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I'm in, time to dome
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Jul 4, 2023 19:11
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Outstanding Contribution 999w I should like to give you some background first. It's unbecoming to brag, but between you and me I have a terribly important job, and I am rather good at it. The entire village works for the Ministry in one way or another, it is no secret what I do. Geoff at the market asks me how my day was when I buy vegetables, and I give an annual talk for Deirdre at the primary school about the necessity of our expedited prison system. We all understand, you see. The world may not work the way it used to, but my job is no different from Geoff, from Deirdre, or even yourselves. It isn’t as though this job is a new idea; this country had an official executioner until the 1960s. The crisis of the last few decades might mean that our methods are somewhat rushed, but I like to think I bring professionalism to the role. You’re quite right, I’m getting off the subject. Please, there’s no need to be rough, we really are all on the same team. It was the bum end of an early shift. I’d performed seven disposals that morning when the Minister arrived with his aide. Couldn’t tell the aide from Adam, they come and go all the time. As I can see you’ve checked, they signed the register and made their way to Cell 23. No, I most certainly did not listen to what went on in there. We do not get involved in interrogations. I do what I can to ignore the sounds, a little sudoku here and a crossword there. I was trying to tease out “Dull river crossed by fish (4)” when the cell opened again. The Minister walked swiftly down the corridor, his back turned and hat replaced. The aide made his way to my desk, face pale. Not, I suspected, a successful interrogation. The young man told me the Minister would like me an Expedited Disposal on the occupant of Cell 23 immediately. Now, I understood the procedure well enough, and this was a deviation. If you would check my records, you will see that I am one of only 30 per-cent of Disposal Associates to achieve a rating of ‘Outstanding Contribution’ for each of the last three years. I know, if I may say so, my onions. This gentleman did not act like he was on a spot-check. A forced laugh and a patting of pockets came before a theatrical slapping of his forehead as I reminded him of the process. Of course, he said. How silly of me, he said, such an instruction must only come from the Minister. Although, he said (and here his lower lip turned up into an desperately pathetic sulk), the Minister had left for an urgent meeting with the Security Service and was incommunicado for the day. He briefly went on a tangent about the Faraday cages these meetings were held in, before stopping bashfully. Ah, youthful enthusiasm. The young man sighed, bloodied knuckles tapping on his teeth. How were we, two professional Crown servants, to solve this conundrum? And then, with a speed that caused his gore-soaked tie to flick dull red spots onto my desk, he threw his finger up in triumph. Of course! The Minister had signed the order. He produced the note (yes, this same note, stains and all). Signed, proper and official, with His Majesty’s seal. He wrung his hands as I inspected it. And oh, gentlemen! You should have seen the wretch. Ill-fitting suit, cheap glasses, ruined white shirt (awful decision in this work). I took pity on the boy. It doesn’t do to be a roadblock to Government, not in these times. He made sure to take my name as he left. That’s how you know they’re going to put in a good word. Once he left, I did my duty. They must have really roughed up the fellow this time: they’d gone to the trouble of putting a bag over his head. He didn’t move at all as I raised the barrel to his forehead, sat limp in the chair in a too-large prisoner’s uniform. I called down for the cleaner as I usually do. Paula (nice girl, thick as a post) said that she didn’t think there were any more booked today. She didn’t understand, and I had to explain twice. That girl couldn’t think her way out of a paper bag. It’s curious how some things only come into focus when explaining them to another. The Minister had dashed down the corridor in a dreadful hurry, and a hat indoors? And hadn’t Cell 23 been quite a stout man? Once Paula agreed to do her blasted job, I took another look at the slip. Ministers must be frightfully busy, I’m sure it’s normal to photocopy a signature. And the Royal Seal. I sat there for a spell, and it was then I elected to end my shift and amble home for a late lunch. There was a queer atmosphere around the village, silent but for Ministry cars barrelling down the street. I was grateful to shut out the world and sit in my lovely cottage, turn on the television and try to relax. University Challenge, an all-Oxford matchup, Balliol facing Wadham. I couldn’t focus on it. Doing my best not to think about what had happened, I fell asleep. I told myself, as mum would say, it will all come out in the wash. I woke when your boys knocked my door in with a ram. Unnecessary, though I suppose forgivable, given the circumstances. And that brings us to the present. I’m very sorry to hear about the Minister, really I am, and I do hope you catch that rascal from Cell 23. I hope you can see that this was a rare lapse in an otherwise stellar career and allow me to return to work. After all, my job is terribly important, and I am rather good at it.
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Jul 10, 2023 01:26
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In and spin baybee
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Jul 11, 2023 17:01
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In,  (due to failure last round)
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Jul 19, 2023 22:09
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Duty Visit 1000w Cathy The retirement complex has its own tiddly little bus, a single-decker that goes all about the houses. Half the other passengers already look dead. Charlotte, who doesn’t give me a moment’s peace the entire way. Always her stomach aching or her phone not working. I give her a clip around the ear, and she screeches. My face burns, people turn, people were staring with those awful, sunken, coffin-dodger eyes. “People are looking!” Shut up, shut up! Why is she doing this to me, why does she make everything so hard? “Sit down! Sit down and be quiet, do you want them to throw you off the bus? Eh? Do you know how to walk home by yourself?” The old man a couple rows behind, I can tell he’s fixing his disgusting rheumy eyes on me. He’s thinking, what a beast, what an awful mother. No idea, not a clue what I’ve been through. Every day the same, spittle and runny noses, cornflakes and school sandwiches and has the old bat ever offered help? Has she ever, spending all day gorging herself on cake, can’t even lift up the phone but to say to me, oh Cathy you’re doing it all wrong, that’s never how I was to you. One more visit and I’d never have to look at her again. Filthy tip of a place, disgusting that anybody lives here. All institutional redbrick and peeling pastel paint, the building looking about as decrepit as the half-ghouls that call these rooms their crypts. The old cow is sat on it all, perched on what’s mine. She’ll tell me where it was, she’s give me what’s mine, what was always meant to be mine, what I deserve. Thea Somebody visiting. Come to ask for something, either money or time. Not that I have much of either. Not now, too tired, sent them back. They never let me sleep, those girls. Always calling to complain about their awful lives and absent boyfriends. “It’s your daughter, and granddaughter. I’ll just let them in for a moment, ok?” The nurse doesn’t wait for a reply, so in they come. Here comes Cathy, proud as punch, always righteous, forever strident. And in tow, little Garnet. Eyes red, head low. It takes Cathy digging her fingers into the girl’s shoulder to bring out a sullen “Hello Granny”. Thinks that she’ll get more out of me by dragging her along in a cheap chequerboard frock. She looks like she dressed in the dark. But ah, she’s animated now. She lifts my hand off the chair and squeezes it, I suppose the nurses think it affectionate, but her grip is strong and my fingers brittle. It won’t be long until you’re here too, girl. Your hands may have more lotion, but in time they’ll be parchment too. I let my eyes lose focus. She was always like this, even at Garnet’s age. So many questions and ambitions. How she drove me to despair, her father to drink, her sisters to rage. Never satisfied with all that we gave to her, always grasping for unearned praise. I was too soft. I know what she wants before she mentions it. She wants to know where I hid it, thinks that it’s her just reward, thinks that a few visits to me will mean I can forget the agony she put me through. “You’re ruining that girl.” That shuts her up. I make sure everybody in the lounge hears it. Silly old fool, they’ll think, doesn’t know how loud she’s talking. “You’re ruining that girl and she’s going to end up just like you.” That’s right, girl. You want to cry, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes, the glowing red in your cheeks. Just like you did every day as a brat, every time I told you “No”, every time I caught you stealing. Cry, let everybody here see what a pathetic little girl you are. You want to know where my treasure is hidden? Well, you can’t. It’s mine, and that means I get to decide who gets it. You are a selfish girl who needs a cold, hard lesson in how the world works. It’s mine and will be mine until the day they pack me away from here in a coffin, and there is nothing you can do about it. Garnet Mummy keeps saying we have to go and visit Granny, which isn’t fair because we can only visit her on a Saturday and it’s been every Saturday for weeks and there’s nothing here and it smells and the bus always makes me feel sick, but I complained about it last week and Mummy got upset so I don’t complain about it anymore. The other girls spend their weekends round each other’s houses. When I asked why we’re visiting her so much, Mummy said that I was a nasty girl who didn’t care about her poor old Granny. Granny doesn’t say much and scares me. Granny and Mummy have just finished talking. I don’t understand what they’re talking about, there’s something in the old house that Mummy can’t find and she keeps asking if Granny knows where it is. I keep saying that if we asked my Aunties to help we’d be able to find something. We’ve only just got here when Mummy grabs my arm and it’s too hard and it hurts and we’re walking too fast too fast and the nurse tries to hand me something but we’re already leaving and we’re already gone. I don’t say anything on the bus, Mum’s too cross and I know not to say anything when she’s cross. I go to my room and wedge myself into the gap between my wardrobe and the wall. Mummy doesn’t know about my secret place, about my hidden door and my special treasure, about the loose wall behind the wardrobe or the special room. She’ll never know because it’s my secret, it’s mine, all mine, and will always be mine.
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Jul 23, 2023 21:50
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You know what, sure. I'll join the festivities, my week will be 449. https://thunderdome.cc/?week=449
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Jul 24, 2023 15:46
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Week 574: drat Dirty Apes! I’m tired of reading about all these humans. Humans! Who’d have them? Not me! For this week’s prompt, non-humans must inherit primacy. Whether this is in-progress, long in the past, or imminent: That is up to you. But your story must either involve or include a non-human species having or taking primacy from humans. I would like two co-judges, and brave supplicants to the dome. Your word count this week is 1,500 words. Your deadline for registering is midnight California time, Friday Your deadline for posting is midnight California time, Sunday. (I’m actually British but I’m being nice) Entrants: Fat Jesus Ouzo Maki Crain Fuschia tude Bad Seafood FlippinPageman Slightly Lions The Cut of Your Jib Thranguy Judges: Green Wing Sebmojo Green Wing fucked around with this message at 13:27 on Aug 5, 2023 |
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Aug 1, 2023 07:18
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Fat Jesus posted:I'm in. Flash rule: the humans are still around, they don't realise they're no longer in charge.
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Aug 1, 2023 14:25
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Crain posted:I'm in. Requesting a Flash rule as well. Flash rule: The cows inherit the Earth.
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Aug 1, 2023 23:57
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Fuschia tude posted:This is the thing I am also Flash rule: Your story is from the perspective of the last human
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Aug 2, 2023 00:45
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Slightly Lions posted:In, flash me Flash rule: At least we all have jobs now.
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Aug 3, 2023 04:38
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Sign ups are closed. Edit: could use a third judge though! Green Wing fucked around with this message at 13:27 on Aug 5, 2023 |
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Aug 5, 2023 08:04
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That's time, thanks for playing. Results from the court of the apes or something will come later.
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Aug 7, 2023 07:23
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All the animals (the two of them) convened and have decided that the decision of the dome is found. This was an interesting week - I was worried I'd chosen a very bad prompt, having only been here for three weeks, so was relieved when submissions actually came in. FlippinPageman takes the win with "Mouths to Feed" - well done, and prompt please! It was a tight one at the top in my view. Honourable mentions go to Thranguy with "Legacy Code" and Slightly Lions with "Treasure Hunting." At the other end of the range this week, Fat Jesus will earn a Dishonourable Mention for "Rise of the Memecats". And in last place The Cut of Your Jib takes the loss for "Blub" Crits to follow, mine will come later today.
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Aug 8, 2023 04:09
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Crits Week 574: drat Dirty Apes! Blub: Either taking the piss or trying to do something clever and failing, my initial reaction was actually being quite annoyed that somebody would throw the week like this. The most generous of readings is that it is attempting to take on the cadence of speech, or that the author actually planned a story then ‘converted’ it, with the arrows indicating the tone of voice. It’s not a story, though. There is no plot, and I can’t even really say I ‘read’ it (though I did see if there was anything here if I tried). I couldn't 'complete' it despite it only being 777 words. Taking on that generous reading again, I think it also fails as an experimental art piece. It reads more like a bad joke, an entire of somebody who thinks that they're very smart "well *clearly* animals would have different language." Yes, very clever. Worst of the week by a large margin. The only advice I can give to improve is to tell a story, not do something that sounds clever as a one-line idea. Rise of the Memecats “I sometimes wonder if we’re in charge or the cats are!!” is the point I suppose, which made me groan when I realised that was the angle. This didn’t work for me. Paragraph and line breaks appear random with little regard to whether there’s a thematic or vocal shift. I felt like I understood, “ok, it’s a cat doing cat things” within the first paragraph and nothing developed from there. I found the memecat speak with occasional lashing out into profanity to be more embarrassing/adolescent than anything. No real narrative arc - also feels like there was an idea of "I think this is a funny idea" without a clear view of how to turn that into a story. The advice I would give is to sit down and consider whether somebody might actually read through and enjoy an entire story that does a deliberately obnoxious tone of voice, because I think you'll generally find the answer is no. Kanaloa I quite liked bits of this one. I think octopodes were a good choice for this prompt, and the use of colour for communication was fun. Up until the first section break I thought this one might be a contender. But then, to me, it starts to plod a bit, and stops showing me anything new. After the initial "oh cool octopus royalty", I think it needed to be tighter. Possibly could have done with not using the whole word count? The ending lets you down. I strongly feel like the ending in flash fiction should illuminate something, that ‘a-ha’ moment that wraps it up and keeps you thinking. This just feels like ‘ok, more octopus kingdoms’ without any indication of why those new kingdoms would be interesting to me. I've already seen one octopus kingdom! The new one might be momentous to the characters, but you haven't shown me why it is for me. Mouths to Feed I was hooked on this one. Really quite like the number of mates attached to these fish’s bodies being a point of pride. I’m a sucker for having markedly different cultural touchstones like that, it captures that alien-ness that I hoped this prompt would get to. Humans in tanks! Humans in tanks, big fan, big fan. Did not expect that, did not expect mutual comprehensible communication between human and anglerfish, this story got its hooks in me about then. To me, this really showed that you understood the assignment rather than simply a post-apocalypse story or an animal story. The different characterisations of the scout and her mate came through. I was uncertain about the all-caps speech at first but together with the lowercase italics, I'll take it. You used the extra word count but it didn’t feel clunky. I will say that it lacks some of the lush scene-setting that I think I would have liked to see in an underwater trip and the all-caps speech towards the end risks overstaying its welcome. The vampire squid is delightfully alien and threatening, though. The ending, noting that there is steel from the old world throughout the ocean floor, and the way this is worded, was a good wrap-up. Out to Pasture Enjoyed some of the talking through how the hell we ended up with cows rather than the more likely candidates, though increasingly as you continue too cutely conversational for my liking - like a BBC Radio 4 comedy that believes it’s more funny than it is. Like when you namecheck two pieces of media and waggle your eyebrows, or start talking about orcs. When you’re not doing this sort of thing, it’s better. One particular highlight was the cow that built his tower up and up and up and never came down, which was delightful. Your dialogue, while there isn't much of it, is not as good. Kill the ellipses in your head. Makes full use of the word count and shouldn’t have, and should have been more liberal in new of paragraph breaks to ease the strain of words. Felt a little like an intro to a story about cows, rather than a story about cows. Treasure Hunting I kept tossing up whether this one would win or not. An adventure! During the initial description of the city I was worried this would turn into a description-fest with little else, but was hooked once the Thing arrived. The chase felt tense, and you peppered it well with details of Gomi’s raccoon nature mixing with his sentience. There were a few sentences that slowed down this pace - for example “In that moment Gomi decided he’d had enough.” is a style of sentence I never like to see, it says nothing and adds nothing in my view. There are a few examples of this, needs a bit of a trim. I think some of the world-building is less building and more *telling* us about the world, to the detriment of keeping us in the action. And again, you have written an *adventure*. Tell us about the world through the adventure, not as cutaways from it. Even so, I really liked this one because when you kept to the action, it was gripping and well-executed. Just no need to go “and now, some facts about this world told out of sequence.” LOVED the ending. With reference to a comment I wrote on another story - I think that’s what the ending of very short fiction should do. It’s a punchline! A little chuckle, a recontextualising. Maybe it's just the furry in me, but I badly want to hear more about these delightful raccoons and their coffee shop. If this was just a little bit more efficient (or the phase of the moon was different, etc...it really was a toss-up) I think it would have won. Legacy Code This one was interesting, and I think I gave it an HM not because it was in line for the win necessarily but because it took the prompt in a non-obvious direction, and was the only submission that did. In fact, it took the prompt in *such* a different direction that I had to consider whether it was a DQ. I think I’d be being too hidebound by saying that it is, but it’s pushing it I think. It doesn’t outstay its welcome, being a rather melancholy (if familiar) story about post-human existence, memories and immortality. I liked it, though I do think it spends this time building up its world and doesn’t go anywhere in particular with it. It’s a sketch of a place and a time - though the ending is well-executed enough that I think it can exist as a sketch. Where I think it falls down is that I don’t think it’s on-theme enough, and I also think it’s a little too much of a “guy thinks of doing something, decides not to” thing. It’s also jus such well-trodden ground that once memories were mentioned I felt like I could sketch out much of the rest of the story in my head from there. Solid, efficient prose. Just the right length. Just needs a more interesting plot, I think. The Remains Generic post-apocalyptic stuff happens. Everybody is rugged and dirty and grim. I was bored, and you didn’t give me anything to excite or interest me. I wasn’t given any desire to care about what happened to these characters - your descriptions of the landscape, of the fall, of even the strange reptile creatures lacked colour. But! It picks up once Thorn arrives, the chimera added something new. It picks up sufficiently here that I find myself wondering if everything preceding could have been cut down to a paragraph or two, and then allowing the story to focus on what's interesting (the humans working with the chimera) rather than the dull post-apocalypse. Don't worry so much about setting up how your story gets to the interesting bit, just get to the interesting bit. I think because you spent all that time plodding, the sacrifice at the end is unearned and didn't give me any kind of emotional reaction. Green Wing fucked around with this message at 07:13 on Aug 8, 2023 |
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Aug 8, 2023 06:50
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In
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Aug 8, 2023 13:48
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851 words Little Red Lamp IF WARNING LAMP IS LIT: The operator, upon confirming aurally that growth is not abating or likely to abate in the enclosure, shall perform the following actions: 1. Depress the plunger and hold. 2. Wait. 3. Release the plunger when warning lamp extinguishes. “That’s it?” “That’s it.” It was just the two of them in a room designed for one, and a somewhat modest person at that. Raz rather regretted bringing his fish supper to the orientation session, as it would be his colleague who would have to put up with the smell. Zaq’s mood, already seething, would suffer. “That’s outrageous!” Zaq blurted out, waving the single page of instructions in one hand, his slender fingers threatening to crush it. “An essential role, they called it! ‘Impossible to automate’! You could train an ape to do this!” “Dignity, please,” Raz said around a mouthful of barbel, gesturing at Zaq with a little wooden fork. “You know if the boss could have automated it, he would’ve done. It really is an essential part of our work.” Zaq slumped in the institutional chair he would be graced with for this post, mouthing something obscene and potentially seditious to the side wall. Metal wheels scraped across the crystal floor, friction sending up sparks and licks of green flame. In the cramped surroundings, his knees stroked against Raz’s, and the two of them awkwardly looked off to the side, taking a renewed interest in each individual muon set into the starfield-pattern table. “It feels like I’m being punished for wanting my job back. Or set up to fail. There must be something more comprehensive than this rubbish.” “That rubbish took an age to write.” Raz scooped up more of his meal, keeping his eyes down on the schools of fish coalescing into solid, cooked flesh on the infinite lake shore around his chips. “I was on the committee that wrote it, do you know just how agitated the boss can get about the difference between ‘will’ and ‘shall’?” Zaq shot him a look, then reached over and snapped close the takeaway box. Both it and its contents blinked out of existence in a shattering explosion: fish, chips, miniature lakes and mountains all collapsing into nothing. The space between the two filled with tiny flashes of atomic fire. “Rude.” Bereft of his meal, Raz pouted and waved a hand to dismiss the lingering ozone scent. “Anyway, it’s not a punishment. And there really isn’t any need for the manual to be any longer.” He reached into a gaping wound in the tabletop and brought forth a thrashing carp, twisting it around his hands like a balloon as he spoke, eyes locked on his underling. “The point of the system is that we don’t have to go down and speak to the poor wretches and make a judgment. The system does that for us, but only we can bring the curtain down.” The carp took on a glassy quality until it formed an identical takeaway container, this time as though carved from obsidian, full to the brim with spiced fish and chunky chips. “If you think it lacks gravitas, call the plunger a trumpet. Have a little fun with it.” Raz set the fresh meal on the table as a peace offering, though it went unacknowledged. Slumped in defeat, Zaq turned towards the infinite compartments set against the wall, each one topped by a dull red glow ready to burst into flame. “I’ll leave you to your work,” Raz said cheerily, beginning to phase out of the room. “It looks like you have your first customer. And do try the food, there’s plenty of it!” A red beacon was flickering to life above one of the compartments, demanding Zaq’s attention. Shooting daggers at Raziel’s coy smile as he disappeared, the younger Watcher drew the container towards him, the stars within growing to fill his field of vision. He placed his ear to the translucent barrier, and the cries of a million trillion souls rose through the twisted thicket of folded space-time between the universe and the world of the angels. With each passing moment the cries grew more numerous, growth unending. A clear requirement for action. “Goodness, I wonder if I can remember what the ops manual told me to do,” muttered Zaq bitterly, tapping on the divide with a finger to dissuade one of the more errant galaxies inside from colliding with the universal limit. Depressing the plunger set above the compartment, the angel named Zaqiel barely glanced towards the countless stars in countless galaxies, instead turning his attention to the gift of a fish supper left for him. The sentients within the doomed creation would have subjective millennia to see their universe collapse in on itself, and yet in all that time would be incapable of perceiving what lay beyond. And yet, if by some freak accident of circumstance one of them were to pierce the veil, they would see neither malice nor disdain in their deliverance, but the crushing boredom of one waiting for a little red lamp to go out.
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Aug 13, 2023 22:03
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Aug 15, 2023 09:24
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630 w Dear sir, thank you for the assignment but I regret to inform you that my circumstances are very special and very unique and therefore I cannot accept it. I am really under a great deal of strain at work, you see, and, "You see, I have never been to Porto and have no time to read this book. I have to be in work at 9 o’clock sharp and have no time to watch the film either. Any story I write would be, at best, the work of a sixth former rushing to achieve a passing grade by examining Wikipedia articles of the subjects. I therefore respectfully refuse the assignment." A neat little paragraph, and I think after that I’m allowed a moment of satisfaction. That’ll show ‘em. I’ve been to Porto often in the last 5 years, in my mind. A few months before the divorce, we went to Lisbon and spent our days drinking Aperol Spritz served from tiny gazebo cafes perched in the middle of the streets like information booths. We spoke none of the language, I at least tried. Muddled our way through Moorish forts trying to make conversation, avoided going back to our hotel room for as long as we could. Porto next year, we’d both try to learn some Portuguese. Next year didn’t happen. So I’ve been there often. Let’s take a look. Let’s go there now. A sojourn to street view, and I’m there. A hotel here, an apartment block there. Every sun-drenched Iberian city looks the same. Half of these buildings would be AirBnBs, street corners packed with cigarettes and backpackers. American youth, bored of the sights and tired of walking, looking desperately for a restaurant among white-faced blocks. Eventually to the same strip of tourist trap seafood even other went to. Pastel de Nata after eating other half a plate of grilled sardines. They start speaking Spanish to the waiter halfway through. I’ve never been to Porto. Caricature, caricature. I must be at work in 10 hours. In 2019, I and her would go to Porto. We’d learn the language and the culture. And when we got tired of the buildings and the noise and the cars, we would hop over into Spain and hike in Galicia and talk about what we would do at work when we got back. And as the time would stretch on, we would get tired of one another’s company, we would start to worry about work. And I would twist my ankle on the hike and perhaps, oh, perhaps we should have stayed in Porto. They have WiFi there and the tourist traps aren’t so bad (and it isn’t as though they don’t all speak English, my haphazard schoolgirl attempts at the tiniest ‘abrigado’ gaining me nothing but contempt) And maybe, maybe as we make our way back to the familiar, I would think about work (maybe just log on a little here, see what emails had come in). Perhaps there was something I need to do, shouldn’t have stayed away this long. Shouldn’t have stepped out of the urban, out of the tourist. Stay in Porto, isn’t the sea lovely? Aren’t the buildings quaint, isn’t the sprawl comforting? You can be anonymous with nothing, this is what being on holiday is all about. Aperol Spritz and seafood. And perhaps when we look down at the sprawl as we start back to our hotel room, we’d think about how good it would have been for us never to return from our trek, to lose ourselves on the mountains, to choose new names and find new lives. To say goodbye to our neat little paths and find purpose in a handful of sand. But I couldn’t do that. I must be at work in the morning.
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Aug 20, 2023 21:56
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Aug 23, 2023 17:45
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In, I'm back baby
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Oct 4, 2023 05:29
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