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This is my first time Thunderdoming, but I can't pass up this prompt. I'm in. Give me a goblin fact. (Please.)
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Jun 28, 2023 12:40
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The Goblin Supplicant 1741 words "persistent goblin" During the third year of the siege of Kav’len, the supplicants arrived at the base of the mountain of Saint Esperanza. There were thirty-eight this year. They came from the many nations of humanity, each with their own reasons and requests for the holy saint to fulfill. As was customary, they had shed any signifying gestures of their own lands and donned the ceremonial robes that the saint had worn in life: a white tunic, a red belt, and a brown cloak covering all of it. In this way, the supplicants were all anonymous. That is, except one. For no matter how uniform and non-descript the ceremonial garb might be, it was impossible to conceal that one of the supplicants was three heads shorter than anyone else, her green, furry feet peeking out beneath the hem of her cloak. The other supplicants gossiped about her. One dared to walk up to her and ask, “Is it true? Did you really slip past Lord Brossley’s siege army, just to come here?” She turned to him, her face covered by the far-too-large robe hanging loosely over her, and said, “I am only a fellow supplicant to the saint. That is all I will say on the matter.” There were murmurs among the crowd. Some said, “She is far too small.” Others, “It is defilement!” At this, she spoke again. “The monks disagree.” This was not enough to shake the discontent, but they no longer hurled insults at her—or at least, not as loudly. The goblin sighed and turned again to the gate. Let them talk. There was only one person who mattered, and she was at the top of the mountain. A brace of monks walked through the crowd; one carried a brazier wafting incense in every direction (it reminded the goblin woman of the smell of the hearth back at home, when Kav’len had still had kerosene or firewood to keep the flames alight) and the other a great book, which he held in both hands high above his head. They stood on either side of the gate, and the second monk opened the book and recited a prayer or invocation of some kind in a language she did not recognize. He closed the book shut with a *thump!* that echoed through the silent space around them, then touched his hand to the gate. Rather than open, it vanished in a brown-gold sparkle; some of the supplicants gasped despite themselves. Then, the two monks stepped to the side and gestured towards the mountain path, as though inviting all thirty-eight of them to tea. Slowly, haltingly, the supplicants nearest the path began to walk forward. The rest of the group followed afterwards in fits and starts, like a train-car catching up to its engine. At this point, there was no need to rush. Time was not the limiting factor, here. The goblin woman kept to herself, towards the back of the pack, and used the moment to look at her surroundings. Kav’len was built on volcanic mountains, so the stones were familiar to her, but she had never seen such a thing as a forest until she had fled the city to come here. Here on the mountain of Saint Esperanza, the land was covered in fertile soil, which meant grass, trees, and groves of bamboo spotted the blue-gray rock with vibrant green. For now, the path was carefully trimmed, so that the barefoot supplicants could walk on soft, safe grass. At least until they arrived at the checkpoint. After about an hour, the checkpoint revealed itself. It was an opportunity to stop and mingle, but more importantly, any supplicants who had lost their nerve and were ready to abandon their quest could do so easily here. The monks would escort them back, no harm no foul. Two did so. The goblin woman looked at them with a pitying disgust. Had they really come to this sacred mountain, only to be frightened off by a nature hike? Or perhaps they had been forewarned of the trials to come, and knew their stamina had brought them as far as they could go. She would keep going, no matter what, though. Stamina be damned. The monks at the checkpoint caused the next gate to vanish. Where before, one could be forgiven for thinking they were walking through untamed nature, the next portion of their journey was clearly manmade. (Or perhaps divinely carved.) It was a tunnel climbing higher up towards the top of the mountain, its path impossible to see beyond where the outer light could reveal. No grass in there, nor charming view—it would be rough going, in the dark, for who knew how long. Goblins had no fear of the dark. They were as much of darkness as the obsidian and pumice that littered their home. She soldiered on, and the humans followed behind her. But she found, as the path ascended, that the ceiling was not rising at the same rate. Eventually, even she was forced to crawl on her hands and knees through the cave’s twists and turns. The darkness was looming, omnipresent, overwhelming. The cave walls amplified the sounds of fabric scuffing against stone, of skin planting against the rocks, and of the belabored breathing of her fellow supplicants. She had used a tunnel just like this one to slip past the human forces besieging her city. Suddenly, a hand clasped her ankle, and she cried out in surprise. But it was only one of the other supplicants, a man, crawling faster than she’d ever seen a non-goblin move—she could feel him using his elbows and knees like shovels to drag himself through the dark. She grimaced; it was a technique she had never considered before, and apparently effective. She raised her cracked and abraded hands and tried the movement she’d felt from him as he’d come by. It was, in fact, much faster than her baby-like method had been going for her. Maybe this way, she thought ruefully to herself, she could catch up to him. Eventually, after perhaps two hours of combined walking and crawling, the cave suddenly expanded, and before long light beckoned to the goblin woman from afar. She staggered up onto her feet and saw the supplicant who’d passed her waiting by the checkpoint. She hurried ahead and caught her breath as the monks offered her water. “Ah, so that was you,” the man said. “I figured you would have given up by now.” She shook her head. “I can’t, and I won’t.” “Good,” the man said. Then he turned away, accepted his own cup of water, and sipped thoughtfully on it as he looked up towards the summit. It was not far now; she wondered what the last phase of travel would be behind the gate. In the end, only about twenty of the supplicants made it through the tunnel, and even then more than half of them chose to take the monks’ path back down to the summit. But when the monks removed the final gate, the goblin woman gasped in dismay. Steps. All that was left was a spiraling staircase to the top. But the steps had been designed to appear huge even to humans. To her, a creature half their size, it was like the Great Cliff of Kav’dar, repeated one hundred times over. Where the humans could walk up the steps with long, deliberate strides, she would have to climb every single one of them. It was impossible. The first was agony. She had to jump, grab the lip of the stair, and pull herself to the top, while the supplicants around her simply took one big step. Then, as they took the next step, she had to wrangle the lip of the next stair, too. By the time she’d climbed up five or six of them, the humans were far past her. But she kept going. Stamina be damned. And as she kept going, the supplicants that had passed her began to trickle back down in defeat. Through the haze of exertion, she kept a mental list of how many had left at the checkpoint and how many had returned. Nine had gone up, including herself. Eventually, seven had gone down. When the seventh human passed her, she felt a surge of energy renew her. She could do it! There was only one left to challenge her. But even that energy dissipated, and the stairs kept going and going high above her. At some point, she reached for a step, and pulled, and her body did not go up an inch. She let go, sat with her back against the step, and wept. She had failed, and she could not save her people. As she cried, she heard steps coming down the stair. Perhaps one of the monks—but no, it was the last supplicant, the one who’d passed her in the tunnel. He said brusquely, “I thought you said you wouldn’t give up.” She wanted to come up with some lie—she wasn’t giving up, she was merely resting for a moment—but her sobbing betrayed her. He stamped his foot against the stone step. “If you’re giving up, go back down! But if you’re really here to petition the saint, then come!” She sniffled. He was right. She had to keep trying. But the steps-- Wait! The mountain beside the steps was craggy and difficult, and it would be an arduous crawl, but she wouldn’t have to pull herself up anymore! It was a very goblin-y way to climb the rest of the mountain, she thought with a funny sense of pride. The man nodded approvingly and walked up the steps, and she followed behind. She made it. It was even harder than she had expected, but she made it. The two of them stood before the sacred shrine where the body of Saint Esperanza rested, unsure of what to do. The man nudged her, and said, “You first.” She walked up to the coffin, removed her hood, and said, “My name is Maia of Kav’len. My wish is that you drive away the humans who are besieging my city. Save my people.” The man stepped up behind her and removed his hood. “My name is Lord Adovar Brossley, captain of the human forces at Kav’len. My wish is that you grant my army success and crush the goblin people.” And then they waited.
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Jul 2, 2023 22:08
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I'd love to judge, if I may.
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Jul 8, 2023 22:37
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Waking Up, by Mrenda I’m not quite sure what to make of this story. The central twist is clever, if a bit rough and mean-spirited. But this is a Shaggy Dog Story, I suppose, so I’ll take it. I like Gertrude a lot, so her getting her heart broken broke mine, too. The main character is really hard to parse, though. It took me a re-read to completely understand that she’d literally forgotten the dream entirely, as opposed to simply not knowing why she felt “refreshed” after chilling with the hobbits. I think it’d be easier to understand with a section break when she wakes up. But even setting that aside, she’s just kind of a non-entity. She doesn’t say much in the dream, and in the real world she acts completely rationally in response to a crank call, so… who is she, really? Your writing style is also very choppy. I think I noticed this in your previous story, too. There isn’t necessarily a “right” or “wrong” writing style for these sorts of things, but it needs to feel deliberate and purposeful, which I don’t get. The story jumps from topic to topic sometimes, and I struggle to keep up with the main character’s thought processes. Also we spend a lot of time in the hobbit dream world, which I appreciate, but I’m not sure how much of it is necessary when the real meat of the story is the confusion in the real world. The concept’s not bad, but the execution, particularly the characterization of the main character, needs some work. Of Bears, Wolves and Foxes by Flyerant ...oh! Orsino! Like a bear! I thought you were referencing Twelfth Night. I like the premise, fundamentally. I think the mafia setting is pretty great, although maybe I’m a little confused with all the talk of “family” being thrown around as to whether there’s a greater mafia community Orsino and Frederick are keyed into, or if it’s just the two of them. You’ve got two great twists here, the first being the main character’s infidelity, and the second being his attempt to stop Frederick from killing Orsino. They both tie together into this idea that, with hosed-up people like this, sometimes they stray, but they always try to do the right thing for each other in the end. With that in mind, let’s talk names. Like I said, Orsino is clever as a bear reference. But if Frederick is a wolf, why is he “Red?” Foxes are red, not wolves, so that’d be the main character. So why isn’t the main character named something red, and “Frederick” named something more wolfy? Like Remus. (Kidding, kidding.) I know I’m nitpicking. On the whole, the story is great! The ending is maybe a little too fast—I’d have liked a little more time to tease out the conflict between the two lovers—but that’s word counts for you. I wonder if there’s something a little longer in here you could expand on outside the Thunderdome? HELP! I’M TRYING TO DATE IN A WORLD WHERE MY FUTURE SELF CAN TIME TRAVEL TO RUIN MY RELATIONSHIP! by Copernic ...ah, hmm. The title did not set me up at all for what this story was about. This isn’t an isekai story, or a wacky comedy of errors about a character’s future self trying to ruin a perfectly healthy relationship. Instead this was a crushing, heartbreaking story about relationships that fail, when you don’t know why. It’s about tragedy, and averted tragedy, and how sometimes averting tragedy is even worse than going through with it. There’s a phenomenal story here that I know will ruin me. This story just isn’t it yet. The most immediate problem I have with the story at the moment is… well, I wasn’t getting the sense from this conversation that this date was going anywhere. The main character emphasized how much they were floundering, so… why would there even be a second date after this?  I get that the point was the future-self basically bailed them out of what was going so poorly, but… now I can’t seem to figure out where the relationship would have gone if the future-self hadn’t intervened. ...Although I guess that’s partially the point of the story. Maybe I’d like something that feels a little more touch-and-go, you know what I mean?I also wonder… how much is gained by the notion that time-travel is commonplace. I wonder if perhaps this story would be better as a magical-realism sort of thing, where only the main character sees their future-self and understands the import of that. Emma being upset seems to work just as well, if not better, if she doesn’t comprehend why he’s aborting their date like this. Basically, I’m of the opinion that every story with magic in it also has to make sense if the magic is only metaphorical. I know how to interpret the metaphor if the main character backs out of a potential relationship out of anxiety, but not if Emma… also… knows the anxiety but doesn’t care… I guess it works, but I dunno. It doesn’t sit right with me. It’s much easier to dig into bad stories than good stories, so forgive me for not having as much to say. I can pick at some of the punctuation and stuff, but… yeah, no, it’s great. If you change the title and maybe tighten up the time-travel stuff a little bit more, I think this story has a lot of promise. The Average Male Life Expectancy in East Glasgow in 1988 was 52 by Fat Jesus I’m always of two minds when I talk about writing style, because there’s always the chance that you’re doing it deliberately. The sentence structure and phrasing of this story is… well, it’s a right mess, but is that okay if you’re writing about characters who are messes themselves? That being said, you’ve done a masterful job of depicting these characters as right messes. The title’s certainly appropriate—the story’s a striking montage of the drug world and the mortality looming over it. The plot is also… I dunno. When I think about the story, I can see the direction the story goes, but in story, it just feels like… a mess! I’m sorry, that’s all I’ve got! It’s just messy. And I don’t know how much I can even tell you to clean it up, when the lack of direction is part of the theme of the whole thing! Sorry for the poor crit here. I really have no idea what I think of this one. It might honestly be better than I’m giving it credit, but I’m not the right audience for this story. noise by derp See, this story really gains a lot from the unconventional writing style. I really get the sense of how dreary and listless the main character is by his dreary and listless narration. And when we get to the description of the music, it flows and spills into itself, just like how the music feels to the main character listening. Goddammit, stop having teachers want to sleep with their students. Okay, now that that’s out of the way. There’s something very… ambiguous about this story, which I can’t decide if I like or not. The way I read it, the teacher actually really likes Gillian’s “music,” feels like she’s a true genius of her craft, the only student who listens to him—but that weighty, Anton Ego part of him feels like he has to be cruel to her, because she’s sullying the sacred field of Rachmaninoff. And a part of me thinks that Gillian knows this, and her little comment of “noted” is a double entendre as well. “Don’t worry, Mr. Rosco. I know what you really meant.” But the other part of me thinks that maybe I’m reading too much into it, and he really does hate Gillian’s work, and the only reason why he listens to it is because he’s enamored with Gillian herself. He knows he should be a kind teacher, even to students whose work he dislikes, but he always ends up more cruel than he intended, especially to her. (Or that he should be kind if he wants a chance in her pants, but not even that can motivate him to stop being so crotchety.) Or maybe I’m reading too much into that, and my first reading was right. *shrug* Anyway, I think I like my first version better, because otherwise all you have is a story of a boring, archetypal “surly professor” against a boring, archetypal “weirdcore Manic Pixie Dream Girl,” and I think you can do so much better than that. I don’t have it in me to be as mean as Rosco, but then your story isn’t as avant-garde as Gillian’s music is. Maybe it could stand to have a little more noise, too? Outstanding Contribution by Green Wing It’s great, to be perfectly honest. I don’t think there’s any part of it I don’t like. I like the setting, the characters, the twist in the plot (the plot on its own is very simple, but I love how it connects into the framing device). And hey, I’ll stand by any story whose theme is about how the death penalty is an abomination, and trying to rush it can only make things worse. But somehow, the story as a whole is less than the sum of its parts. I’m not sure what it is that’s not jelling with me. The writing style just… grates on me a little. I get that it’s meant to sound like a British gentleman of high repute, every word spoken with pinky fully up and upper lip fully stiffened, hip hip and whatnot, but there’s a messiness to it that doesn’t match up. It needs ironing out, just a little bit. (P.S. The crossword puzzle’s gonna kill me. Is the answer “rill?” I’d have to see the other words crossing it. Send me a DM to tell me what the answer is you had in mind.) Pipe Nightmares by FlippinPageman ...oh! This was cute! What a nice little story about the lingering regret when you give away something you love. ...or at least, that’s how I interpret it. Whenever I read stories about magic, I always try to interpret it in such a way that the magical elements are metaphorical for something that can actually happen in the real world. And there are no flying piano hammer fairies in the real world… at least as far as I’m aware. O_o ...but if that’s what the story is about, I can’t quite figure out what the “mind’s eye prayers” are about. They’re… messages from the fairies? It doesn’t mesh well with me. Honestly, I get the sense that I might be reaching a little bit—which is a shame, because I do think this idea has potential. But if it’s not about lingering regret, then it kinda just seems like a sequence of events in roughly chronological order, which doesn’t do anything for me. It’s got potential, so keep at it! Gravity by Ouzo Maki Oof. Everyone’s about to get spaghetti-fied. I like it! It’s a simple premise, but you put it together into something charming. The setting is unique, the characters are fun little things, and I love the looming sense of doom at the end there. My only complaint is… it’s kind of not about anything, y’know? Which, don’t get me wrong, is fine for a little toy story like this, but I wouldn’t print it in a magazine or a collection. Gaius and Nicola are just kind of… two kids. There’s no real characterization beyond the fact that one of them is older and the other is younger. I’m not saying they need a dead mom or some kind of high-falutin’ theory of mortality or anything. But just… something! You know? It’s cute, but it needs a little more oomph for me to call it complete. The Noise by My Shark Waifuu You got pre-empted on stories titled “noise.” Oops. And goddammit, my poor autistic brain totally recognizes this conundrum—hearing a thin, mechanical noise that only you notice or care about. This is a great little Shaggy Dog Story about being tormented by something you can’t seem to fix. And as someone who drinks coffee for pleasure rather than as a biological necessity, I love the dig at office coffee culture. I do wish there was a little more to Sarah herself, though. ...I’m not sure what else to say. It works! It doesn’t do much beyond its basic premise, but it does the job. It’s funny, cute, aggravating, and tragic. I kinda want a little more, but I’m not sure where I’d stick improvements. Maybe I wanted her destruction of the coffee machine to be a little more purposeful? Or to have her bounce off of other characters more? ...I dunno. Keep tinkering with this; it’s fun! The Firebird by Yoruichi AAAAAAAAAAAA I’m crying like I’m watching the season finale of my favorite season of Star Trek. (Okay, not really, but I sure feel like that!) What a nail-biter of an ending! Your writing style is excellent, the plot is great (if a little hard to follow, since it’s happening in a twisty alternate form of space), and the dynamic between the captain and her First Officer is truly a gem. (Although I think the names might have gotten mixed up a bit towards the ending.) As the nitpickiest of nitpicks, though… why did the captain send her First Officer? In any other story, this would be one of those Star Trek things where you’re not supposed to question why the three highest-ranking officers on board all go on missions together. (Because they’re the main characters, that’s why.) But you literally open the story with that very question, and ask it again halfway through, too. Why doesn’t the captain simply order her First Officer to do it? She has the authority to do so. And if the First Officer would refuse, why not simply ask someone else? Honestly, they probably have enlisted crew members specifically trained in alt-space retrieval. Send them! But you know what? That question doesn’t matter. Don’t listen to me. I love this story to bits. Man, I’d better go hunt down some of your other writing, too! #lockdownlyf by rohan ...oh. I… uh. Okay. I get that you had a word deadline, but it feels like we’d barely gotten started on this story. I don’t really feel a sense of tension yet. Like, yeah, breaking into somebody’s house is pretty extreme, but why did he even do it? Seems like there were a lot of options on the table before that. Including the one he himself considers, which he rejects for… reasons that don’t quite stand up to scrutiny. You kind of end up narrativizing through most of the story—which I understand, since it’s lots of sitting around doing nothing (#lockdownlyf) as he looks out the window at the family next door. But then you end up with… nothing happening in the main plot, either. Give me more pathos! More drama! I like the idea! Your writing voice is good, and the little womp-womp at the end got a chuckle out of me. But… I think this story needs to be like 3,000 or 3,500 words long. (Also, and this is just me being picky, but if it’s nighttime, the correct greeting is “konbanwa” or “oyasumi,” not “konnichiwa.” That’s for like early in the day but not the morning.  )
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Jul 10, 2023 20:16
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Copernic posted:
This story is super adorable. I remember when I was 10 years old, I wrote this terrible story about ducks getting stuck in bags, and the hero ran around and did random things to get them out. (I'm not sure where the idea came from; I definitely had never heard of Ape Escape.) Anyways, hope I'm not disappointing you, Kidpernic, but I'm not gonna give you real crit. You're 10 years old; you're still in your "million words of bad writing" phase, and I wouldn't want to discourage you. But I hope you had fun writing it!  Oh, and also this prompt sounds awesome. I'm totally in like Flynn.
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Jul 18, 2023 05:25
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Postcognition 974 words Grandma dug an old cardboard box out of her closet, the one I wasn’t allowed in. “Here you go, May,” she said. I laid out everything on the bed, and she stood by, watching me. She wouldn’t be able to see him, once it started, but that didn’t matter. She’d see my reactions, and that I supposed was enough. First would be his wedding ring. Grandma kept it in a little black ringbox, and as I opened it up, I recognized the upper half of the ring from the old photos of him. I extricated it from its seat, then dangled it from my finger. The metal felt ice-cold, “the chill of the grave,” or so I’d heard it described. I twisted it back and forth, worried the magic wouldn’t work. Then, out of nowhere, he was there, sitting on the edge of the bed, kicking against the frame. “Hi, kiddo.” I swallowed. “Hi, dad. It’s good to see you.” He twisted to look in my general direction, but he couldn’t see me directly. He smiled, and he looked so handsome, like a gentleman thief. “I loved your mother, more than I can describe. We met when I was out on my mission—I was out at a bar, even though the church said alcohol was a sin. My ID was forged, and so was hers. The first time I heard her laugh, every flirty joke I had for her fell right out the window, and all I could tell her was the truth: I was desperately in love with her, and I would never love another.” I laughed, and he sat up. “Yes, just like that. You sound just like her.” He paused, then ran a hand through his half-translucent hair. “The ring is for you, if you want it. You can give it to a man who will sweep you off your feet, like your mom did for me.” I blushed and looked away, suddenly hesitant. “Or… a woman, maybe?” Dad paused, then grinned. “Or a woman, sure.” Then he was gone, and the ring lost its chill and warmed to my body temperature. I took off the ring and set it gingerly back in its box. Grandma asked, “How was he?” “He was nice. He gave me his blessing.” I picked up the next object, a red and white scarf that was hopelessly fraying on one side. “I wish I could talk to him longer.” “I know. I’m sorry.” I draped the scarf over my shoulders, then looped one side around my neck. It felt like the hand of Death was trying to choke the life out of me. But it meant he was there, standing by the window, his face two years older, but somehow decades aged. “Hi, kiddo.” “Hi, dad.” He turned his head a degree, then went back to press his forehead against the glass. “I was wearing that scarf when your mother died. I thought… it was unfair. You’d just been born, and you were the greatest thing that ever happened to us. But she started bleeding after we took you home from the hospital, and then it wouldn’t stop…” I wished I could touch him, hug him, tell him everything would be okay, even though it wouldn’t. “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me anymore.” “I do! If I don’t…!” He shuddered, then held a hand to his forehead in grief. “I thought… why did God wait so long? Why did he wait until the happiest moment in my life to punish me for leaving the church? I thought He must be some sick son of a…” He paused. “How old are you?” “Twelve.” “Son of a gun.” He tried to laugh, but it came out weak and unconvincing. “But I realized, that’s just how it goes. And not even our family’s Gift can turn back the tide forever.” Then he was gone, and Death’s grip loosened on me. I didn’t want to take it off, but I couldn’t keep it on and wear the hat simultaneously. Magic rules, or something. I pulled it hard, harder than I’d anticipated, and Grandma said, “Dear, you’re crying.” I pawed at my eyes with the back of my wrist. “He told me about Mom, and about God punishing him.” She reached forward, about to say, “You don’t have to--” “No.” I put a hand on the hat and pulled it to my side of the bed. “I’m ready. I want to know.” She nodded and stepped back. “This one is the most difficult. Are you sure?” I swallowed. “Yes.” Then I put the hat on my head. It felt like the crown of a wicked ice king, frozen cold against my brow. He was suspended in the air, his hands in front of him as though holding a steering wheel, facing down towards the ground. “...you know I wanted to be there for you, kiddo. You know that, right?” “Of course you did.” He winced. “I did!” Then he said, more quietly, “I did…” I turned away; I didn’t want to look at him. “So why did you die, then?” Behind me, he sighed. “I… lost control.” “Of the car, or of yourself?” Then I tore the hat off of my head before he could respond. I fell to my knees onto the carpet, and Grandma hurried around the bed to hold me. “What happened?” “Do you think he did it intentionally? Drove off the road, off the bridge?” “Wh—” Grandma hesitated, stunned. “No! Didn’t he tell you? The road was too icy, the brakes locked. That’s what he told me!” “That’s not what he told me. He said he ‘lost control.’” “Exactly! Don’t you believe him?” “No.” “Why not?” I stared into the carpet. “Because the Gift isn’t the only curse I inherited from him.”
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Jul 23, 2023 05:09
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Y'know what? I'm in. How about 52? That's one year after it started, more or less. edit: oh god I should have looked at the list first, I don't know anything about blaxploitation 
ActingPower fucked around with this message at 17:27 on Jul 24, 2023 |
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Jul 24, 2023 17:23
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