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Feb 25, 2023 03:20
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Baudry's Bandits 1980 words Etienne fussed with his overlong sleeves, struggling to pull them so they looked better fit. He placed his hand on the watch in his pocket, squeezing his fingers around the back and counting the ticks. Two minutes passed, then three. Traffic on Rue Gambetta swelled and ebbed as the city of Nantes pulsed into its busiest hour. Etienne spread his copy of Le Precurseur on the table in front of him and even read a few articles. Across the street, his sister leaned against a fencepost, deep in conversation with a woman in a gold dress covered in rose prints. Anne had begged him to be able to leave her spot at the table, insisting the plan would go better if she were by the garden. Etienne was too nervous to risk an argument this close to the mark. Another minute. Laurent and Charles exited the apartment across the street in their workmen’s outfits. Laurent carried a rake and shovel under each arm and a canvas bag over his shoulder, while Charles began setting up the wooden blockade. Etienne watched his sister, deep in conversation with a woman in a gold dress covered in rose prints. For a moment, he felt as if the entire plan was a dream only he remembered, and that everyone, Anne, Laurent, Charles, Nicolas on his balcony and Guillame in the alley, had all forgotten. Then Anne opened her parasol, twirling it twice clockwise overhead, where Nicolas could see. Moments passed and the White Ladies sailed into view. It was hard to believe it was a single vehicle: three compartments, each gleaming white and gold, and as many horses, trotting stupidly through the street. Gold engravings of noblewomen and soldiers shone. All but one of the five windows on this side had their curtains drawn, and the only unobscured one simply showed him the back of some man’s coat. He would be one of the sixteen passengers aboard, eight to a side. The driver was arguing loudly with Laurent, as Charles wordlessly struck and smoothed out the road. Etienne could hear snatches of the conversation, especially as the conductor stood and cried: “I must get to Richebourg before 2:00 o’clock! And I won’t be stopped!” There was movement inside the coach. Stanislas Baudry had once been a soldier of the Empire, but that was some time ago. The Hundred Days were nearly 11 years gone now and Baudry had become a miserable entrepreneur, running first a mill, then a bathhouse, and now his own line of transport. He’d christened his coaches “Les Dames Blanches,” but everyone called them “omnibuses,” a vehicle for the people, stopping upon request. To hear some passengers tell it, this was a true populist marvel, like a coffee house on wheels. There were wild claims of wagons the size of houses, complete with beds and kitchens, or armed with heavy cannons. Perhaps even churches could be made to move. Etienne felt the second hand in his pocket complete another circuit. The driver had finished yelling at Laurent and was marshaling the horses to his right. As they’d anticipated, the coach thundered past the cafe Etienene was sitting in toward the end of Rue Gambetta –and the trenches Laurent had dug just an hour before. These were specially placed so as not to disturb the regular coaches passing through. Two for the feet of the middle horse, one for the right, and one for the left, each hole just about the size of a fist. Etienne watched as they tripped, one after another, stumbling in their harnesses, the driver screaming for control. The next time he saw the omnibus, it was in the alley. Guillame was on top of the coach with a pistol under the driver’s chin and his free hand holding the reins. Etienne and Nicolas worked quickly, binding and gagging the men inside, then stripping the driver of his coat.and hat and shoving him inside as well. The entire affair was over in minutes, and they commenced the ride northwest out of Nantes in silence, he and Nicolas seated along the wall opposite the carriage door, with one passenger and the driver forced in the cramped aisle between them. About two hours from the city, Guillame drove the omnibus off into the forest as planned. With precision, Nicolas pulled two of the men out of the door, bringing them off the carriage and taking their coats and wallets. He returned and the coach drove on, stopping every few miles to discharge two more, until at last just the driver was left. They gave him 20 francs and told him to head east to Le Cellier. Then, just the three of them continued further into the forest, following the scars Etienne had left on the trees when he was there the day before, until they reached the cabin, where they tied the horses and rested for the night. The next day, the real work began. — Etienne took to chiseling off the gaudy figures and crests of the carriage first, which they then smoothed over with the first coat of paint. The entire coach was to be red, something they had debated for weeks prior. On the roof, they planted banners of all colors: red, yes, but green, and yellow as well, along with the blue and white of the tricolor. “They’re going to think we’re a wagon full of jugglers,” said Guillame, chuckling. “They can think what they like,” Nicolas said. “We’ll turn no one away. It will be a true omnibus.” Until now, that name had felt like a sickening false promise. What people could afford the fare per trip? Who was really meant to? Not the poor, not the injured, not the recently evicted. It was a false equality, a carriage for blandly liberal middle class men who could claim their closeness to their peers without much discomfort And, as Anne had pointed out, this supposed egalitarian miracle only allowed men onboard, though several women had ridden in disguise, she being one of them. In her white trousers, blue coat, and top hat, she’d done the trip from Bouffay to the bathhouse, departing quickly to avoid awkward questions. In truth, the job had been Anne’s idea, though Etienne had suggested it to Nicolas, and she had let him claim the credit without argument. The two siblings had spent five hungry, pragmatic years together before winning Nicolas’ favor by cutting purses and the occasional throat. And all of them were united in the vision. As Guillame kept guard and Nicolas added cushions to the interior, Etienne wrote slogans from Robespierre and Marat in dark red around the edges of the windows and drew flowers and open hands extending from clouds. They brought out four flat trunks and bolted them into the spaces underneath the seats. Inside one of them they placed a small box containing laudanum, lavender oil, powdered tobacco, and other cures and necessities. Another was for food and wine, a third for guns and powder in case of trouble. The fourth trunk contained oil for the lamps (carefully kept separate from the flammable material in the opposing trunk) as well as a spyglass, parchment, pens, and string. There was also a shallow compartment containing a few different maps of France, as well as some popular broadsides and reference pamphlets for Italian, German, Spanish, Swiss, and English. They added a small rope-pull to each corner of the coach’s interior and connected them to a corresponding bell inside a glass case on the roof, so anyone could signal the driver to stop at any time. At Etienne’s insistence, they added a touch seen only in more modern carriages royals: windows that could be opened from the inside for fresh air. Nicolas had been concerned this would lead to mischief and accidents, objects thrown out or dropped. Anne had countered that it would be better for people to have a clear exit point in case of travel sickness. The final refurbishments were more technical. They added leather straps to the steps below the driver’s seat, so Guillame could keep his balance while in motion. The axle was adjusted for freer movement, and the wheels girded to overcome rougher terrain. Guillame also refused a whip for the horses, so they gave him a brass horn to blow instead if he ever needed to startle them into movement. By dusk, this Dame Blanche was no more. The only interruption came about an hour after that, in the blue of twilight, when four soldiers had approached the clearing, rifles drawn. Etienne was standing behind the newly armored rear wheels, and Guillame had been the only one fast enough to reach for his pistols, which he placed back in his belt when he saw Nicolas raise his hands. Etienne followed. He watched the Sergeant growl orders to his men, scratching cheek. He was still watching when the bullet fired from the trees and smashed into the Sergeant’s head. The other men hesitated as the Sergeant slumped to the ground. It was enough time for Guillame to fire back, downing first one man, then a second. The final soldier fled to the woods and collapsed right on the edge of Etienne’s field of vision. Anne approached the cabin, cleaning her knife with a white cloth. She was in her man’s disguise again, though without her hat, letting her hair stir in the wind. Behind her were Laurent and Charles, having changed their workmans outfits for simple suits better fit for traveling “We’ve tied my horse across the road,” she said. “You’re lucky we made it here in time.” “She does not lie,” Guillame said. He brought a lantern from the safe house and went with Laurent and Charles to recover the horses. “How were the magnolias?” Etienne asked her. — Nicollette collapsed in the grass besides the road, exhausted from running. She lay on her side for a while, hoping that the tall yellow blades would hide her. There was something calming about the smell. She’d made it quite far on foot, farther than she’d thought she could. But she’d only had time to pack a little bread and cheese and a flask of water, barely enough to last her a day. They would be angry at her for running. She was supposed to belong to the mill now. The other girls there all had the same gray faces but did their chores and accepted their meager wages. It was just Nicollette who was the problem. You would think her escape would fix things. From her spot in the dirt, she heard clopping hooves slow to silence. How had she missed them? They must have followed her from the start, maybe hanging back just out of sight so she wouldn’t see them. But she had run nearly without stopping, to the point where any pursuer would be a blur. She considered closing her eyes and clasping her hands in a sort of dying prayer. Then she saw another hand, the gloved hand of a woman leaning out of a large red coach. It wasn’t anything she’d seen at the mill. “Come,” the woman had said, gently, and Nicollette had boarded without argument. Inside the coach were about ten others, including a few roughly dressed men and women and one boy a little younger than her. They handed her a basket full of grapes, cured ham, and mushrooms. While she was eating, the woman who’d pulled her into the coach turned to look at her. “Are you hurt?” she asked. “No,” said Nicollette. “But where are we going?” The woman nodded at a man sitting across from them. He had long sideburns and the beginnings of a rough beard, and the jacket he wore looked a little too big for him. He smiled at them. “You tell us,” the woman said, “and then we’ll stop.”
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Feb 27, 2023 04:54
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In. Flash please.
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Mar 8, 2023 16:27
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Windfall (1486 words) Reggie always went first. He’d sift garden dirt through a sieve, then creep to the fence and dump the rocks and insects over it. Each time, he would angle himself so his back legs had enough space to move. I’d watch him twist over to the posts, finish his task, and scuttle out through the gate. Donna would be waiting at the barn, her wings flapping. When she sensed he was done, she’d tote the watering barrels over and make sure every bed was tended to. Then she would trundle around searching for weeds she could pull with her front pincers. I named them. I still don’t know who built them. I guess they could be aliens, but nothing around the farm looks remotely futuristic. Maybe they escaped from somewhere, like me? The night I found the farmhouse, I nearly collapsed through the unlocked front door and slept on the rug in front of the sofa. There was some bread left in the cupboards and jars of pickled carrots and cabbage on the counters. The fridge had cartons of fruit that were mostly still good. No computer or phone, and no photos or mail that could have belonged to an owner. And then I saw the Farmlings through the window. My first instinct was to run. But they didn’t see me, and the house was the one place on the farm they had no interest in. These are the notes I took on that first day, from the upstairs bedroom.: -They move like robots, but they aren’t electronic. -I think I may have seen things like this on YouTube once? -They look kind of like the skeletons of giant insects. -Powered by canvas sheets and plastic fans. -Bodies = PVC? -Everything they do has some purpose to it. -They don’t have eyes or ears but they can sense using long, antennae-like sticks with glass bulbs. Barometers? -Self-refilling “battery” system: sacks of air like bagpipes attached to small levers that activate when they’ve been still for too long. The sacks must get filled easily, considering how steep and windy the hillside is here. -It feels like I’m living at the rear end end of a triangle. The names came when I felt safe enough to be bored. There’s four of them: Reggie is broad and faintly regal, with a taut sail-crown. Donna looks a bit like Pegasus and has a sandworm snout capable of curling and pointing. Sandy, the harvest guard, is a crawling rectangle with a hefty balloon eye, oscillating around the silos in endless circles. Larry is smaller than Donna but still complex, a zeppelin-spider covered in spikes with a large, flat scoop protruding from his front. He’s sort of a relief pitcher and waits in the barn, coming out to take over for Donna or Reggie, or help with the harvest, or nudge someone if they start to tip over. I’d survived the crash with nothing worse than a few healed scars. The farmhouse had books to read (most in languages I didn’t know, but some in English), plumbing, and a full store of coffee. Months passed in fugitive peace. Then Rodney found me. It was dusk and I was leaning against the barn, watching Donna and Reggie work in the pink-orange light. “What the gently caress are those.” His voice was inflection-free and matter-of-fact, like we’d never parted ways. I didn’t turn at first. “I call them the Farmlings. They take care of stuff.” “This is really weird, Kim.” “It’s all relative.” “At least look at me.” I obliged. He was still in the ragged clothes he’d been arrested wearing, though he’d stolen a jacket from the wreckage. I wasn’t surprised he’d found a gun, too. “You’ve been alive this whole time?” I asked. “I managed. I didn’t have anything like this. How the hell.” “Why do you want to kill me?” I asked. “This poo poo is unfair,” he said quietly. “You and I were barely part of the job. Now we’re the only ones left. And you ran away the second you could. Didn’t even look for me.” Rodney’s face fell. I turned and saw Reggie suddenly upon us, his canvas crown catching the wind and flaring like a frilled lizard. Rodney fired off a shot, pushing Reggie backward. I saw with panic that the bullet had blasted his left sail support. This left the sheet whirling for a few seconds before Reggie clattered to the ground. Rodney could have run, but I think he wanted to see what would happen. In seconds, Donna had flown to him, catching him around the waist with her claws. He dropped his gun,cursing, and it slid down the hill into darkness as Sandy wriggled her way closer. I’m honestly not really sure what Sandy was planning to do to him, but even a walking accordion can look sinister sometimes. I waved my hands frantically in front of Donna’s antenna, hoping she’d stop, and miraculously, she did, her nose angling in curiosity. By this point, Larry had emerged and was perched helplessly over Reggie. I made a “follow me” motion with my hands in front of Donna’s sensor, cupping the air towards myself and repeating it. Larry swept a feeler over the scene and me, and then led me into the barn. I soon saw the poor guy’s dilemma: there was an attic room he wanted to get to, but it was in the loft, high above the floor, with no way for any of them to climb up. Donna followed me in, pushing a dazed-looking Rodney forward, with Sandy at the rear. In the end, Larry was able to convince Donna somehow, rustling towards her and stamping his plastic hooves. With a reluctant sag, the claws opened. Rodney and I stared at each other for a while. And then, instead of the zillions of treacherous things he could have done, Rodney silently moved to the wall and knitted his hands together into a step to boost me up. The loft was indeed filled with crates of replacement parts, along with bits of pipe and wire ties. The resurrection took just a few hours. Rodney and I had to find the right size pipe for the support and make sure it was tightly lashed. When we finished, I motioned for Donna to move, and she sidled cautiously around us so we could exit the barn. Rodney and I did our best to haul Reggie’s frame, though we almost bashed him against the door on the way out. We slowly pulled Reggie to the highest spot on the hill we could reach in the dark, the three other Farmlings watching us from below. The two of us grabbed Reggie’s bones and hoisted him above us like an oversized kite, pushing him up in the hopes that the wind would catch. I almost considered praying, but as if to save me the trouble, a gust finally barrelled down, and Reggie pulled away, dropping a little but catching himself on scrambling legs. The others immediately ran up to him, Donna tickling her nose back and forth, Larry waving his scoop, Sandy driving around and around in a joyful parade. Reggie’s sail billowed proudly. When the celebration ended, I led Rodney up to Donna. “Show her your hands,” I said. He did as he was told. I did the same, wiggling my fingers. The antenna swept us both, and we stood there in the wind until we heard a soft click of recognition. * * * * * Rodney says Donna is his favorite now, though I think Reggie likes him the most. He’ll walk with both of them on their rounds, chatting as if they can hear, helping with the weeds. Larry is more my speed. I hang out with him in the barn a lot, sometimes reading, sometimes peeling potatoes or sorting through old seed packets. We’re working on a sort of language. He’ll hold his antenna near me like a microphone and I’ll exaggerate my hand movements so he can tell what I’m doing. Rodney and I carry heavy loads for the Farmlings, and we chase after them when the wind threatens to carry them away. With time, we hope to make some more, maybe even one that can fly. The tools and materials are all there in the loft, and the other Farmlings are happy to stand still for us to sketch them. It’s strange how what once was threatening now makes me happy. When the wind blows its hardest, and Rodney and I have to dig in our feet, I now see our friends pulsing with life. Often Reggie or Sandy will whir to our rescue, pushing us back uphill to more level ground. I think this is the only thing I ever wanted: a place where we all keep each other from falling.
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Mar 13, 2023 03:02
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In.
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Mar 29, 2023 00:55
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Make Some Noise! (accidentally posted with the wrong formatting, edited to fix that and not for content) 996 Words “This is going to end their careers,” Joyce said. “And yours, Greg.” “It’s going to make our careers,” said Greg, his lenses tombstone-white in the control room’s glow. “Have it your way,” Joyce said. “All of you will be in court before the end of the week.” “You can go watch from backstage if you want,” Greg said, a sneer in his voice. The technicians around him frowned and sweated as the lights of the Talonhurst Stadiadrome died down. Joyce figured saving lives and her job was worth one more try, so she zoomed into the brief on her phone and approached Gregg from the side. “The order states–” “Private property,” Greg snapped. “Plus, everyone here’s an adult who’s signed a waiver. You know it doesn’t matter if they haven’t read the T’s and C’s. Darren, cue VO 1.” Joyce did not sigh or groan. Instead, she pulled up a chair and faced the big screen while her mind whirred. There had to be a way. The prerecorded shrieks condemning all ye scum who did not silence ye phones burbled into silence. The gates of hell were opening. A new age was arriving. At least she’d still get a commission. Not to mention a front-row seat. * * * * * “YE HOPELESS WASTES, YE SPAWN OF SPUTUM, PREPARE TO DIE! HERE COMES-” The cries of Skogg the Unholy Herald were drowned out by ecstatic explosions and cheers. One by one, the prosthetic-laden members of MEAT NEBULA emerged from a curtain of gore-colored sparks. First came Plaguetopus, a gnarled kraken-man whose tentacles strangled stomach-emptying thrums from a bass shaped like an infected harpoon. Next was Devildactyl, the Demon Queen of Drums, a winged fiend with claws, wings, and a T-rex head, who swooped down to her kit from above and unleashed an energetic fill so fast it broke her left stick. Two criss-crossing guitar lines rang out as the spiny body and bulbous, blood-red eyes of Untulus Spikefucker rose from beneath the stage, with Deletia the Living Corruption, a giant amoeba, by his side. All the preceding excitement was forgotten as the Faceless Knight himself, Baron Skinripper (or “Rip,” as the chant went) rode out in corn syrup-drenched plate armor on a pantomime horse of bones. As his steed reared, the Baron cupped his gauntleted hands around his skull mouth and let out a ferocious growl-scream. By the time the crowd settled down, the band had nearly finished their signature opener, “Worms With SharpTeeth.” Then came “Boiled Bones” and “Walking Nightmare” and their timely anthem in support of ranked-choice voting, “gently caress Off and Die.” And then Rip made his big announcement. “Sit thine ASSES DOWN!” he bellowed. “You are all DOOMED to see us here in Talonhurst! For tonight, we have brought an INSTRUMENT of DEATH! Bring out…the RIPPER’S RAY!” Two roadies in head-to-toe leather bodysuits pushed out a crude wooden cart. In it sat the Ray, clearly a product of a different planet than MEAT NEBULA’s own (which was the planet Waranus, according to the band’s wiki). It was remarkably plain and unready for its closeup, looking more like a science class telescope than a doomsday weapon. Over the next few days, an 11-second zoomed-in video of Plaguetopus, shrugging nonchalantly as the Ray emerged, would garner over 90 million views. * * * * * “Cavalry’s here,” said ex-Sgt. Delios, his voice echoing down the hall. “Thank God, Chuck,” said Joyce. “They’re about to fire.” “No one else would do this,” said Delios without slowing his stride. “You’re lucky I saw your post. And that I’m retired and don’t give a poo poo.” “All you have to do is stop Ri-uh, Mr. Barker from turning it on,” she said. “I’ll help you with any legal consequences.” “Much obliged, ma’am.” They entered the elevator to the stage. Purely out of habit, Joyce thumbed open the PDF of the dossier on Project Death Throes, the work of the late physicist Geri Barker. She had developed the device for Spurner Labs, who was now paying Joyce’s firm to get it back, or at least prevent its use. Upon her death, Dr. Barker left the prototype to her son, Lance Barker, aka Baron Skinripper, giving him full rights and ownership. This machine was capable of manipulating high volumes of inorganic gasses, allowing for- The elevator stopped. Delios exited. Joyce stood still, reading and re-reading. At the edge of the stage, her hands grabbed the old man just as he reached for his holster. * * * * * “I heareth thee not, foul mucus! I said…if you want us to UNLEASH COMPLETE DESTRUCTION…” Rip’s exact directions were yet more words lost in the maelstrom of screams and declarations of loyalty. With a chivalrous flourish, he lowered the beaklike visor of his helmet, signaled to the band, and produced a tablet from the satchel around his waist. He had to jab at it a few times before the Ray lit up, a bright green light emanating through the audience. For the only time that night, the entire Stadiadrome was as quiet as the moon. * * * * * Two months later, Lance Barker appeared as the keynote speaker at the UN’s Climate Change Conference. His entrance, in business casual and without makeup or armor, garnered a ten minute standing ovation. Before he could even speak, the head of the World Science Forum described him as “the greatest hero of science since Louis Pasteur.” MEAT NEBULA was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize, the Jule G. Charney Award, the Breakthrough Prize, and the Medal of Freedom. The Ripper’s Ray was TIME Person of the Year. Six months later, international scientists confirmed that the Ray had indeed restored more than a quarter of the ozone layer, with ocean temperatures returning to their lowest since 1990. Forecasts predicted that continued use of the Ray would fully reverse the effects of climate change within 10 years. By that December, MEAT NEBULA’s album sales had plummeted. Their tour had been canceled. They do birthday parties now. FlippinPageman fucked around with this message at 01:05 on Apr 3, 2023 |
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Apr 3, 2023 01:03
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In with a flash, please!
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Jul 6, 2023 18:45
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Pipe Nightmares 1407 words “It’s no use,” Zirno said. “I’m hosed.” Kim Lewis watched her friend bustle. Zirno was standing next to her on his cluttered lawn with the expression of a drowning man, his curly orange hair matted to his forehead. The yard was dominated by tarps covered in used musical instruments, velvet-lined cases, old vinyl records, sheet music, metronomes, and anything else he thought someone might buy. It was a legendary local event: Zirno Day, part sale, part outdoor museum exhibit. The day when the weird guy in town with the Coke bottle glasses and the TROMBONE ACCUMULATOR t-shirt hauled out his treasure trove of red marble Hohner accordions and glinting Jupiter trumpets and obscure zeuhl records. Though he was mainly a classical marimbist, Zirno had been in countless orchestras and bands over the years and had a basement full of junk to prove it. He’d even thrown in a few mics and cables this year for anyone who wanted to start recording. But it was already 4:00 and not much had moved. The sale was only supposed to run for another hour. Zirno was already hunched over trying to stack his harmonicas back in their little plastic boxes when Kim squatted down next to him. “I want to help,” she said. “This was my last chance,” Zirno said. “I’m so far under my goal it’s not even funny. There won’t be another Zirno Day.” “I could try to call some friends from work,” she said. “I’m just assistant principal but they do listen to me.” “Your school willing to drop $5,000 on old musical instruments?” “Jesus.” “I told you: I’m hosed. This was supposed to carry me through until September.” “You’ll find other work.” “Not here. The Board has slashed the orchestra’s budget again and Maestro Keller would rather we cut chairs than add performances. I’ll be lucky if I can scrape together enough music tutoring gigs for my mortgage payments.” The last of the stragglers was heading back to their car. Kim took a breath. “Sell me something, John,” she said. He looked up at her. “What?” “You were the first person I met when I moved to Stoneburg,” Kim said. “It was barely a month after the divorce and I’d never lived in a place smaller than Newark. I would have no life here if it wasn’t for you. It’ll cut into my nest egg but I can earn that back eventually.” Zirno combed his soul patch with his teeth. “I know you won’t let me just give you the money,” Kim continued, “so I’ll buy something from you, fair and square. Point me to it. I could use a new hobby anyway.” “It’s too much, Kim-” She’d already started circulating. By 5:00 she’d claimed an Opus pipe organ, the heaviest-looking thing at the sale. She and Zirno lifted it into his van using a dolly and moved it in pieces to Kim’s spare room at her house a few blocks away. They ended the night drinking beer while Zirno showed her some riffs from Elton John and The Doors. He begged her to reconsider up until the moment she sent him back home with the check. * * * * * It was a miracle that the organ fit so well against the wall. They’d had to move some things around, but now it was the first thing you saw when you opened the guest room door, especially the “V” shape made by the wooden flute pipes behind the keyboard. In the first month after the sale, Zirno came over about three times a week, happily showing her some scales and chords. She hadn’t played a piano or anything like it since middle school, and had stopped her on and off guitar playing just before she met her ex. “I never would have imagined owning one of these,” Kim told him once. “They always sounded so evil to me.” “Don’t blame Bach, or whoever wrote Toccata and Fugue,” Zirno said, scratching his neck. “Blame Hollywood. Organ music can be anything: happy, funny, sad, and yes, scary. What other instrument do you know gets used for baseball games, circuses, and churches?” Kim tried to keep an open mind. She would sit by herself and slowly pick out some simple tunes, trying not to think of the bad guy from the Beauty and the Beast Christmas special she’d watched zillions of times as a kid. Then came the nightmares. When she saw clawed Catholic gargoyles crawling out of the Opus pipes in her sleep, she struggled to imagine organ chords in a relaxing place instead: the apex of one of her favorite solo hikes, making it just above the treeline at sunrise. It was a sort of mind’s eye prayer. If she was really lucky, she’d just dream of nothing. After a while, her concerns were less about her bad dreams and more about Zirno. She began to notice bruises on his arms and face. Sometimes he walked with a limp or clutched his side. Any questions she posed to him were violently waved away. “I’m fine,” he’d say. “Don’t forget: you’ve saved my life by buying this thing.” And he’d pat the arm of the Opus like it was the hood of a car from the ‘50s. By early July he was sporting welts on his forehead and heavy bags under his eyes. He’d tell her casually how little sleep he got, then worriedly change the subject or make up an excuse to go home, leaving Kim in the room with the smug-looking Opus. So she asked if they could set up a sleep monitor in his room, like a baby, and maybe figure out what was bothering him. And he was so tired at that point he agreed. * * * * * The screaming started at 2:00 AM. She’d spent the night on the couch in Zirno’s living room, and it was so loud she realized that the monitor had been unnecessary. She flew up the stairs into his bedroom. Zirno was covering his head, his eyes still closed, as dozens of reed-like tendrils with mallet-like heads slammed down on him over and over. These tendrils were the limbs of eight tall, thin, faceless creatures, standing over him on wiry legs and making angry humming noises. Kim found herself laughing in horror and confusion and hating herself for it. She couldn’t help it. The absurdity of these stick insects solemnly hitting someone, each of them a slightly different height, was unavoidable. Suddenly, she stopped laughing. Rearrange them, perhaps creating a parabola…or maybe a V… The thought engulfed her. In trying to help Zirno keep his home, had she displaced someone else? A whole community? The blows came down, harder and harder. “I have it,” she said, quietly. She repeated it again, louder this time. “I took your home from you,” she said. The creatures stopped. The shorter ones began skittering toward her. Kim hoped the wind from the door would knock them over as she flung it shut and fled down the stairs, perhaps buying herself some time. Back in her house, Kim crouched at the top of her stairs. The doors were cracked open and she waited until she finally saw eight silhouettes flash quickly across the moonlit floor. She closed and locked the front door and then quickly poked her head into the Opus’ room on her back way upstairs. No giant stick insects could be seen, though she did hear a tapping sound from somewhere. * * * * * When Zirno stopped by the next day, he looked terrible. Kim expected him to laugh at her when she told him what she’d seen. Instead, he looked very grave and immediately asked if he could go play the organ, to see if he could talk to them. She led him to the bench and he took his seat. Zirno pulled a few stops and then played “The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba.” For some reason, all she could see now was a glittering star spinning through space. Perhaps another mind’s eye prayer, or a gift from her new housemates? The piece ended and Zirno looked up at the pipes. No facehugging or demon attacks. He smiled over his shoulder at Kim and the two of them exhaled together. “I think I know why I chose this one,” she said when Zirno had finished. “It lets you make your own harmony.” From within the pipes they heard soft, happy chittering.
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Jul 10, 2023 03:42
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In!
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Aug 2, 2023 16:45
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Mouths to Feed 1357 words A light flickered out of the ruins, and the Scout watched. It was a distress signal, blinking from lack of power and yet brighter than any fish’s lamp she’d seen. Getting to it would mean swimming through the thick aphotic forests and the strange structures they grew around – and distract from her mission. From his place above her right eye, just behind her own lamp, she felt her mate stir. we can always go home he thought. there’s snails there crunchy crunchy snails A nostalgic pulse swept through her for a moment, but the Scout ignored it. He would drift back to sleep momentarily, as he usually did when she was on her rounds. There were a few patrols already stationed not far from the light. She felt the brush of a sensory filament and knew the Guard in charge would want to speak with her before she went further. The Guard pulled back a bit, steadied herself with her tail, then flashed a curt greeting. WHAT IS YOUR BUSINESS, the Guard asked. SURVEY, the Scout flashed back. The Guard scowled, clearly suspicious. LOOKING FOR FOOD AND SUPPLIES FOR HOME CAVE, the Scout added THIS AREA IS DANGEROUS, the Guard flashed, waving her fins. YOU SHOULD NOT BE HERE. I HAVE MY ORDERS, the Scout replied. Eager to change the subject, she nodded towards the fluttering bodies attached to the Guard’s belly. HOW MANY, the Scout flashed. FIVE, the Guard flashed back, wobbling pridefully. It was a respectable number of mates, and two of them seemed to have already reached the stage of blissful senselessness. The Scout bowed, showing off her own single mate, who was already dozing. The Guard closed her jaw in thought. She was clearly a sentimental sort. BE CAREFUL, she flashed. WE LOST A SCOUT LAST CYCLE. WHO, asked the Scout. BENT LAMP, the Guard responded. SMALLER THAN YOU. THANK YOU. The Guard moved aside. The two of them exchanged farewells and the Scout swam on. As the Scout had suspected, the light was coming from a False Cave, a long, smooth, rectangular structure with bubbled glass windows on either end. She was surprised there were any humans still in this sector. According to the Historians, it had been one of the first to flood all those centuries ago. Whoever had built this must have wanted to stay here. The area in front of the False Cave was mostly overgrown with weeds, but the Scout managed to find a small clearing in front to spread her filaments. She sensed an aged male sitting in the shelter’s large window, leaning against the glass. She felt him tap excitedly as she sensed him, and then his presence was gone as he scurried to work his lamp controls. NOW, he flashed. NOW PLEASE FOOD NOW. The human’s flashes were crude. He’d probably spent his entire life inside and could still barely communicate. Even in his dream-haze, the Scout’s mate chuckled derisively. WHY DO YOU NEED FOOD, she flashed back. These False Caves were supposed to be self-sufficient. The Scientists back in Home Cave believed it had something to do with the currents and pockets of heat found here on the floor. Each of these structures had thin slits placed around the outside that could suck in urchins and seaweed and shrimp as quickly as the most skilled hunter, churning them into something the humans could eat. She noticed a lack of the distinctive humming these shelters usually had. BROKEN, the man flashed. NEED ROD FOR TO LIVE. PLEASE NOW AND BACK. The Scout knew about the rods, the thin tubes that kept these caves lit and murmuring. The humans were normally able to leave and gather them themselves. Something seemed wrong. HOW MANY PEOPLE ARE IN THERE, flashed the Scout. THREE, came the response. After a pause, a new round of flashes: TWO. The Scout felt the man press against the glass. She spread more of her filaments out along it and felt the faint vibrations of another set of feet. The man most likely wasn’t lying. let’s just get our food already her mate cooed. im so hungry I WILL RETURN the Scout flashed. She paused and repeated the message. She swam quickly to a site she’d found before, covering her lamp in case another patrol was already there. It was long and cavernous, but with openings at the very front. Perhaps a host creature of some sort. good place for a rest the Scout’s mate thought. dark smooth safe The rods were there at the end of this tunnel, spilled over the floor, each about the size of a sea pig. The Scout’s filaments grasped and pulled one, cradling it gently until it was secured tight underneath her right fin. She would return to the False Cave and avoid mentioning this to the other anglerfish, who would chastise her for wasting energy. But at least- STOP. The Scout froze. A few quick but distinct bursts of light had come from the end of this corpse-cave. poo poo thought her mate. LEAVE THE ROD, came a flash again from the same direction. It wasn’t the colorful helix of a bloodybelly or the fast-moving glint of a viperfish. And she hadn’t sensed anyone. Slowly, the Scout uncovered her lamp. She saw the teeth first, hanging out of a sagging jaw. The motionless form of another anglerfish like her, albeit a skinnier one with a broken fin – and a crooked lamp. Four thin tendrils wrapped around the body, pressing into its gaping mouth. Another held the lamp aloft, curled around it like a vine. She could now see Bent Lamp, grasped inside eight webbed tentacles, all belonging to a red creature with a hulking, winged skull. YOU KILLED HER, flashed the Scout. SHE’S NOT DEAD, the vampire squid signaled. WE ARE ONE. I JUST WANT THIS ROD, the Scout said. I WILL GO. YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO BE HERE, the squid flashed back, working the body with sickening ease. IT’S ALL MINE. WHY KEEP HER, the Scout asked. YOU GET A WARNING, the squid said. LEAVE THE ROD. LET THEM DIE. AND TELL OTHERS NOT TO COME. WHAT WILL YOU DO. HER FLESH IS MY FLESH. HER LIGHT IS MY LIGHT. HER TEETH ARE MY TEETH. She could see the squid maneuvering now, its bright blue eye staring at her warily. It would be easy to drop the rod. And the death of the humans would mean nothing to others back in the Home Cave. save them The Scout was surprised: she thought for sure her mate had fallen asleep again. The vampire squid widened its eye. As it lunged from the wall, the Scout quickly wrapped her free filaments around a spot on Bent Lamp’s body. One particular spot. A lump of flesh that still bore two distinct eyes. She pulled hard. The vampire squid reeled in pain, crashing against the wall as the mate’s body came loose. Bent Lamp fell out from its maw. The Scout grabbed her tail and whirled around to the exit, paddling frantically. wheeeee * * * * * The False Cave started humming as soon as the rod clicked into place. The Scout shut the roof panel with her filaments and relaxed. WE GAINED NOTHING, Bent Lamp said, hovering by the edge of the structure. AND I LOST MY MATE. THE OTHERS WILL BE ANGRY. She’d been sullen since regaining her consciousness, swimming only in bursts and scarcely flashing at all on their journey. I’M SORRY, flashed the Scout. HE WAS STILL ALIVE. HE SWAM AWAY. YOU'LL FIND HIM. Bent Lamp was silent. The Scout took a rare look up at the space around them. The World Ocean surged with unceasing abyssal life. Particulate creatures flitted between the ruined steel, chasing marine snow into waving plants. LET’S GO said the Scout. She led Bent Lamp down within view of the False Cave’s window. As they swam away, the people inside would just be able to see the movements from their tails – if they saw them at all.
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Aug 7, 2023 01:35
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Thunderdome Week #575: Trade Secrets I've always been kind of fascinated with employee training videos. Aside from the unintentional hilarity, stuff that is not meant for people outside of an organization to see intrigues me. This week your challenge is to write a story that includes specific details of some occupation, real or imagined. What's it like to be food photographer? An interplanetary real estate lawyer? A roller coaster operator? A marriage counselor for dragons? Take us behind closed doors (literally if you want) and use as much industry jargon/knowledge as you can. Your story does not have to be in the style of a training video/manual, but I want to feel like I really understand whatever this role is by the end. Show me your Grill Skills! You get 1000 words to start. Ask for a flash rule and I'll give you a random job and 500 extra words. No erotica, fanfiction, or political screeds. Signup deadline is Friday, August 11 at Midnight EST. Submission deadline is Sunday, August 13 at Midnight EST. Entrants: sephiRoth IRA Chairchucker (Flash: Hot air balloonist) Fuschia tude derp (Flash: Snake wrangler) Green Wing  Ouzo Maki QuoProQuid FatJesus Thranguy (Flash: Cake decorator) The Cut of Your Jib Lord Windy Judges: FlippinPageman SlightlyLions FlippinPageman fucked around with this message at 05:01 on Aug 12, 2023 |
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Aug 8, 2023 12:46
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Chairchucker posted:Flash me please Hot air balloonist.
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Aug 8, 2023 13:08
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derp posted:In gimme a job Snake wrangler (basically this guy: https://www.instagram.com/wrangler_bruce/)
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Aug 8, 2023 19:37
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Thranguy posted:In and flash Cake decorator
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Aug 11, 2023 20:21
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Signups are closed.
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Aug 12, 2023 05:01
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Submissions are CLOSED. Judgements to come.
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Aug 14, 2023 05:19
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Week 575 Results: The higherups at Bloodthrone LLC have completed their evaluations and issued the following judgements. This week's win goes to derp for "anti," a compelling character study of a figuratively and literally toxic snake-obsessive that felt sickeningly real. You've got moxie, kid! The corner exsanguination chamber is yours. Honorable mentions to FatJesus for "Siege Defence for Beginners," Thranguy for "My Gun Shoots Fondant," and GreenWing for "Little Red Lamp," all of which featured memorable voices and creative takes on the prompt. DM to Chairchucker for "Stay Inside the Basket" and a loss to Fuschia tude for "How to Surf the Multiverse." I guess it's my own fault for accepting these late but I still think you could have done better. A thorough chewing out for no-shows sephiRothIRA, QuoProQuid, and Lord Windy. Get OUT of my OFFICE! Thanks to everyone who submitted, and to SlightyLions for co-judging. My crits will hopefully be up before this Thursday.
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Aug 15, 2023 01:41
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Week 575 Crits: Part 1 Crits for the first four stories below, with the rest to come before the end of the day. Please take everything I say just as jumping off points for revisions: I sometimes like to suggest places the story could go but it’s of course all up to you. “Beginnings and Endings and Naming Conventions“ - The Cut of Your Jib A storm forces a crew to band together to keep one of their members from losing his leg. Occupation: Racing yacht rigger (I think) What worked: -Loved some of the language and turns of phrase here. -”A hyrax comes up and nibbles on my shoelaces” = great sentence. -I think I got the main theme of the story as “the grind,” aka the way life at sea erodes your sense of time, as well as the drive to continue on despite this. -Opens in the middle of a good action-heavy setpiece to center the story around. This could have easily been the entire story, ending when the crew gets to South Africa. -Incorporated jargon pretty well. A lot of it was stuff that felt authentic but was easy to figure out in context (“snakepit,” “skeleton,” “monkeyed” etc.). -I liked learning that the narrator was a Yinzer. What didn’t: -Didn’t understand the title or what “the jigsaw of a Ren and Stimpy bit” meant at first read, still not 100% on the latter. -We had an issue with nameless first-person narrators this week, and while it isn’t always a bad thing, I feel like I needed to know more about this one. -There are a decent amount of characters and I don't feel like I get to know any of them except Spike very well. Who are Tina and Amber? -Beware of tense changes. We abruptly shift from past to present tense when the heli shows up and then back and forth in the final section. If you want this to work stylistically we need a better sense of that “timelessness” theme, -The ending section (after the break) confused me. Putting the exposition at the end could reinforce the theme of timelessnes/getting lost in “the grind,” but it doesn’t really feel connected to what happened before and instead comes across as pointless. Suggestions: -My suggestions below assume that we loop back to before the incident on the ship BUT if that's not the intent, then that needs to be made clearer. -If you mention a character by name you need to give them a little more description or involvement. -Tie the chronological ending of the story to its actual ending (maybe with some revelation or call-back). -Consider maybe framing the entire story around the incident at sea and looping back to it so it begins with the storm and ends right before it happens. Maybe similar events have happened so many times they all blur together? “Siege Defence for Beginners” - Fat Jesus A new recruit gets a crash course in castle warfare during a particularly ugly raid. Occupation: Man at arms What worked: -This was a good take on the prompt: on-the-job training during a Medieval siege. -The narrator’s voice and jokes reminded me of a cross between the first season of Blackadder and that SNL sketch about the scalder and his son (“And ye tip it” especially). He (assuming they’re a he) doesn’t sugarcoat the violence but is also surprisingly compassionate, even comforting him at the end. -The format also allowed you to describe some weapons (halberds, cavalry hammers) and tactics without sounding too much like David McCauley. -In fact, the instructions about putting on the armor and how to use the halberd were some of the most interesting parts to me: more of that, please! -I like the little bits we learned about the narrator. There’s a sense that he and the rookie mirror each other, and that this is part of a cycle. -The urgency of the siege does help break up the instructional moments. What didn’t: - A little more historical specificity would have helped this stand out. There are some details (mention of the Turks and the Pope, character names) but I didn’t get exactly where or when this was on my own. You don't need to spell it out, but I would have liked a few more hints. -Jan and Vitomir get introduced too late. Meeting them earlier on (and maybe including a few more details about them) might help establish the world and allow you to refer to them later. -There’s a lot going on, both to the story’s benefit and detriment. I do like the chaos of the battle but maybe just use that as bookends and ground the bulk of the story in one spot. -The amount of time that passes between paragraphs (and even sentences) is hard to parse. Sometimes things are happening in real time, but in others there’s a jump. -I would also break the lines up when something dramatic happens (like the catapult attack at the beginning) so we can feel that impact more. Suggestions: -Add a few more details to help us figure out the setting. Maybe refer to the landscape, throw in some words from the local language, or mention what castle this is? -More character details or action for Jan and Vitomir. -Use line breaks to space out the action more. -Consider setting the entire story in one place within the castle (or just give us a more consistent sense of time passing). It could take place within that hour before they start ramming the doors: you could still have the narrator leave the boy the same way, but it might make it easier to follow the action. -The entire story could even just be the suiting up part before the two of them part ways. "Underwater Welding: Principles and Hazards" - Ouzo Maki A transcript of a simple repair job gone wrong. Occupation: Underwater welders What worked: -I had to do a double take because I ALMOST gave "underwater welder" as a prompt to someone but didn't. I'm glad you picked this profession. -This was very well executed technically. Loved the format and feeling that we were reading this after the fact as a found document. -Good sense of relationship between the characters. -Believable dialogue that worked the prompt into a realistic setting. -Lots of great details and jargon, as requested. -I liked the use of “[unintelligible]” and would have appreciated more like that, suggesting we can’t entirely trust the transcript. What didn't: -Kind of ended on a shrug for me. It feels like you had a really cool image in your head for what happened during the final scene but we don’t get it just by reading. The crack and sinkholes get mentioned quickly and then it’s just a bunch of screaming. Presumably there’s something monstrous down there but there’s nothing to hint that, and even then it only comes up at the end. -Although the dialogue felt real, I wasn’t as emotionally invested in the characters as I wanted to be. -It seemed like there should have been more to the ending than “A woman with O’Roark’s last name is suing the company.” Suggestions: -You could go two ways with this: if this is a tragedy, then give us more to make us care about Samuelson and O’Roark. If this is some sort of “monster emerging” or disaster story, then give us more about the environment. Are we supposed to fear what they found, or should we be more focused on the tragedy of their deaths? -Either way, we need more of a buildup to what happens at the end. -Play with the format more. -What if there was evidence that suggested the company or Tina knew about this and was leading them there on purpose? "Little Red Lamp" - Green Wing Zaq resents the drudgery of his job despite its massive consequences. Occupation: “Watchers” (angels) What worked: -This was the only story that attempted a semi-gradual reveal of what the narrator’s job actually was, mapping a seemingly boring task onto something truly apocalyptic, which was a clever take on the prompt. An easy top-tier pick for me. -Great satirical Douglas Adams-esque tone. -Believable banter between Raz and Zaq. -The line “call the plunger a trumpet” raises some fascinating questions. (do our notions of the divine actually come from misinterpreting this mundane technology? How much of a connection do these “angels” have to human depictions of them? Does this bureaucracy oversee all universes?) -More stories should mention muons: great word choice. -It’s both funny and depressing that angelic jobs are being automated too. I can only imagine what’s going on in their version of the film industry right now... What didn’t: -I love the final line but the ending still left me cold. I appreciated it more on a second read. -In general, I wanted to know more. I like how blasé the characters are about the death of a universe but a few more details about angelic society would have helped me connect with them. Suggestions: -More details about Zaq’s history. -I think I wanted more conflict between Zaq and Raz? Or more about why this universe was being destroyed? -Maybe some more satirical details about this crappy job and where it sits in the hierarchy of angel duties. What sort of job does Zaq actually want and how is this assignment thwarting that? -How often does this happen, and how does a universe get the red light? It’s obviously common enough that they have an entire job for it but it doesn’t seem to be that common. This is a decent story on its own that you could expand and improve upon further. FlippinPageman fucked around with this message at 18:08 on Aug 16, 2023 |
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Aug 16, 2023 17:25
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Week 575 Crits: Part 2 “anti” - derp A snake obsessive doses themselves with venom to get stronger but is not as invulnerable as they think. Occupation: Snake wrangler What worked: -The narrator’s voice here is very well done. I love that this character not only has a specific job, but a philosophy and personality informed BY that job. That was a big part of why it won for me. -Great descriptions of the snakes and the venom extraction process. -The lack of a name for the narrator here didn’t bother me as much. It suggests that their obsessions have subsumed their identity, kind of like the nameless narrators of some Poe and Lovecraft stories. -Loved the colorful, gross description of the venom and its physical effects. -Vivid and memorable imagery in general, such as the jar of venom on the coffee table. -Haunting ending. What didn’t: -The long stream-of-consciousness paragraph railing against antivenom risks overstaying its welcome. I think it serves an important purpose but goes on a bit long. -I’m not sure how you’d expand on this without diluting the POV, but Shelly is rather flatly characterized. Suggestions: -Shorten that one paragraph. You could possibly break it up and disperse it across the story. -Maybe add one or two more interactions with Shelly that reveal more of her character. “My Gun Shoots Fondant” - Thranguy Bad news for a wedding means good news for the cake maker (and kickbacks for a dentist). Occupation: Professional baker/cake decorator What worked: -This was funny and charming. For something so short it managed to pack in a memorable character voice (even if we don’t have a name), lots of action, and some witty observations. -The way you use Cliff and Will is a good example of how to include minor named characters that serve a purpose. -The shortest story of the week (even with an extra 500 words allowed) still had a complete narrative and a lot of detail. -Wedding playlist description was a highlight. -Loved Darla and her racket. -Great beginning and ending. What didn’t: -Not to harp on it, but I gave you “cake decorator” and was kind of hoping to hear about frosting and decorating techniques (or maybe how to construct confusingly realistic cakes to torment Mikey Day). Instead most of the “insider knowledge” had to do with how wedding planning works and was kind of underwhelming. I feel like most people know you don't need the "speak now and forever hold your peace" part in your wedding? -There’s no actual fondant gun action and that was disappointing. -This is a story where the narrator doesn’t really change and is never seriously challenged. Their voice and humor was enough to make up for that and still earn an HM, but I can see some people not caring. -The metaphor of the cake decorator being a gunslinger is so funny and fitting that I kind of wish there were more references to that, or that the story had more of a structure of a Western (without being a full on parody). If this is how the narrator sees themselves, they could even act like a super-cool Man With No Name-type in dialogue. -Was I supposed to know who Little Bagger was? Is that a nickname or a job title? Suggestions: -More stakes for the main character OR more of a sense that they are as super cool and detached as the gunslinger they reference. -More specific details of their job as opposed to tidbits about weddings. -Pay off on the promise of the title more (or change it, I guess, except don’t do that because it’s a great title). -Consider adding some dialogue between the narrator and Darla. “Stay Inside the Basket” - Chairchucker An overbearing boyfriend embarks on a lavish, doomed proposal. Occupation: Hot air balloonist What worked: -Despite the DM and the criticism below, I do appreciate that you managed to submit and wanted to avoid disqualifying anyone outright this week. -I actually rather like the first half of this. I think you build up tension and the feeling that something bad is going to happen well. It reminded me of Flannery O’Connor or Roald Dahl stories that start with microaggressions and lead to a grimly comedic ending. -I like how cynical the owner is (“You can’t fly my balloon”) and how obnoxious the would-be groom comes across. What a creep. -I love the bit about the “dirty little secret” of ballooning: exactly the kind of insider knowledge I was looking for. I don’t know if it’s true, but it feels like it is. What didn't: -For me, all this potential just kind of led to not much. The good news is I think you have the basis for a compelling story here and can leave a lot of the dialogue as is. -The ring going out of the basket feels like it should have been an escalation but everything kind of peters out after that. And yes, I know you warned us it was rushed, but you had enough space to end on something better. -It also feels like this doesn’t really impact the narrator that much. Suggestions: -Do I want the boyfriend to fall over the side? I think it would make a more satisfying climax but it’s not the only way to end. But something more needs to happen than just everybody landing and parting ways. -I need more about who this narrator is. They claim to be younger but they have the world-weariness of someone who’s been in the biz for a long time. -How does this particular “grade a dingus” stack up against others? Why is he worse than usual? “How to Surf the Multiverse” - Fuschia tude Interdimensional traveler Jules Hartley describes his exploits as part of a pitch to potential customers. Occupation: Multiversal tour guide What worked: -I appreciate you working to submit this even if it was late, which is why I didn’t disqualify. -This is a fun character to build a story around. Made me think of a cross between Baron Munchausen and the guy with the plastic donuts on his jacket from the Doctor Who story, “Carnival of Monsters.” -Fittingly, some of the language works with that kind of loquacious character. “Seeing no alternative, I took the plunge” and “I outplayed him with wiles and words” are exactly the kinds of things I imagine this storyteller saying. -Great little details at the beginning, like the fact that Jules has wings and a mention of a “transdimensional mulesnail.” What didn’t: -Unfortunately, this was an L for me for one main reason: we didn’t actually learn how to surf the multiverse! Granted, I could buy that Jules doesn’t really KNOW that much about it and is misdirecting people, but all the juicy job details I was looking for just weren’t there. -I get that he’s literally telling this story, so it’s ok to “tell, not show” in parts, but it does feel like Jules would use more colorful language. Like, would an intergalactic blowhard describe someone as “the gentle yet mysterious Bobby,” or would they say something like “Bobby, who wore a hat of purple Quajulaark leaves that shrouded his face” or something? Does that make sense? -”Jules-Omega conceded defeat” is a pretty boring end to that confrontation and robs us of seeing how the narrator actually beat him. Suggestions: -More action and description that matches the tone of voice. -What if someone in the audience called out Jules on his bullshit? Like, he started to describe something technical and then had to deflect when someone argued with him? You don’t need to have someone else butt into the narration, but you could have him refer to them. “Yes sir, you’re correct that NORMALLY a quantum helmet would not withstand the void, but fortunately I was prepared…” etc. -I would have appreciated more of a straightforward adventure than the doppelgänger war we got. FlippinPageman fucked around with this message at 18:00 on Aug 16, 2023 |
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Aug 16, 2023 17:52
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In! Flash me a rich rear end in a top hat please!
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Nov 8, 2023 15:13
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Human Trials 1543 words I am old and my father is young. I don’t know his real name. When he visits my room he wears a black blazer and jeans, sometimes sunglasses even though we’re inside. He’ll always compare our hands, the wrinkles and gray hair on mine, the smoothness of his. “Them’s the breaks, Chooch,” he’ll say smiling. It’s short for Choo-Choo, and it’s the main thing he calls me. Each of us has a name like this. My best friend is Blot and she doesn’t know what that means either. He visits me the night before the attempt, appearing in the corner like a genie winking into existence. “I know what you guys are planning, Chooch,” he says. He’s looking out the window, a faint smile on his face. I’ve never seen him without some semblance of this look. The entire world outside seems black and orange in the streetlight as dead leaves blow up against the glass. “Do you know why?” I ask, sitting at my desk, my eyes focused on the wall in front of me. I’m trying not to sweat. I hear him sipping his drink. Suddenly I’m on the floor, my chair upended. He kicks me in the stomach three times, the back twice, then chuckles. “Because I’m a dick,” he says. “You think that’s news to me? You guys go ahead. I’m looking forward to it.” “You’re going to let us…” I try to say and then stop, unable to say the final word. “Chooch, everything you ever do will be part of the experiment that birthed you. You can leave. You can tell everyone. You can even get me arrested. My work will always go on.” The door seals behind him, as it always does. I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling until I hear the familiar tapping from under my bed. I unscrew the plate and remove my twitching encrypted phone. Blot and Deddy (short for “Deadeyes McGree,” supposedly) want to know if we’re going through with it. The building we live in overlooks a steep valley. During the day, you can see miles of trees and the shining surfaces of lakes. But at night, there’s just the infernal light of the parking lot, the dancing leaves, and the occasional blinking of my father’s planes and helicopters coming to the compound. I tell my friends to meet tomorrow and replace the phone. Father will know it’s there. I spend the last hour before bed crouched on the floor, looking at myself in the mirror. - The morning passes as normal. I take my breakfast with the others in the cafeteria. There’s paper witches and pumpkins on the walls and fresh pumpkin bread sliced for us on the pastry table, along with pumpkin cookies and muffins. Blot and Deddy keep their distance until I give them the “clear” signal. Then we huddle and switch on the white noise shield.I finally tell them about the night before. “He’s going to kill us,” Deddy says. “That has to be it.” “If he wants us to try, there’s something he gets out of it,” Blot says. “So we can’t go through with it. Why didn’t you tell us this last night?” “Because I wanted to tell you in person,” I say. It’s raining outside now. Many of the others are sitting under the terrace, watching water spatter off of the glass roof. “But we can’t escape now,” Blot says. “He won’t let us leave, no matter what he says. We’re back to square one.” The pumpkin bread is, regrettably, excellent: as warm and moist as always. I dip the end of a piece in my coffee and eat the soggy part. “No we aren’t,” I say. “We have the bricks.” Papa’s pills: the way he made his fortune. He gives them to us to try on small silver trays, and when the pills turn blue or break out into spots or poo poo ourselves he watches on invisible cameras. But Blot has organized the others to hide their extras over the years. “What does that get us?” says Deddy. “Plan B,” I say. The bread really is delicious. - Every five days, there’s enough phantom satellite signal to check the internet. I dig the phone out from under my bed. United States President Joseph Biden gives speeches and shakes hands, grins and furrows. Then it’s my turn. I look into the mirror. I have a little more hair. I figure I’m maybe twenty years behind. The drug tests have made me a little slimmer, I suppose. But with Deddy there’s very little difference. It helps that Russian President Vladimir Putin has truly weaponized the combover for years. Deddy is easy to place but smiles a bit more, and has been trying to sport a permanent five o’clock shadow, a kind of Clint Eastwood look. And Blot must have been based on fresher material, as she looks exactly like Former New Zealand Prime Minister Jacinda Ardern, with the same dark hair and straight teeth. He’s basically told us since the beginning. Not who we were, specifically. But we’ve all known we were just bastard children, birthed from the snot and stray hairs of those in power. He thinks it’s funny. He makes us watch The Island and Parts: The Clonus Horror and Logan’s Run just to rub it in. No. Father is the bastard. Not me. Not any of us. I get in bed and try to recite the longform names of the medications we’ve taken over the years to help me fall asleep. - The man we have to call our father holds a chocolate cupcake up to the light like a diamond in a clutched, gloved hand. He rotates it slowly before peeling off the wrapper. It has a swirled crown of orange frosting and is decked with black and orange sprinkles. “Very festive, Grum Grum,” he says. Grum, who’s wearing her hair shorter than the real Michelle Obama does these days, nods from her place in the circle around father’s judging table. Father puts the entire cupcake in his mouth and makes us watch each bite like he’s taking turns on a ski slope. “Oh. Heavenly,” he says when it’s over before making some notes on his sheet. There are five more entries, including Blot’s candy corn croissants and Deddy’s Graveyard Crumble cake. Then it’s me. I fluff my chef’s hat before stepping up. “Happy Halloween, Pop,” I say. He sneers at me, a dollop of frosting on his nose. None of us tell him about it. “My entry in this year’s Great Halloween Bake Off,” I say, producing the dish from behind my back, “is a visitor from beyond the stars! Wee ooo wee ooo wee ooo.” There are snickers at my attempt at UFO noises as I land the dish in front of him with a theatrical wobble. The little poo poo shakes his head and scoffs, but his eyes light up when I lift the lid. I can see the reflection of green frosting in his eyes. “Behold,” I say, wiggling my fingers. “Little Green Gingerbread Men. They said I was mad to combine lime and gingerbread. Mad! But…well Dad, I know lime is your favorite flavor. And it’s a season of madness, in a way, isn’t it?” Father Dear is hooked. He rubs his hands and digs in, and he moans as he bites the head off the creature, followed by the rest of him. I see him scrape the plate hungrily for crumbs. His leather gloves are now streaked green and white. I made sure it would go down easy, you motherfucker. “Chooch, what can I say?” he sputters. He’s trying to look cool while wiping the sugar off of his blazer sleeves with a napkin. “I know I’m supposed to wear a straight face, but-” He chokes. Every one of us in the crowd looks at each other. The false father grabs at his throat and collapses to the floor. “It’s all in the ingredients,” I say. “A pinch of paralytic, a hint of hormonal depressant, an ounce of oxytocin. All from the many, many, many drugs you’ve forced down our throats. We’ve each used just a little in our treats today, so by now you’ve consumed quite a lot of different chemicals. I hope it’s all sweet enough for you.” The truth is, he’s already a goner, gasping for air and pounding the floor. The guards in the corner of the room begin shouting into radios but the rest of us have mobilized and within minutes we’ve tied them up and taken their weapons. I fleece the pitiful fleabag and get his keycard and his phone while he’s still convulsing. He rolls on his back and stares at me wheezing as black foam erupts from his mouth. I see his name on the card. “Bye, Marty,” I say. “The work goes on.” I hope that’s the last thing he hears. He doesn’t know I know his real name now. Everyone looks at me. The cafeteria is quiet. “What are waiting for, everyone?” I say. “Let’s ride!” We swirl out the door in laughter and rage and frosting. Once we get to the hangar, Deddy brings out some non-drugged apple fritters, deliciously crisp.
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Nov 12, 2023 22:50
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Week #589 Crits “Syzygy” - The Cut of Your Jib Birth, death, anarchy, and loss - all in the flash of a shooting star. Vibe: Bequest Song: "Turn On the Dark" - Nick Shoulders What Worked: -Framing device is neat, and reminded me a little of Gravity’s Rainbow, especially the mix of scientific and poetic language (“delineating hope from the 59 hundred K.a color a temperature a scattering”). - Love a lot of the imagery. It may be word salad, but at least it's (usually) tasty word salad. -The leap between the ice machine and 1983 Berlin is the kind of left turn I like, and could potentially give us a greater sense of time and place for whoever this narrator is. -There is a sense of mystery here, like all of these moments are clues to something, that grabs my attention. What Didn’t: -The problem isn’t that there’s no narrative: it’s that I can’t tell if there’s supposed to be no narrative. Does that make sense? The focus was on vibes over plot this week but I still found this confusing, even when I was enjoying some of the places it was going. You can make something abstract like this work but there wasn’t enough of a sense of intentionality behind it. -I appreciate that you didn’t name-check the song like some of the other entries, but this goes in the other direction in that I’m not sure there’s enough of the prompt in here at all. And it doesn’t really match the vibes of “bequest” or “Turn On the Dark” for me. -Did not like the bit about third-person/first-person perspective and narrative. It felt unnecessary and show-offy. Same with the mention of “quadrophenia”: "quadrophonic sound" would work a lot better, since the former is just the name of the album by the Who and doesn't really mean anything here (it's a great album, though). Suggestions: -If I were to be pretentious for a moment, I could see this as an attempt at literary cubism: lots of neatly drawn little squares. On the other hand, ARE all these snippets supposed to tell us a larger story? The “chains of cotton” and doctor erasing a memory seem to suggest this is someone’s perspective, but of course we don’t know who. We 100% do NOT need a clear explanation of what’s going on, but there does have to be some more shape. Either commit to the idea of this being a bunch of fragments or maybe just add some more connective tissue. -Who is speaking, and who are they speaking to? An astronaut falling into a black hole? An observer of a doomsday asteroid? Florian Schneider? Is one life ending, or the entire universe? Any of this could be cool. -If you already know who the narrator of this story is, then we need to stay within the boundaries of that person’s mind and memory (maybe resist the temptation to drop references they wouldn’t). I could also see this being a paranoid Phillip K. Dick-esque story about memory erasure and fear of death should you want to go that way. “Unrealized Dreams” - beep-beep car is go An office worker’s melancholy turns out to have a very mundane source. Vibe: Longing Song: “Motorcycle” - Cotter Wall What Worked: -Liked the description of the train and the walk through the snow. -You could write an entire flash story simply about observing a rat in a subway station. Excellent little detail. -Love “snicked” as a verb -The idea that the narrator is actually narrating out loud on their way home has a lot of comedic potential. What Didn’t: -This was overall kind of dull for me and lost the quality of “longing” in the second half. -For me, the “cookies” reveal was a groaner, not a laugh. I guess I was genuinely digging the melancholy vibes and this felt more like an anti-climax than a funny subversion to me. -Seconding what Ouzo Maki said about the forced song reference: who has a motorcycle cookie cutter lying around? -The woman on the phone (probably a partner, but we don’t know for sure) gets an avalanche of detail in a short paragraph and none of it really matters. Suggestions: -If you want to keep this as a joke story. I would make the stuff in the beginning more overwrought. And I’d begin with something like “I couldn’t believe they were gone.” so we get the set up right away before you eventually reveal what “they” were. -Personally, I liked the straight-faced “quitting time in a snowy city” thing more. What if you just told us the character was longing for cookies from the beginning and made it more of an introspective piece as they thought about why they missed them so much while heading home on the train? Someone who has that kind of reaction to a snickerdoodle probably has a lot of other stuff going on underneath. -Alternately: why don’t we have a story about the cookie-baking underwater welder who likes motorcycles instead? “The Goddess’s Champion” - The Mackening Ryn grapples with the guilt and horror of murder while preparing to flee for his life. What Worked: -A good premise for a story about haunting. The first paragraph drops us straight into the action. It almost feels like the beginning of a Hitchcock movie or Columbo episode. -There’s enough here to make me want to learn more about this world and the characters in it. -Some good sensory imagery, especially in the paragraph about burning the corpse. What Didn’t: -Quite a lot of focus on plot in a week that was supposed to be more about atmosphere. -Minor thing, but I think you mean “shuddering,” not “shuttering.” -Opening paragraph starts out well but the third sentence lays it on too thick (tears are like rivers AND rain AND it dilutes the blood spatters). -The structure of this is kind of weird. I like that we begin in media res and then learn the relationship but it’s odd to go from Mika’s decapitation to their relationship beforehand and then back to the present. -Not enough description to help us feel this fantasy (I think?) world. As an example, you introduce the story with a statue of a goddess, an easy way to give us information, but don’t tell us anything about that statue. Suggestions: -What if the entire story was just Ryn in the moment, struggling to hide the body and cover his tracks before running away? I'm a sucker for scenes like that and I think you could have a lot of fun describing this world through real-time action and description, rather than with distracting flashbacks. -If you want to keep the current structure, then I would just have the memory about Mika’s murder come after we get some background about her relationship with Ryn (and more of that, please.) -More detail about Nerissa and her followers. At the very least we should know what her temple and statues look like. “the only cowboy in a bar in portland” - derp A lonely barfly battles their inner demons while surrounded by oblivious young people. Song: “The Only Cowboy Bar in Portland” - Lightning Luke What Worked: -The best part of this story is the internal dialogue and the way you arrange it. I’ve read enough of your work now to see that you like to do stream of consciousness stuff and this was clearly in your wheelhouse but still different and fitting for this character. -I like the narrator’s description of themselves in the mirror (“dark circle eyes and a grimace, sucking the joy out of a ten foot radius”). -The jump between the ghost (or whatever) in the doorway and the “Why am I here?” is great. What Didn’t: -I’m going to echo Ouzo Maki again: the use of the song prompt was pretty flat and uncreative. The title of this story is actually a play on the song but I didn’t even notice until the fourth or fifth time I read it and thought it was just the same title. -Despite the neat syntactical trickery and some decent physical description, this narrator and their lost love are pretty generic. Suggestions: -You could honestly keep the title and just remove the reference to the song in the story itself. -Consider making ”Gaze into the golden” the opening line. -This might be too literal, but I kind of got time loop vibes at the end. You don’t need to spell it out but I would love more of a sense that the narrator is losing their sense of when and where they are, becoming untethered. -If this takes place in the present day, I would love to know exactly how this person considers themselves a "cowboy." Are they straight out of central casting or is it an ironic term and they're actually nothing like that? -I could see this being a pretty effective ghost story if you ditched the jukebox stuff and gave us some more details about the narrator and the lost woman. “One Must Imagine” - Thranguy A scholar faces the possible end of time, or at least of the Eye that watches it. Vibe: Futility Song: ”Anthem for the Already Defeated” - Rock Plaza Central What Worked: -For me, this was a winner because it conveys the feeling of futility very well (without descending into nihilism) and tells an interesting story with a memorable central image. It has a real Golden Age science fiction vibe. -Love all the lore about the Eye and the world around it. I want to know more about the Gnostics, the Klateans, and the Bonehall. Lots of room to expand this if you want to. -”He reminds me of Jax. He’s nothing like him.” - great line. -The opening line and final few paragraphs are all great and work well as bookends. What Didn’t: -I like the way time passes, but I’m a little confused at how it’s presented. Is the narrator outside time now? It happens so casually. The fact that each time jump is a larger amount makes it seem like we’re approaching a singularity that never really arrives. -There’s a lot hinted at that I don’t fully understand. That’s fine for this challenge but might be something you need to fix if you want to revise and try and publish this story elsewhere. Suggestions: -Establish some sort of basis for the time-jumping structure. -I want even more description of the titan and its Eye. How large is it? Where exactly is it located? -It feels like this could somehow end with the narrator being bonded to the titan in some way, either transcending time or being able to see and think in different ways, similar to Arrival. The whole concept of “the Eye below it” raises a bunch of juicy questions about how we perceive time and history that you could develop. FlippinPageman fucked around with this message at 02:07 on Nov 22, 2023 |
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Nov 21, 2023 23:51
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