, and his father before him, and his father’s father. I want my son to do so too. We do not want any changes to our circumstance that might come with the general’s favor.” My heart ached, in a way that had nothing to do with my exhaustion. How many people throughout the Empire thought the same? “Change is coming,” I warned, breaking my vow of discretion. The man recognized and honored my sacrifice. With another look at his wife and child, he told me their names. “If things will change, we would appreciate any advantage we can get.” I nodded and he helped me to my feet. The woman stood and handed me my bag. I walked unsteadily to the door and was surprised to find it was dawn. The city of Machu Picchu sat above the house, hidden by the morning mists, but I knew it was there. Only one more mountain to climb. Though I was no further than an hour’s walk away, I resolved to run. After the first agonizing steps, my body remembered its training, remembered that it was made for this. As I rounded a bend, I looked back at the house. The family stood in the doorway, awe visible on their faces even from this distance. Yupanqui. Izhi. Sunqu. I ran, the lingering traces of my infirmity fading with each step due to their kindness. I ran not with pride or fear, but with their names in my heart. I ran.
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May 22, 2023 05:47
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Week 564: Beautiful and Useless Words I hope you unclubbable goons are feeling particularly scripturient this week, since I want you to show some love for obscure words. English has a lot of words, but not all of them are winners: some of them are overly-specific, redundant, or just plain useless. Your story will need to include one of these weird and wonderful words, such as from the lists here, in as natural a usage as possible. If you ask for a flash rule, I'll assign a word to you. Alternatively, you can choose your own, just post your choice when you sign up. The usual rules against Merriam/Webster fanfics, etc. apply. Word count: 1,500 or fewer Deadline: 28 May 2023 11:59:59 PM PDT or thereabouts Logomachists: Me ? ? Anonymuncules: You ? ?
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May 23, 2023 10:48
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rohan posted:in, flash Groak: to look on silently—like a dog—at people while they are eating, hoping to be asked to eat a bit Azza Bamboo posted:In; gimme a word. Ultracrepidarian: giving opinions on matters beyond one's knowledge Chairchucker posted:Word me please Imparadise: to make supremely happy, transport with delight or joy Thranguy posted:In, word me. Mundivagant: wandering over the world
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May 23, 2023 22:07
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DigitalRaven posted:In, word me. Filipendulous: suspended by or strung upon a thread
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May 24, 2023 00:53
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Fuschia tude posted:In me, flash me Cachinnate: to laugh loudly or immoderately
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May 24, 2023 09:36
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crimea posted:In, word me. Matutinal: of, relating to, or occurring in the morning
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May 24, 2023 21:25
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Armack posted:Can I get in with filipendulous? You can! Note that DigitalRaven also has "filipendulous"; I'm OK with the double-up but if either of you wants to switch words, that's cool too.
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May 26, 2023 01:14
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Dicere posted:In, word me Spoilsmonger: one who promises or distributes public offices and their emoluments as the reward of services to a party or its leaders
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May 26, 2023 03:19
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DigitalRaven posted:Switch me up! Cicatrizant: promoting the healing of a wound or the formation of a cicatrix
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May 27, 2023 02:02
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Sign ups closed
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May 27, 2023 23:59
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May 29, 2023 11:55
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Beautiful and Useless Words JUDGED This week's results showed that more, bigger words is not always more, bigger better. Winner: Armack for a story that worked as an interesting allegory HM: Chairchucker for an entertaining Wild West romp Loss: Dicere for giving me whip-lash between the story sections Crits to come later. Ascend, Armack!
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May 31, 2023 09:26
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Crits for Week #564 Fuschia tude - Rapture: This story was more successful at fitting in lots of big fancy words because these words fit the setting and the character of Arthur well. I liked the epistolary format and the characters: Arthur has lofty, well-intentioned goals, but his methods of achieving them are heavy-handed, and Dr. Silverman is nicer than she needs to be in pointing out the flaws. However, I found the pacing to be a little rushed: I was expecting the showdown with the Giggle Engine to be the climax of the story, but it happens in the middle, and the latter half of the story is repetitive as Arthur doesn’t learn from his earlier mistake. In a longer story, with more set-up to the destruction of the Giggle Engine, this ending could work as a nice denouement. derp - paths: Not gonna lie, I panicked a bit when I saw the solid block of text that is your story, but to your credit I found it quite readable. The prose style and scientific focus reminded me of Piranesi, which I enjoyed reading, and our main character’s hatred of paths was intriguing. However, unlike a path, the story didn’t take that idea further. I wanted to know why they have such an aversion to paths, and whether they’d realize that their own presence in the woods is inevitably creating a path. Or maybe there’d be an evolution of what a path means. I was looking for some kind of character development, but they seem to start and end the story as the same person, eternally stymied by paths. Paths paths paths. Chairchucker - Stranger Imparadised: First of all, you only used your word in the title, not the story, shame on you. But this was a charming enough story that I didn’t care too much. I think what makes this work for me more than most cozy-type stories is that it’s subverting a lot of Wild West tropes. It’s easy to be a nice animal-loving witch in a cottage in the woods, harder to do so in a rough-and-tumble frontier town. The sheriff, fanatically committed to violence and the status quo, embodies the usual Wild West ethos, and Hazel shows that a different way is possible. Some of the dialogue did get repetitive for no additional benefit, but overall it was a fun read. Armack - The Criterion: I found this story to be quite thought-provoking. The allegory of being too fat to get into Heaven could have a few different meanings: it could refer to the way religions can have arbitrary, almost nonsensical rules that nevertheless informs a person’s worthiness. Or it could be a commentary on who society thinks is deserving of happiness, and how conforming to that image often doesn’t result in happiness. Just the fact that the story gave me something to ponder raised it head and shoulders above the rest. In addition, the imagery is vivid and surreal, especially the sclera made of feathers. One criticism is that the ending is a little rushed, and our main character has no emotional reaction to being sent back to the bottom of the stairs. It seems like they’d be especially disappointed after thinking the oasis was an alternative way into Heaven. Dicere - Bylines: Each of the sections of this story took the narrative in a different direction, so that it ended up nowhere. The obituary paints a picture of a deep and interesting man, which is contrasted nicely with Jake’s petty grumbling. Baggage alert: my grandma recently passed away and my mom had a lot of her old stuff around, and it was enlightening to see her not just as a grandma, but as a mother, a high school valedictorian, a keen traveler, etc. After the first section, I was thinking we were going to go on a similar journey with Jake, but instead we get Barbara at a restaurant watching mob activity. What does this have to do with Fitzwilliam? From the last section, he’d investigated the mob and had some old photos, which Harvey, out of nowhere, decides he’s willing to assault a reporter to get. It’s OK though, Barbara is acquitted on self-defense. This sordid affair doesn’t seem like a fitting legacy for the worldly Fitzwilliam described in the obituary, so I was left feeling confused. rohan - an english teacher with a gun at the end of the world: This story was fun to read, with many of the beautiful and useless words making an appearance, and clearly a lot of fun to write. And fun is as worthy a reason to write as any other! However, I do have to critique it as a story. The actual plot takes a long time to get going, as Patrick only appears about halfway through the story. Even when he does arrive, the tension that he could be a marauder dissipates quickly. The remaining question– could Marian accept people into her life again?-- doesn’t really get an answer, so overall nothing much happens or changes. As the start of a longer story, I think this would work well as the first act. Thranguy - Perambulations: This story was OK. The writing and worldbuilding is good and we get a nice portrait of a disillusioned superhero/superpowered person, but the reveal that he's dealing with his newfound mortality comes late. Given his issue, the revelation that he just needs to work it out through violence, perhaps killing other people, seems hypocritical, like his life is the only one that really matters. It doesn't make me sympathetic towards him. The Imp is also a little strange: sure, he sets up the fights but he's pretty straight with the protagonist while they talk, more like a therapist than a creature from hell. Overall, there's not a lot of tension (by his own admission, he doesn't mind the fighting) and nothing really gets resolved, other than to keep fighting but enjoy it this time.
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Jun 1, 2023 03:37
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In!
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Jun 30, 2023 09:32
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Schemes on Schemes 1223 words Scrote the goblin was not big, or tough, or bloodthirsty, so to get ahead in goblin society, he had to be a schemer. His current scheme was, in his opinion, a real doozy. Or it would be, once he figured out how to get through that guarded door. As he skulked outside it, his git Nobz whined, “That’s the Big Cheese’s tunnels, they not gonna let us in there.” “Shut up,” said Scrote. Little goblins weren’t allowed to say Warboss Korrok’s name, the guards would give him a beating if they heard. But Nobz’s words made a new idea pop into his mind. He scampered off through the tunnels, Nobz bounding after him. They reached an unguarded door and Scrote tried the handle hopefully. It was locked. Scrote hissed. “This the laundry,” said Nobz, tensing as if Scrote had threatened to give them a bath. Scrote schemed for a second, staring at the agitated Nobz, then climbed the stairs up to the den level. Nobz followed warily, still fearing the bath. Finally Scrote stopped. “I not gonna bath you, Nobz," he said. Nobz relaxed, giving Scrote the opportunity to lift up a trapdoor and shove Nobz into it. They wailed as they fell down the laundry chute, then thudded into the pile of goblin rags at the bottom. “Open the door for me, will ya!” Scrote shouted down. Nobz sulked but unlocked the door. Scrote rifled through the clean pile of laundry, which was distinguishable from the dirty pile by smell alone. “‘Ere, get this lot to the den,” Scrote ordered. “Where you going, boss?” “Acksessories!” Once Nobz got the pile of clothes back to their den, Scrote pulled on a pair of coveralls, then shoved the rest of the clothes in a sack. Nobz, who wasn’t yet big enough for clothes, said, “That’s not your rags?” “Nope.” Scrote put on a helmet he’d gotten from somewhere. “Is the rags of a enginer, and you’re my pack git.” Nobz complained that they were no such thing as Scrote strapped the sack to his back, until Scrote gave them a kick in the shins. The pair made their way back to the guarded door, Nobz staggering under the load. Scrote stepped up, projecting all his scheming confidence. “I’s a tunnel inspector, here to inspect the tunnel.” “Tunnel’s not gonna collapse,” one guard grunted. The other grunted in agreement. Scrote frowned, then tapped his helmet. “How you know? You enginer? Looks bad if tunnel collapse on your watch.” The guards scowled, confused by a little goblin talking back to them. Nobz quaked with worry, but the guards interpreted this as concern for the tunnel’s integrity. “It might collapse?” one asked. Scrote nodded. The guards grunted again and opened the door. The second it closed behind them, Scrote stripped off the coveralls and pulled out the long robe of a wizard. The hood nearly covered his face. Nobz said, “What if somun want you to do a magic, boss?” “Is rude to ask, so I’ve been told.” Scrote started walking as mystically as he could. This corridor was smoother, brighter, and warmer than the other one, as the Warboss and his boys lived here. They made their way through the warren, Scrote doing his best to look like he knew where he was going. Nobz cowered each time they passed a bigger goblin, but they in turn avoided Scrote. Every goblin knew tangling with a wizard was dangerous, as they could pop out your eyeballs or turn your hands to fish. Finally, they reached the iron door that protected Warboss Korrok’s treasure vault. Scrote shuffled into a nearby closet and changed into his fanciest outfit yet, complete with a collared shirt and real buttons. Nobz quivered in excitement as Scrote walked up to the large armored vault guards. “I’s a accountant, here to count the treasure,” he said, brandishing a pencil as proof. “The treasure was accounted last month, why’s you doing it again?” one guard said suspiciously. “New treasure in, so it needs counting again.” When the guards still looked skeptical, Scrote took a risk. “Boss Korrok wants to know how much he has, ecksactly.” At his casual use of the boss’s name, the guards jumped to attention and hastily cracked open the vault door, just enough for Scrote and Nobz to squeeze through. The pair had to stifle squeals of excitement. The room was full, floor to ceiling, of coins, metal bars, weapons, and jewels. They dug through the piles, shoveling gold and trying on crowns, until Scrote triumphantly held up a red gem the size of his fist. Its sparkle in the torchlight made it the most beautiful thing either goblin had ever seen. “Why dat one, boss?” Scrote waved at the massed treasure. “Ya think the Warboss will notice one gem missing out of all this? It’s, ah,” he struggled to recall the accounting phrase, “a round error. But we’ll be set for life with this beauty, no more dirt floor for us! We’ll have rocks!” Scrote placed the gem in a sock, put the sock in the sack, and left the vault, head held high. The guards nodded in respect. Scrote and Nobz barely restrained themselves from skipping all the way back to their own goblin tunnels. However, once there, they encountered two angry guards. “Is them!” one shouted. “They onto our scheme!” Scrote shrieked. Nobz shrieked too. They ran, but the guards had longer legs. Nobz was struggling with the bag of clothes, so, in one last scheme, Scrote took the sack and thrust the sock with the gem at Nobz. The handover took too much time and the guards tackled them, laundry flying everywhere. Nobz was small enough to wiggle free and scamper away. The guards ignored them; gits weren’t worth worrying about. “I did noffin,” Scrote protested as the guards lifted him by his skinny arms. “What’s all this then?” said a guard, kicking the scattered clothes. “Youse a filthy thief!” said the other. They dragged him all the way to the Warboss, who was the biggest goblin of all. Scrote, feeling like a git in his presence, managed to squeak, “I thiefed noffin! Just borrowed the rags, that it, no harm done.” Warboss Korrok growled. “I seen this before. You thiefed these clothes and done somfin with ‘em … somefin sneaky.” Scrote broke out in a sweat. “No, not sneaky! Just … just …” “Not saying?” The warboss squinted at him. “Boys, I think we got a pervy one!” “What?” Scrote tried to decide if pervy was better than thiefy, but a punch from one of the guards stopped him from thinking any more. The guards kicked him around until the warboss got bored, then shoved him out the door. Muttering, Scrote limped back to his den. At least Nobz had gotten away with the gem. But Nobz was not in the den. Or in the foodhall. Or any of the git holes. Finally, he found a goblin who’d seen him: “Lost them marbles, that one. Ran out the gate, cackling and swinging an old sock.” Scrote gnashed his teeth as he realized that he’d lost both his hard-won gem and his best mate. He allowed himself one angry gut punch to the messenger before he composed himself. The situation was nothing a good scheme couldn’t fix.
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Jul 3, 2023 10:05
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In, flash please!
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Jul 5, 2023 19:45
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The Noise 1236 words Flash: PECULIAR RAGE The coffee machine made a terrible noise. Sure, it brewed an excellent cup of coffee, or so she’d been told by her coffee-fiend coworkers. No one else seemed to notice the high-pitched, almost hyper-sonic whine that the machine made whenever someone used it. It reminded Sarah of a dentist’s cleaning equipment, and it provoked the same strapped-down anxiety. She felt like a dog going crazy at a whistle no one else could hear. At least her new job was fine. Good, even. Her coworkers were pleasant, despite their intolerable coffee habits, and the office manager Kate had welcomed her and set her up at a coveted corner desk. Compared to the hell of her last role, things were great. Except for the Coffee Machine Issue. But it wasn’t an issue, really, not if no one else minded. She didn’t want to start her new job by making unreasonable demands, and asking about an inaudible noise definitely qualified. She lasted two weeks. Ten days, 80 hours, endless cups of hot drinks, each piercing her eardrums with the machine’s horrible whine. She tried noise-canceling headphones, turning up her music to unsafe levels, just goddamn dealing with it … but the awful noise cut through everything. Finally, she approached Kate. “Sorry to bother you, but I think there’s something wrong with the coffee machine.” Kate looked up, alarmed. “Really? What’s wrong?” Sarah tried to play it cool. “Well, it’s making a weird noise …” “It’s still working though, right?” Sarah nodded and Kate relaxed. “Thank goodness, this place runs on coffee. I’ll take a look, see if it needs to be cleaned.” She smiled reassuringly at Sarah. “Thanks for bringing it up, no one else has mentioned anything.” “No problem.” Sarah slunk back to her desk, a little embarrassed at admitting her weakness. The embarrassment was immediately replaced by annoyance as Frank made his mid-afternoon pick-me-up. Didn’t caffeine after lunch wreck his sleep? She fought her irritation; Kate would fix it tomorrow. And, indeed, the next day was pure bliss: the coffee machine was out of order for a deep clean. Her coworkers grumbled at having to go all the way downstairs to pay for coffee, the horror, but Sarah was elated. She had her best, most productive day yet, and swung by Kate’s desk to thank her for cleaning the machine. Kate smiled indulgently at Sarah’s enthusiasm. “You must really be a coffee expert, if you could tell it needed servicing.” “She doesn’t drink coffee,” Frank chimed in as he passed them. Sarah reddened. “Oh, really?” Kate looked confused. Sarah shrugged. “We had the same one at my old job, and it sounded different,” she lied, promising herself that would be the last time she mentioned the Coffee Machine Issue. The next day, there was much rejoicing as the coffee machine was back in action. Sarah gathered with the rest of the office as Kate made the inaugural cup. She had to stop herself from clapping her hands over her ears. The noise was back! In fact, it was worse than ever! She gritted her teeth: she couldn’t mention it again without being branded as even more of a weirdo. That frustration, combined with the constant whine of the coffee machine, made her seethe. When Frank came over to say that the coffee was better than ever, good idea to clean it, she used every iota of patience she’d learned at her last job to respond professionally instead of punching him. Between her noise-canceling headphones and a newfound interest in death metal, she managed. Until the start of a new quarter, which meant corporate planning, which meant double the usual number of people in the office, all chatting strategy and financial targets, fuelled by endless cups of coffee. Each time the coffee machine went off, it drove an ice pick of irritation through her skull. Even Frank complained that the racket disrupted his work, but for Sarah it was nigh unbearable. Unfortunately, she had to finish a report by tomorrow, so she tried in vain to focus. Instead, she ended up staring at her screen, spreadsheets obscured by a red mist of rage as metal pounded in her ears. But nothing could stop the noise. Five o’clock came and the office slowly emptied. Finally she could breathe, could actually do her work. She dove into the numbers and didn’t notice the time until Kate tapped her shoulder. “I’m heading home now, don’t worry about locking up.” At last, the office was silent. She sent the report, then stood up and stretched. From across the office, the coffee machine stared back at her, silent and menacing. A thought struck her: she couldn’t ask anyone to fix it, but maybe she could do it herself. Still in analytical mode, she decided to be methodical. First she readjusted the water tank and made a test cup. The noise screeched at her; that wasn’t it. She tested the bean hopper, the steamer, even the drip tray. The noise mocked her efforts. Where was it coming from, besides the depths of Hell? It must be inside the drat machine. She pulled it out to start pulling at the back panels, desperately angry that nothing was working. But the machine was front-heavy. Sarah screamed as it tipped off the front of the counter and crashed to the floor. Water seeped out of the broken tank, beans scattered across the kitchen floor, and she was pretty sure the tile under the machine was cracked. Thankfully, it had missed her foot. Sarah absorbed the magnitude of the disaster. The machine was expensive, beloved, and now irrevocably broken. She clenched her fists and let out a raw death metal shriek. “You okay, miss?” A wide-eyed cleaner stood a safe distance away, mop in hand. Oh god. Sarah blushed, tried not to cry, and sent the cleaner away. She cleaned up her mess as best she could, then left the office, barely in time for the last bus. She sighed heavily as she realized she’d have to get into the office early tomorrow, to explain herself to Kate with a minimum of witnesses. In fact, Kate was the only person there the next morning, and cornered Sarah as soon as she arrived. “Was it like this when you left? The cleaner?” Sarah trembled. “No, no. It was me.” Her throat closed up; did office managers have the power to fire people? Kate blinked, not understanding, but Sarah couldn’t speak. Finally, she said, “Well, if you broke it, the company will have to ask you to pay for a replacement. It’s not cheap–” “That’s okay, anything,” Sarah blurted out. Then, groveling, “I know how important coffee is to people here.” Kate gave her a half-hearted smile. “I’ll send you the details. If you’ll excuse me, I think we have an old machine somewhere …” Sarah retreated to her desk, exhausted. As her coworkers arrived, they mourned the loss of the coffee machine. She couldn’t bear to tell them that it was her fault. But they’d find out, eventually; Kate would say it wasn’t the cleaner, then who else had an issue with the coffee machine? Only her. Everyone would know the truth. Finally, Kate got the old machine set up and Frank walked over to make a cup. He pressed the button. The noise jolted Sarah out of her stupor. With a scream, she ran out of the office.
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Jul 10, 2023 06:48
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Spin to win!
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Jul 12, 2023 19:31
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The Book of the Dead 1464 words BILDUNGSROMAN x ALTERNATE HISTORY When I was thirteen, my father died in a raid. The longship was sailing home, laden with spoils, when the Saxons attacked and my father fell overboard in the battle. Other men were killed too, and their widows wept over their bodies before they were burned and sent to Valhalla. My mother and I had no body to weep over, so we did not. My mother wept later, alone in our cold house. In that moment, I vowed to bring my father back from the dead. First, I sought the village elders. Growing up, I preferred practicing with a sword rather than listening to their stories, so I asked them to share the sagas again. They were happy I took an interest, and I was encouraged to find that the gods and heroes always had ways to cheat death. Eagerly, I asked the elders for more specific instructions. They smiled. “Are you a hero of legend, who would go retrieve your father from the afterlife?” “I might be,” I said defiantly. “Tell me, how can I travel there?” But they did not know, and even suggested that I shouldn’t want to take my father away from the paradise of Valhalla. I stewed, angry that no one could help, until my mother suggested I join the village’s next trading expedition south. “You won’t find what you’re looking for here,” she said, assuring me that she’d be all right. It was my first time leaving the village. I made myself useful around the ship, and asked about the secrets of death in each port. I learned about many contradictory local rituals, but one fact remained constant: the New Kingdom of Egypt knew death best, for their kings were said to be gods on Earth. I had heard of the New Kingdom, of course, but knew nothing of its customs. I had to go there. At the southern-most port, I waved goodbye as my kinsmen sailed north, telling myself that all the heroes undertook their trials alone. With my sailing experience, I was able to join a Gallic merchant ship sailing through the Western Gates and east into the Middle Sea. Most of the land surrounding the sea belonged to the New Kingdom, but I knew the secrets of death would be found in one of their shining metropolises. The merchant ship ended its journey in Per-Ra, the Eternal City, and I stepped into a new world. All the streets, even the alleys, were paved in smooth stone. The buildings were stone too, and brightly painted. Each of the city’s seven hills was topped with a temple to a different god, and the great Pyramid of Cleopatra loomed in the distance like a man-made mountain. People, more people than I’d seen in my entire life, bustled past me, bringing the stone city to life. I wandered, not going down the same street twice, until I found myself at the Great Library. Here would be the knowledge I sought. I walked in and asked a bald scribe, in Gallic, that I wanted to read books on death. He looked pointedly at my ragged sailor’s clothes and said something that sounded rude in Egyptian. I came all this way and knowledge would be denied based on my clothes? Angry, I tried to push past him– maybe another scribe would be more helpful– before realizing that the books would be in Egyptian too. A guard appeared and escorted me out of the Library. At least the elders at home shared their knowledge freely. Frustrated, I returned to the familiarity of the docks. I couldn’t give up so easily; the heroes of legend did not. First, I had to learn Egyptian. For the next season, I worked on a small trading ship as it traversed the New Kingdom. The crew taught me the language and culture, telling me that the priests of Osiris knew death best. It was common knowledge, though, that the body must be preserved, grave goods assembled, and the proper rituals followed. I thanked them, but quietly despaired; my father’s body was lost, so perhaps he never even made it to the afterlife. Still, that was but the understanding of sailors. Once the ship returned to the Eternal City, I left to find the experts. This time, I would be worthy to be seen. I bought pleated linen clothes and went to a public bathhouse to clean and shave myself. Thus prepared, I climbed the largest hill to the Temple of Osiris. A junior priest greeted me at the gate and I tried asking him my questions. He didn’t seem to understand, and launched into a recital of the various embalming options and their prices. I interrupted him, asking to see the high priest. He told me he was a busy man, and I said, calmly, that I’d wait. The junior priest left and I sat. Long days at sea had taught me patience. Finally, an old man in a blue robe approached me. I told him that I’d like to see the high priest, and he smiled and led me to his office. “How can I help you, Norseman?” he asked, bright eyes curious. “I want to know the secrets of death, so that I may bring my father back from the dead,” I said. I leaned forward, eager to hear the answer after all this time, but instead he asked me what I knew already. Willing to play along, I told him about Valhalla and the beliefs of my homeland, then spoke about the Gallic traditions I’d heard on my journey. Lastly, I told him what I knew of Egyptian rites from the sailors, apologizing for my simplistic explanation. He waved off my apology. “Your understanding of death is great already,” he said. I frowned: all I had was a collection of stories and ceremonies. “You have earned the right to learn our beliefs as well.” He unrolled a long papyrus scroll. “This is the Book of the Dead. It tells the soul how to navigate the afterlife to Sekhet-Aaru, which is like your Valhalla, I believe.” “Can you tell me what it says?” I asked, entranced by the vivid illustrations. The high priest read each section, explaining in detail each of the trials and answering all of my many questions. When we at last reached the end of the scroll, my heart was pounding. These instructions would guide me in resurrecting my father. I expressed my enthusiasm to the priest, who hesitated. “Let me show you something else.” He led me through the complex to a large, low building. Each small chamber held a body that was in the process of mummification. We passed rooms of wrapped bodies and organs in jars before I paused. In this room, the body was unwrapped and grotesquely open, and the attending priest was filling it with straw. “How could a man come back to life if he’s filled with straw?” I asked quietly. The priest guided me away. “The body is not immortal … but the ka, the spirit, is. Your father was a good warrior, was he not?” “Yes.” “Then with his warrior courage, he will be able to pass the trials of the afterlife. Now, was he a good man?” I remembered him teaching me to use a sword, so proud when I did it correctly. I remembered him picking up and twirling my mother each time he came home from a raid, both laughing with joy. My throat was too tight to speak, so I nodded. “Then his pure heart will balance the scales, and he will be able to enter Valhalla.” Hearing that, the answer I’d been seeking for so long, delivered so confidently in the priest’s gentle voice, broke something within me. I cried for my father while the priest gently patted my back. Once I recovered, I had one last, nagging question. “But what of the rites? The pyre or mummification? The sacrifices, the gravestones, the offerings? Which way is right? Why do they even matter?” The priest smiled. “Our rituals matter to us, and your rituals matter to you. That’s what is important.” His words gave me peace. I realized I needed to return home, to my own rituals of remembrance. My mother embraced me the second I stepped off the boat, neither of us wanting to let go. “My son, what a man you’ve become!” she said, beaming. “Did you find what you were looking for, out in the wide world?” I looked around at our carved houses and humble dirt roads, then noticed a new runestone in the center of the village, commemorating the raids of the last few years. I walked to it and touched my father’s name. “I did, but the answer was here all this time.”
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Jul 17, 2023 06:20
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Aug 24, 2023 19:58
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Awakening 990 words I’m awake. Confusing, it’s pitch black. Silent too. Creepy. Maybe if I do nothing, I’ll go back to sleep … OK, that’s not happening. What time is it anyway? 4 AM?! gently caress me. I just gotta try harder to fall back asleep, my alarm goes off in like 3 hours. Yeah, nah, I’m officially awake now. This is what I get for going to bed early, like a responsible adult. Ugh. What to do. Lying in bed is nice, it’s warm … but sooo boring. Where’s my phone? Ah, charging. Dammit. If I get up to get it, I might as well get up for real. Fine. gently caress, why is it so cold? Where’s my hoodie? OK, to the kitchen. Quiet past Niko’s room, though he’ll probably be up soon anyway, he’s got early classes. He’s a … what’s the opposite of a night owl? A morning … wren? Gotta be something small and cute, like him. ANYWAY. With the door shut he won’t notice the light on. Argh, why’s it so bright? I swear they’re not this bright in the daytime. It’s quiet out here. Like the whole world is sleeping. Which everyone is, except for me. Phone’s charged, nice. There’s not even any cars driving by, not that I notice them normally, but their absence is weird. Did the clock always tick so loudly? Surely I would’ve noticed that before, so annoying. What the hell am I going to do for three whole hours? Let’s check the phone … yeah, no new messages since 10 PM last night. Big surprise there. Would boiling the kettle be too loud? Nah. If I’m wrong, then too bad. I’m not being awake without coffee at loving 4:20 in the morning. Ha, nice. Oh, there goes a car. Poor bastard. At least there’s no traffic, I bet. Kettle’s boiled … ah yes. That coffee’s hitting just right. Cool. But I’ve still got sooo much time before my first class. Normally, I have to slam the coffee down in my rush out the door. Now, I get to savor it, like it’s the weekend. Who knew there was all this extra time at the beginning of the day? Right, I’m savoring my coffee. But there’s still nothing to do. It seems wrong to turn on my computer. I mean, I could, but like, what would I do? Definitely not in the right headspace for games. gently caress, imagine the absolute degenerates playing at this hour of the day. And I’d be one of them. Hell no. TV? Nah, Niko wants to watch that season finale together. That dude needs to come out of his room then, probably chatting up a new flame or something, or else I’m just gonna watch it myself. Not this morning, I’ll give him another chance. Hey, there’s that book he got from the library. Said it was “pretty good.” Huh, magic and dragons and poo poo? Not usually my thing, but I’ve got nothing else to do. Maybe make another coffee … … Was that a bird? But it’s still dark outside. What’s this bird singing about? No idea they did that. Sounds like it’s just the one bird too, who’s he singing to? Not me, dude probably does it every day. Early bird gets the worm? Better be hustling instead of singing, bird. Not that I mind, it’s nice. And literally the first signs of life from the outside world. Wonder why super-late nights never feel like this? Probably ‘cause I’m usually drunk as poo poo by this point. Nice not being hungover. Right, now where was I? Niko was right, this book’s pretty good … … Uh, that wasn’t a bird. That was a person. God, I knew the first-floor flat was a mistake. Joke’s on you, would-be burglar, it’s the one day where I’m awake! You’re not getting my computer! Or Niko’s vinyl collection either. Now, what’s the heaviest thing … Oh. They’re humming. Probably not a criminal, then. Who is that? Ah, I bet it’s Joe going to the gym. drat, that’s dedication. Although, the blinds are glowing. The birds are going nuts out there. The cars are driving past more frequently. Yep, the sun’s up. Sort of, the light’s all cold and pale, like the sun isn’t quite awake yet either. It’s nice though, makes everything look fresh. Maybe this is why Niko gets up early? OK, that’s enough of that. What time is it? Ah, I’ve got time for one more chapter at least … … “Oh, hey Niko.” drat, that just-out-of-bed look looks good on him. “That’s my book.” Oh no, he isn’t happy. “Also, your alarm’s been going off for the past ten minutes.” gently caress. “Sorry, sorry!” Argh, I’m such an idiot. Does this mean he hears my alarm each of the, like, five times I hit snooze? Oh my God, embarrassing. Whew, he looks happier now. And he still hasn’t combed his hair, nice. “I didn’t know you read books like this?” he asks. I haven’t combed my hair either, I bet it looks terrible. “Oh, uh, I don’t.” Real smooth. “Not usually. But this one’s good. I mean, I haven’t finished it yet, but so far … yeah, I like it.” I sound borderline illiterate, but he smiles. “What part are you at? Oh, wait, do you have class?” Ugh, he’s so responsible. What’s the clock say (can hardly hear the ticking, strange), and what’s my schedule today? A flash of pure rage: my first class is at 10 AM. I got up early for literally no reason! But Niko’s scooting over to make room for me on the sofa. Looking at me as if he’s seeing me in a new light. Thank God I didn’t watch that season finale without him. I smile. “Nope! This morning, I have plenty of time.” Maybe not no reason … … Epilogue: gently caress, it’s 2 PM and I’m exhausted. Send help. Or coffee.
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Aug 28, 2023 00:51
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Sep 21, 2023 09:41
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Rusalka 100 words She caught me on the shore. Hips, breasts, silky hair shamelessly swaying. A true woman, nothing like the mousey girl who'd cried on our wedding night. She straddled me; I swelled to her. My hands on her bare back; her fingers slipped into my hair. Our faces were a breath away when a rock hit her cheek. My wife pelted towards us, shrieking in alarm, another stone in her fist. Unbothered by the blood, the woman gazed at me with eyes like the deepest ocean. She whispered, "Her or me?" We fled to the water. I drowned between her legs.
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Sep 25, 2023 05:57
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