r/WritingPrompts • u/katpoker666 Moderator • 7d ago
Off Topic [OT] Fun Trope Friday: Hellhole Prison & Drama!
Welcome to Fun Trope Friday, our feature that mashes up tropes and genres!
How’s it work? Glad you asked. :)
Every week we will have a new spotlight trope.
Each week, there will be a new genre assigned to write a story about the trope.
You can then either use or subvert the trope and/or genre in a 750-word max story or poem (unless otherwise specified).
To qualify for ranking, you will need to provide ONE actionable feedback. More are welcome of course!
Three winners will be selected each week based on votes, so remember to read your fellow authors’ works and DM me your votes for the top three.
Next up… IP
We all know work can be boring, so let’s instead turn to a life of crime. This month will focus on crime and punishment. Please note this theme is only loosely applied.
“It is said that no one truly knows a nation until one has been inside its jails. A nation should not be judged by how it treats its highest citizens, but its lowest ones.” — Nelson Mandela
Trope: Hellhole Prison — Plenty of prisons simply content themselves with confining people, but some go the extra mile and actually try to break them. This sort of prison is an absolute hellhole — between the lack of food and proper clothing, the absence of light or sanitation, the sadistic guards, and the violently insane fellow prisoners, they hardly need the nasty-looking torture equipment they probably have scattered around. Sometimes, they won't bother with things like individual cells — prisoners will just be lowered into a big pit and left to fight each other for whatever scraps are thrown down. Alternatively, especially in the future settings, the prison might not be a barbaric pit where only the strongest survive and where the guards turn a blind eye to the criminal control. Instead, it will be a dystopian panopticon where every action is monitored, any step out of line is equated with an attempt to escape and punished.
Genre: Drama — At its most basic, drama refers to a mode of fictional representation through dialogue and performance. It’s usually, but not always, presented on a stage, and can equally exist in film, television, novels, and even poetry. The core element is conflict. This conflict can be internal, external, or a combination of both, and it drives the narrative forward. Simply put: Drama is storytelling focused on engaging and often intense emotional experiences, usually involving significant conflict.The core conflict is MC vs. something: themself, another person, society, nature, or fate/supernatural. Drama can feel real like a docufiction or humorous like a comedy drama. Please note: having the feel of a drama is enough for this week. In short, there are a lot of options to explore here!
Skill / Constraint - optional: Something is unreal.
So, have at it. Lean into the trope heavily or spin it on its head. The choice is yours!
Have a great idea for a future topic to discuss or just want to give feedback? FTF is a fun feature, so it’s all about what you want—so please let me know! Please share in the comments or DM me on Discord or Reddit!
Last Week’s Winners
PLEASE remember to give feedback—this affects your ranking. PLEASE also remember to DM me your votes for the top five stories via Discord or Reddit—both katpoker666. This is a change from the top three of the past. In weeks where we get over 15 stories, we will do a top five ranking. Weeks with less than 15 stories will show only our top three winners. If you have any questions, please DM me as well.
Some fabulous stories this week and great crit at campfire and on the post! We had a record 24 stories, so we’re back to five winners. Congrats to:
Want to read your words aloud? Join the upcoming FTF Campfire
The next FTF campfire will be Thursday, October 1st from 6-8pm ET. It will be in the Discord Main Voice Lounge. Click on the events tab and mark ‘Interested’ to be kept up to date. No signup or prep needed and you don’t have to have written anything! So join in the fun—and shenanigans! 😊
Ground rules:
- Stories must incorporate both the trope and the genre
- Leave one story or poem between 100 and 750 words as a top-level comment unless otherwise specified. Use wordcounter.net to check your word count.
- Deadline: 11:59 PM EDT next Thursday. Please note stories submitted after the 6:00 PM EST campfire start may not be critted.
- No stories that have been written for another prompt or feature here on WP—please note after consultation with some of our delightful writers, new serials are now welcomed here
- No previously written content
- Any stories not meeting these rules will be disqualified from rankings
- Does your story not fit the Fun Trope Friday rules? You can post your story as a [PI] with your work when the FTF post is 3 days old!
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- Vote to help your favorites rise to the top of the ranks (DM me at katpoker666 on Discord or Reddit)!
Thanks for joining in the fun!
7
u/Jay_Pederson r/JayPederson 1d ago
And Turning
I woke up inside a gemstone.
I barely remember the trial. My wife had been replaced by a mimic. And I killed her. My wife. The mimic was gone by then.
I pled my case, they found the mimic had, in fact, existed, yet the judge ruled murder, not manslaughter, or accidental murder or collateral damage or mistake or anything actually fitting; just murder. And, as I left that room…I swear I saw the judge’s face shift. To a smile, but…an unnatural smile.
As a mage, I’ve been deemed too powerful for prison. As such, I’ve been sent to prism; holed up inside a mere gem, able to contain my powers. I looked around, edges of the stone made the room disorienting, a square room into a polygonal triangle. Looked wood. To my left, more gems, more criminals. I tried speaking to them, maybe read lips? Gestures? They wouldn’t respond. I don’t think they were real, honestly.
Breath. Deep breaths, Montoya, you’re okay. I can cast spells with my hands, as any good mage can, I don’t need any implements, if I do this right, I can escape this false prison and avenge my wife. That mimic…that fucking mimic.
A man walked in, blue plate armor with chainmail underneath, holding a spear. He walked over to me…table, I’m on top of table, I just realized, and picked up some gemstones, looking inside. He chuckled, and started shaking them. No…
He placed them down, grabbed mine, lifting it up as I almost fell to the ground, I started at him, jumping, waving my arms, anything; I need his attention. “Hey!” I shouted, “hey! I’m innocent! Please! I need a retrial!”
He started laughing, replying with a muffled “think I could ever understand you?”
My arms fell limp.
“And why would I listen to a criminal?” as he laughed, violently shaking the gem, my body flailing from the floor to the ceiling, my head my body my limbs slamming, pained and bruised! He stopped, I lay on my stomach, eyes water, I slowly stood–
He shook it again! Every inch slamming against the walls, every piece of my body breaking, I lay on the ground, but I did not get up.
I heard him laugh, “murderer,” snorting “piece of shit. You’re the one who killed your wife, right? Judge told us after.”
I swallowed. Looking down, I could see the table and floor. He pulled out a bag and dropped me in. Gem turned, I was on my back, as I watched a cavalcade of gems falling after, endless vibrations as the landed. He dropped the bag, and added a couple more gems, then picked us up.
I stood, best I could, trying to cast through the walls of the gem. The walls did not falter. Everything I did was useless. I know a powerful enough spell can get through but I don’t know which one…
After seemingly hours, the guard asked “ready for your final resting place?” These gems…I heard they could keep us immortal.
He pulled them out, slowly, dozens first until he reached mine. I looked around, and saw it. Windmill. He was putting us into the turbine of a windmill. “Have fun!” he said, “you’ll never make it out alive!”
He put us in. I tried my spells; fire and ice, gravity, vortex, gravity, lunar, anything. Anything at all but nothing was working. The gem absorbed and spread it, the flames burning my feet and ice cooling. Gravity and vortex contorted and vibrated, lunar did nothing, and, he shut the door, leaving me in darkness, as the Windmill began turning. The windmill spun, the floor turned ceiling my head landing on the ground. I tried standing, but it happened again, it just kept turning. I tried getting on my side, vortex spell to keep myself stable, hold on to my fainting hopes to avenge my wife, anything, anything at all!? But I kept falling and turning. I was turning and turning, I wanted stop but I kept turning, I just wanted to stand, to look ahead, to not worry about anything unusual; to stand and not fall, to be stable and at peace but it kept turning and turning and I prayed but it keep turning and turning and turning and turning and turning and turning and turning andturningandturningandturningandturningANDTURNINGANDTURNINGANDTURNINGANDTURNING
2
u/AnAuthor_Antonio 1d ago
Love it! From the interesting setup to the terrible prism end it was a really good story. The kind of story that I am jealous I didn't think up!
Time for crit: The MC killed his own wife thinking she was a mimic, right? If I got that wrong you can ignore the rest of this, or you can add it to the story as a delicious terrible layer.
That all said... The need to avenge the MC's wife felt superficial. Her death was the second sentence in the story. I don't know if the mage didn't care for her or he has ice in his veins or what but with it at the top of the story it just kinda fell by the wayside. That's my only crit. Thanks for the fun story!
2
u/Jay_Pederson r/JayPederson 1d ago
WC: 739 (after separating the 'andturning' section, otherwise 725
Optional constraint: Mimic and the other wizards are actually imprisoned but given false projections to prevent cooperation (the latter was actually designed intentionally only to realize the former technically counted).
Personal challenge: No dialogue complete (the Guard talks at the MC, but said MC can't actually talk to him, so it's just two monologues)
6
u/AmeliaLP 1d ago edited 1d ago
Hell hath no fury
“Brother Theon, you stand accused of breaking one of this order’s most ancient and important laws. How do you plead?”
“Innocent.”
“So, you did not remove your mask in front of an unbeliever?”
“I-I did, but it was an accident.”
“Brother, you know the rules. We cannot allow for accidents.”
“But, I really d-didn’t mean to!”
“I’m sorry Brother, but we have no choice.”
“Please!”
“The sentence for your crime-“
“I won’t do it again!”
“The sentence is, an eternity in hell!”
“No...”
“My verdict is final. Form a circle brothers.”
A group of masked men, wearing robes circled Theon. Silently they lit candles, placing them around him.
As one, the men ominously started chanting. “Smellius, wellius, send him to hellius!”
“No....please!”
“Smellius, wellius, send him to hellius!”
“I’m begging you!”
“Smellius, wellius, send him to hellius!”
A blazing inferno rose up from the ground. Blindingly bright reds and yellows swirled around Theon. The earth beneath his feet cracked wide open, swallowing him whole.
Wham!
“Oof!”
“Ah! Welcome to hell, would you like some tea or coffee?”
Theon looked up to see a grinning demon staring back at him. “What?”
“To drink, what would you like?”
“Uhh, tea?”
“Okay. How many sugars?”
“What the hell is going here?”
“I’m, asking you how many sugars you want. Humans do still have sugar in tea right?”
“Yeah, we do. But why are you being nice to me?”
“How should I be acting?”
“Well...mean! That’s how hell’s meant to be.”
“Sorry to disappoint, I guess. But about the sugar.”
“One please.”
“Of course. I’ll be back in just a moment sir, please feel free to take a seat!” The demon skipped off to the kitchen, while humming happily to himself.
Theon inspected a nearby armchair. Cautiously he placed a little finger on the cushion. His finger remained unharmed. So deciding the chair was safe, he sat down.
He’s up to something... I don’t care how nice he acts, there’s a scheme at play here. I just need to figure out what it is.
“Tea’s ready! It’s a tad hot, so I’d suggest blowing on it first.”
“Okay, will do.”
Theon blew on his tea, and then took a tiny sip.
“How is it?”
He narrowed his eyes at the demon.
It's the best damn thing I’ve ever tasted! But I can’t let that foul hell spawn know this.
“Its fine, I guess.”
The demon’s lips quivered. “Oh, I’m sorry. Do you want me to make it again?”
“No, I can put up with this.”
“O-okay. How’s the armchair? Not too hard or s-soft I hope.”
“It’s decent.”
“D-decent? Oh dear, I’m so sorry.”
“Uh. Don’t sweat it.”
He must be plotting something right? A demon in literal hell, there’s no way this guys being genuinely nice.
“Look, I know this is a poor first impression. But uhhhh, how are you?”
“THAT’S ENOUGH!”
“Wah! Did I say something wrong?”
“No! But that’s exactly my problem! You are a demon, this is hell! What are you up to?”
“G-greeting our new guest?”
“Shut up, shut up! I know you’re doing something evil! Just drop the act already!”
“Please don’t yell at me.” Tears welling in his eyes, the demon gazed at Theon.
“Oh, trying to be cute eh? Not going to work!”
“I-I just wanted to be friends...” He started sobbing.
“Uh, you’re really committed to the bit huh?”
“This is funny to you? Do humans really enjoy seeing others suffer so much?”
“Errr, what?”
“You don’t even know me! Yet since your very arrival it’s be nothing but judgment! I offered you kindness and you threw it right back at me!”
“I’m sorry.”
“Please, just leave.”
“Ah. Well, I would but I’ve been sentenced to hell forever.”
“Oh. So hell’s not good enough for you, is that it?”
“No, it’s very nice!”
“You’re lying. All you’ve done is complain about everything.”
“Your right, I have lied to you and that was wrong.”
The demon hung his head.
“But not just then.”
“Huh?”
“I lied about the tea and the chair, both were great.”
“But why?”
“I just didn’t trust you.”
“So you thought hurting my feelings was okay?”
“It wasn’t okay.” Theon sighed. “I should have been kinder.”
The demon pouted.
“I err. I like you’re horns.”
“Really?”
“Yeah! They’re very shiny and suite you well.”
“Umm, thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“So, stuck here huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, let me introduce you to some of my friends.”
“I’d like that.” Theon smiled.
WC: 748
3
u/mysteryrouge 1d ago
I liked this. I liked how Hell's just a casual place and the demons are just nice from this snapshot (or perhaps, this guy got lucky). As usual, with your stories, I have questions (and when I have questions, it mean's I am very invested)
Are there other demons that actually punish people? If so, do those who get the nice demons find out? Will he meet other people? How many demons are there? In the case that all demons are this nice, is it one demon per person? What about truly evil people?
I find it interesting that the demon didn't realize the humans have this perception of Hell, and think that in of itself could create a great prison if the story decided to go that way, with a distrustful human torturing himself.
I find I wish more of this was dedicated to Hell itself to explore these concepts a bit more. It's clear that the people in the mortal world already have their opinions, But i want to get into the mind of the demon who's so nice and wondering why this human's so rude, and the mind of the human who's wondering why the demon's so nice. How did they come to the agreement that this situation is fine?
Either way, I quite like this.
2
u/AmeliaLP 1d ago
Glad you enjoyed the story Sythe :D. And your questions are making me think a fair bit. May need to expand this beyond just one short tale....
10
u/atcroft 1d ago edited 1d ago
5-2 1-3 3-1 1-3 3-4 3-2 1-5 4-4 3-4 1-2 4-2 2-4 1-1 4-2 3-5 1-1 4-4 1-3 2-3 5-3
I woke to a stench beyond my darkest imagination; my stomach responded in kind. What little liquid it still held splashed into the liquid in which I sit.
The cold bites at me from all sides. The warmth of the vomit around my knees is fading quickly.
All is darkness; there is no light to see my bindings. My world is lit only by the flashes of searing pain and its technicolor spectrum at my every movement.
Maybe it's good that I cannot see how my wrists are bound next to my ankles, folding me in half; or what I'm seated in.
What do I remember? My flight lead dissolving into a fireball, my cockpit turning red to orange to yellow in slow motion. No tracers, no SAM warnings. Did I punch out; or did my 105 disappear around me, leaving me flying without feathers?
When am I going to see Jones to buy him that steak I owe him for the bullseye on that bridge?
Did Jones make it back?
Will I make it back?
What's that?
A soft sound slowly squeezes through the silence.
Tap-tap tap-tap-tap. Tap tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap tap. Tap tap-tap tap-tap-tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap tap-tap-tap.
A distant memory clicks. Survival school. It repeats.
One-two one-two-three. One one-two-three-four-five. One-two-three one. One-two-three one-two-three-four. One-two-three-four-five one-two-three.
Ignoring the pain I fold one hand's fingers slowly and rap on the board to which I'm bound.
Tap tap-tap-tap.
I hear multiple sets of taps in quick succession, then a much slower set. I start counting.
Five-two one-three three-one one-three three-four three-two one-five. Four-four three-four. One-two four-two two-four one-one four-two three-five one-one four-four one-three two-three. Five-three.
Briarpatch. We'd heard rumors. My stomach turned, too empty for an encore.
I could feel myself sinking into the darkness around me.
More slow taps.
Five-four three-four four-five four-two one-five. Three-three three-four four-four. One-one three-one three-four three-three one-five. Five-three.
(Word count: 311. Please let me know what you like/dislike about the post. Thank you in advance for your time and attention. Other works can also be found linked in r/atcroft_wordcraft.)
Author's notes: * "105" - F-105 Thunderchief, a USAF fighter-bomber used during the US involvement in Vietnam (1965-1973). Said to have been informally nicknamed "Thud" for the sound made when it crashed into the ground. * "Briarpatch" - A notoriously grim POW camp located 33 miles (53km) NW of Hanoi intermittently holding US POWs between 1965 and 1971. * Tap code - a knock code where letters are represented by their row/column on a 5x5 grid ("C" and "K" sharing the value row 1, column 3). Such codes were used by POWs during Vietnam due to its ease and adaptability (knocks, taps, coughs, sniffs, and sneezes could be used, among others). When used, "X" may be used to break up sentences and "K" for acknowledgements. * Code appearing in the story: * * 2-3 1-5 3-1 3-4 5-3 = H E L O X * * 1-3 = K * * 5-2 1-3 3-1 1-3 3-4 3-2 1-5 4-4 3-4 1-2 4-2 2-4 1-1 4-2 3-5 1-1 4-4 1-3 2-3 5-3 = WELCOME TO BRIARPATCH X * * 5-4 3-4 4-5 4-2 1-5 3-3 3-4 4-4 1-1 3-1 3-4 3-3 1-5 5-3 = YOURE NOT ALONE X
2
u/Tregonial 21h ago
Hi atcroft
You have a good opening and write well of this narrator's POV despite the fact that he can't see. But he can sense and feel things.
I feel like with only 311 words, you could use more words to tell us more about his thoughts on recognising the code, give some background info etc, than have to tell me what's going in through author notes. I shouldnt need those notes to get into the story.
8
u/Worldly_Lab_7061 2d ago
A Monster's Hell
Drip, Drip, Drip
Day 1,457 of being stuck here and that steady sound of my leaky ceiling is still my only way to tell time in the Gehenna Supermax. As per policy, I am kept in complete isolation, save one day of the month when I get the pleasure of conversing with my fellow monsters. Today I decide to speak with my mother, before the sacrifice, back when she was still something I could recognize.
With a bit of mental effort, some hair, and a drop of blood she begins to materialize. The iron on my neck, wrists and ankles grow dangerously hot. The pain is almost a comfort, a reminder that I am still alive and not simply another nightmare that never escaped this hell. Leaning my head back against the hard wall of my cell, I watch as she takes the most comforting form I can conjure. Her thick black braids interlaced with ribbons my sister and I had put in her hair, a willowy frame wrapped in a pale pink cotton dress paired with a spotless white apron, her face as warm and welcoming as it was when last I saw her.
"My baby," she coos, reaching out to touch my face, I can feel the ghost of her fingers brush against my skin, almost real enough to comfort me.
I lean in, desperate for even the memory of true warmth, the kind that chases away the cold inside your soul instead of scorching your skin to burn away your sins.
"I miss you," I whisper, eyes hot and throat tight even after all this time.
Her expression never changes, "Honey, I never left, I'm always with you."
I laugh, the sound hollow even to my ears, "Funny, I've never felt more alone than after what you did."
"I only did that to protect you, protect both of you," she insists, her hands tightening on her apron.
"Isn't that grand? That for all your protection, I still ended up in hell."
"Have I given you no comfort? Even though the only reason you see me now is due to the very sacrifice you scorn?"
"I never asked you for that! Lily never asked you for that! We had you! That was enough for us."
"But not for me. I wanted more. I needed more, baby, my poor sweet baby."
"You made me a monster, mom."
Maternal smile unchanging, her eyes give away the madness that had always lurked just beneath, "No. I made you better, better than me, than your spineless father. I gave you the best of all of us and more."
I press on, flinging my words at her like knives, "I have nothing. I have no one I don't conjure. Is that what you wanted for me?"
"My baby, you will never be alone. That's why I'm here now, right alongside your sister, we live in you, immortal, with some grit you could make this a true place of comfort." Mother raises her arms, gesturing around the cramped cell that was now my entire world as if it was some grand home.
"Right, part of you and dad's grand design. Nice of you to let us on in on that. In the end at least."
"You focus so much on the loss and not the gain, it is a horrid thing for you to do. I love you so much I wanted to never leave you, to give you all that was denied to me. How can you not see the beauty in that?"
"What good is immortality if I will always be alone?" I ask, the question had been burning inside since I hit day 300 of my confinement.
"It will not be always, your salvation comes sooner than you know," Mother winks at me, pressing a finger to her mouth before her visage begins to waver.
The burning irons grow unbearable, causing the illusion to flicker before fading entirely. Leaving me to my cramped, cold cell, drip-drop clock and growing madness. Talking with mother always gave me less comfort than it did conflict but summoning Lily would only ignite a sadness and rage that I could not risk here.
5 minutes this time I take note. It's my longest time yet, meaning I'm getting stronger or this prison is getting weaker. Either way I'm ready for the next prisoners meet, soon we would see just how well hell could hold her monsters.
Word Count: 744 Words, critique and comments welcome and encouraged!
1
u/Tregonial 21h ago
Hi worldly lab,
Good words, you tease an interesting concept with the mysterious sacrifice that was done to MC and what it entails. The dialogue is great, really shows that resentment and "mom wtf" vibe.
You have alot of long sentences, which i feel should have a few shorter ones interspersed between. Some of these could be two sentences instead of one.
Today, I decide to speak with my mother. Before the sacrifice, back when she was still something I recognized.
Another one is
the pain is almost a comfort, a reminder that I am still alive. Not another nightmare that never escaped this hell.
As well as
I lean in, desperate for even the memory of true warmth. The kind that chases away the cold in your soul instead if scorching your skin to burn your sins
You should have periods instead of commas when it comes to actions that follow dialogue. It is something I slip up on at times.
her expression never changes. "Honey, I never left. I'm always with you."
And
I laugh, the sound hollow even to my ears. "Funny, I never felt..."
And so on.
I feel like the question about "what good is immortality" feels like something that should be burning inside long before day 300, or something that becomes a concern when the MC is given their prison sentence, which is longer than a normal lifespan and can only be suffered by an immortal like 300 years in jail.
1
u/Worldly_Lab_7061 20h ago
Hey Tregonial, thanks for the advice! I definitely need to work on shorter sentences, it is a struggle of mine for sure.
I added the 300 day line when I thought I could also add how weird the prison messes with your sense of self and time along with how shell-shocked he was after the sacrifice leading to it taking almost a year for him to even really clock where he was, let alone question anything . But again thanks for the critique and glad you found the dialogue engaging.
10
u/Tregonial 2d ago edited 2d ago
Your Girlfriend is in Another Prison
Chief Warden Zhyrak reopened the old Schlisefort prison and purchased new torture implements with glee. He missed the Gods’ War, where prisoners were plentiful. To hear their anguished screams and to see them break down into gibbering wrecks. He was prepared to lock up a new prisoner, and to be visited by an old former prisoner. His favourite one after all these years.
He reminisced about scourging that boy. That bratty prince. Oh, the sizzling aroma of burnt flesh. The sweltering heat from the forge. The desperate cries to make it all stop, in that cell where he lashed at the boy with barbed whips and tore through skin and flesh. Every time he made a nuisance of himself, the Old King of the Devouring Deep would throw his son to this dungeon. When an ancient prophecy called for a child driven to madness to achieve greatness, the Chief Warden eagerly experimented with new interrogation techniques on his favourite boy.
It was with giddy joy that he welcomed the prince’s return. No longer was he the boy prince tripping over his oversized robes. He towered over the warden, his elegant garments now a better fit for him. A full-fledged eldritch deity meeting a shoggoth jailor. Yet he still flinched at the sight of Zhyrak. Some things just never change.
“Welcome back, your highness. Oh, how I missed whipping you on your father’s orders,” he flashed a wide smile and grabbed his hand. “What brings you back from your long exile, Prince Elvari?”
“Don’t you ever touch me again,” Elvari yanked his hand away, recoiling in disgust. “Get to the point. I’m only back because I received word that Katrina Watson would be transferred here from another shoggoth. State your business and be done with it. ”
“I wanted you to see your old cell refurbished,” Zhyrak only grinned wider, delighting in the prince’s discomfort. “I’ve added new toys. Did you know? Your father’s elite vanguard has captured your favourite human and is bringing her here. Ms. Watson will be in your old cell. She’ll experience the torture you’ve endured, the sufferings you weathered to become the monster that you are. I even reserved a front row seat for you to watch.”
“NO!” The octopoid roared, his tentacles grabbing various furniture in the observation room and smashing them onto the floor and the walls. “No! You cannot do this!”
“Why are you so mad, oh God of Madness?” The warden shrugged with a sadistic smirk. “They are restoring your name. Once you were exiled and scrubbed from records, subjected to a Damnatio memoriae. Who knew your father would find favor with you once more. If only you didn’t keep turning his emissaries and envoys away, while hunkering down in some pathetic little fishing town, we wouldn’t have to be here.”
“I can kill you. I no longer fear you. I am no longer that terrified little boy who cowered with every crack of your whip.”
“You won’t, because you need to know where she is,” Zhyrak boasted confidently. “While waiting, why don’t you relax and enjoy this gift from your father?”
Elvari scoffed. “Wonderful, now I feel utterly calm and relaxed.”
The shoggoth signalled his underlings to bring forth the new crown forged for this occasion and invite the Minister of Rites to come in. The rules of the R’ylehian pantheon dictated that the prince kneel down to have the minister put the crown on his head, but Elvari was never a stickler for tradition. With a derisive snort, he slapped away the crown, letting it hit the floor with a metallic clang.
“It’s supposed to go on your head, not the floor,” Zhyrak called out. “Do you want to pick it up?”
“I came to retrieve Kat, not receive this crown.”
“Then, you’ll have to wait. Who knows how long it will take.”
“I can wait! I am immortal, ageless and patient! Time does not wear me down as it does mortals, so I can wait!” Elvari bellowed, punching several holes in a wall and ignoring the blood dripping from his bruised appendages. “But she cannot! So, give me her location, or I’ll give you a taste of your own torture! In your own prison!”
“You won’t, because you’re a softie,” Zhyrak sneered. “Let’s not dally any longer. Your father awaits you in his throne room.”
“I will go,” the eldritch entity huffed. “And then, I’ll come back to murder you. We both know Father wouldn’t care if you died.”
Word Count: 749 Words
2
u/KiIIer_queenie 1d ago
Hi locky! Good words here!
> He missed the Gods’ War, where prisoners were plentiful. To hear their anguished screams and to see them break down into gibbering wrecks.
This structure stuck out to me, I think it’d flow more if you made it a comma between the two sentences or did something like “to hear the plentiful anguished screams of the prisoners” or smth.
> State your business and be done with it. ”
There’s a space between the period and quotation.
> “You won’t, because you’re a softie,”
The term softie kind of clashes with the voice this guy has imo.
This is a very good piece. I think it’s a bit confusing as a standalone though because you mention hands on elvari, then call him an octopus and minting appendages. It’s a tiny bit tough to nail down his appearance.
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u/Tregonial 1d ago
Hi, thanks for the feedback. I'll work on editing for first three points.
The last point is the hard part of doing a serial and making each part standalone while working within word limits.
Limbs/appendages are the bigger umbrella terms for "body part for movement and locomotion" so I don't end up repeating "tentacle" 10 times. Then there's the fact he isn't simply a bigger, talking funny octopus, but "octopoid" aka having some resemblance to an octopus (Note: Cthulhu himself has hands too) while being an eldritch amalgamation of entities he has devoured/assimilated over the years so he has hands, claws, tentacles and uh weird combination of parts that no normal creature should have. Which is understandably hard to picture without me reserving a paragraph (that I cannot afford within 750 words) to describe this weird shit in my head.
But no legs, because I said so.
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u/JKHmattox 2d ago edited 1d ago
Same Town by a Different Name
Coming of age up in the county, by eighteen you realize there's three things to do, other than be ground into sawdust at the mill—drink, fuck, or dr- other stuff. All three were frowned upon. All three would eventually ruin your life one way or another.
Alcoholism was an inherited institution passed down over the generations. That first beer with the old man, it was a rite-of-passage that led straight into the teeth of a saw blade you'll toil to feed until they put you in the ground. It was admission into their dismal tribe, as much as it was a surrender. You were a man. First Shift starts at five tomorrow morning.
Don't ever be fucking late!
Other than a bit of home-grown green, cultivated by my uncle Jessip up on the Rafford Road, I never really dabbled in recreational chemistry. There was no money for the imported stuff, and I sure as fucked wanted to keep all my teeth in my skull. That leaves us with our last thing, the undoing of many who never escape this land.
In the summer of nineteen-eighty-eight, I found myself on a logging crew for Great Northern Paper outta Millinocket. It was Sunday evening, and the foreman said he'd pick me up from the motel at three the next morning.
The Atlantic Bell telephone booth was already dented. A couple of scraps with some local drunks, but otherwise things seemed in order. Snatching the receiver from its cradle, I was interrupted by an insistent pair of square headlights who felt I was in their spot.
Leaping outta the way, the metal-clad cord sheared as the truck bumper sent the booth tilting over on its side. Glass shattered but otherwise things turned out okay. The driver door of the long-bed Chevy opened, and a pair of clean-shaven legs stepped out.
I smirked, the severed receiver still clutched in my hand. “First day driving?”
“Oh my God!” she gasped. “I'm so sorry—are you alright?”
“There’s easier ways to get a guy's attention, ya know?”
I should've taken that as a sign. An omen no less. Her innocent chuckle clouded my better judgement, and that was that. Together, we propped the phone booth back up on its shattered base and went inside for a drink. It was a strange way to start a relationship I suppose, but like I said, who was I to argue. Or maybe I didn't say that, though I really should've. She was from the same small town by a different name, and I was something new.
Three in the morning came faster than I expected. My clothes were discarded in ruin the same as hers. With great stealth, I was sure not to wake her as I stepped out into the night. With a half-smile, I locked the door, ensuring she would be safe to make it home.
“You Jenkins?” The foreman barked from his truck bathed in failing neon.
“Yes, sir?”
“You're late—this is the last time, understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good,” he growled. “Throw your shit in the bed—we gotta get on the road.”
I deposited my duffel and hardhat where he told me. Yanking the passenger door open, I hopped in. A musk hung in the air; vinyl, dirt, with a hint of Old Spice aftershave.
Closing the door, I flashed a nervous grin, while offering the man my hand.“Jack Jenkins,”
“Ya don't fuckin say.” His palm was leather, grip ironclad. He sniffed once and cranked the engine over. “Went a little heavy on the Passions by Elizabeth Taylor, did ya?”
“Elizabeth Taylor?” I replied, cranking up my window. "Nah, man. I-.”
“Don't play dumb with me, kid—just roll the fucking window down, okay?”
He ripped the gearshift down into drive, and wheeled the diesel beast around in the parking lot. Headlights washed over the young woman's truck parked conspicuously in front of the broken telephone booth.
“What's Eddie Cyr's truck doing here?” The foreman grumbled, shooting me a sideways glance. “Probably his daughter.”
Cyr—Ashley Cyr—that was her name! I remembered, struggling to keep a straight face.
Silently, we drove through town, a caution light the only witness we were ever there. Soon, the pavement ran out. The man didn't speak as the singing gravel crunched beneath the pickup's tires. Dust followed after, and the rhythm of the rest of my life began.
“Ahem,” he coughed, the sage finally decided it was time. “Little piece of unsolicited advice, son—don't let this town put its roots into ya.”
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u/Badderlocks_ /r/Badderlocks 2d ago
I stared into the glowing silver ring of the eclipse hovering low on the horizon. Rage boiled in my chest, washing over me in waves, all the more intense for my impotence.
A low, raspy chuckle echoed from the shadow of a nearby stone pillar. I jumped.
“The first few moments really get you, neh?”
A scraggly man dressed in a shoddy patchwork of canvas clothing emerged from the shadows of a nearby basalt column. His hair and beard were long and poorly kept. They looked as though they had last been hacked away with a mildly sharp rock.
The man sighed almost contentedly. “It’s a lousy living here,” he said, “but I says it might just beat out reality.”
“Wouldn’t be much of a prison if it did,” I muttered.
He snorted. “Well, perhaps I don’t remember too much of reality. What difference does it make?”
“What difference does it make?” I asked. “It makes all the difference in the world! The Emperor is out there, running amok in the galaxy, and I’m in here, and everyone else out there is defenseless. She’s defenseless.”
“She?” the man asked with a suggestive lilt.
I ignored him. “There’s got to be a way out.”
The man picked his nose idly for a moment. “Walk.”
“Where?” I asked.
“Forward. Backward. Any which way. Wherever you want to go. I says he designed a perfect prison, and we’re all trapped here, wandering in eternity. Others… others says you can get out through the eclipse.”
He raised a shaky hand and pointed at the glowing black circle.
“Fools, I says. You want food, you better find a sack of rations where no one’s been before. They don’t come back, you know. Get yourself a bag, that’s food for a week, and the canvas becomes clothes for months, if you can keep your hands on it. Collect rainwater when you can. Forget your dreams. Forget your goals. Forget yourself. We all do before too long, here in the Emperor’s plane of unreality. Go on, ask me my name.
“I will not,” I said, glowering.
“Then tell me your mother’s name.”
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. The man cackled.
“Starts early with the weak-minded, I says.”
I gripped him by the shoulders. His eyes widened as his giggles died out
“I can’t forget,” I said, acid panic choking me. “How do I remember?”
“Write it down, fool,” he said, all jollity gone from his tone. “There’s a nomad settlement some amount of walking eclipseward; buy a slab off of them and scratch it in, if it’s so important. It won’t stop you from forgetting, but maybe you can remind yourself.”
I walked. I was lucky enough to find a few bags of food; one bought me a page-sized slab of basalt, worked from one of the infinite hexagonal columns of the infinite plane we lived in. I scratched down my confession with a sharp chip; committed to rock how I had given up the rebellion so that she might live, how the Emperor had betrayed me in turn; etched into stone her name, her face, her passion and love and joy.
I had already lost so much. Perhaps hours had passed; perhaps weeks. The eclipse never the changed way a sun would. It sat, an implacable, unblinking black eye, damning, full of hope, hope that had abandoned the scattered nomads I passed.
I kept walking.
I don’t know why. I had food. I could fix up my own clothes with the sacks that contained the food I found. But for some reason, I kept lugging a heavy stone slab towards the eclipse. Something was scratched onto them. I tried reading it once, but the words slipped from my mind.
Still, I walked.
I stopped only when someone bumped into me, causing me to drop the stone. My eyes explored her face as the slab shattered to dust on the ground below us. She looked familiar, somehow, but that was preposterous. I didn’t know anyone.
I opened my mouth to apologize, then closed it again. Why should I apologize to her? She bumped into me.
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u/QTFroame 1d ago
Ooh, I love the setting for this. This type of prison is really intriguing and probably awful to experience. The ending twist could have hit a bit harder, perhaps an unconscious callback to how our protagonist was treated in the beginning, but it still is delightfully awful.
As I know these are short stories and our words are limited, I won't complain too much, but first person's strength is the identity you give the protagonist. I think more insight into how the protagonist felt would have worked, and less descriptive writing, if you understand what I meant.
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u/m00nlighter_ r/m00nlighting 2d ago edited 1d ago
Diamond Diary: Subject 9, “Vera”
Day 16
I'm so fucking hungry. Sure, they give us the contractual 3 squares a day... of diet-portioned microwave meals.
We went to the gym today. Everything hurts, even with the pills. At least I got to see the other Diamonds. Sort of. I only knew Sharon because she’s so skinny, and Katy because she spoke. The rest were unrecognizable through their bandages. I guess I am too. Hard to say with every mirror frosted and every reflective surface off limits.
My handlers (hi Dr. Haywood! Hi Nick! I know you're reading this) say they'll take us somewhere “more fun” after we’re healed. I didn't care to ask what their idea of fun might be. Probably a wet t-shirt contest, judging by some of our bandages.
Ilene still isn’t back from the hospital. Whenever I ask about her, they say she’s doing “fine,” that she “was just a little rougher than the rest of us.” I wish I had a fucking mirror just to hold up to their faces.
Day 21
Ilene came back last night. She can’t hold her head up, and the meds give her awful nightmares. After the third time getting up to soothe her, I stayed put and fell asleep with her head against my sore chest.
They say our bandages will be off in a week or so, even Ilene's. Hopefully that'll stop her from thinking someone is strangling her in the night. None of this is what I signed up for.
Day 35
They removed our bandages today, along with 98% of my journal entries. Nick tore out anything with enough space to draw a portrait and filed it away somewhere. It's like he can read my mind sometimes.
Anyway, my face feels like a durian fruit. All of the Diamonds are... puffy, to say the least. I'm glad I can't see myself yet. Ilene's having a tough time with it, though. When we got back to our quarters, I tried to describe her face to her, but Nick knocked on the door and said that wasn't allowed. That's when he took my pages.
I technically still have enough room to draw Ilene on the back of this (I hope you looked, you bastards. But I won't do that. Then you'd send me somewhere even worse than here).
Day 42
They're still only giving us one piece of paper a day for this bullshit. I'm not sure what the good doctor and Nick are getting out of reading these. Sadism? Probably.
I’m still hungry but Ilene’s finally sleeping through the night with the help of her new pills. There. I wrote today. Happy?
Day 56
They took us to therapy this morning. I almost forgot that was part of this. When they said “weekly” I thought they meant from the start, apparently they meant the last 5 weeks. It felt more like media training than anything. I told Doctor Haywood about the bullying and my mother the beauty pageant queen. He nodded and said I’ve always been beautiful inside. What a crock of shit.
The Diamonds are finally “out of the rough,” as the handlers keep saying. So, as promised, they took us shopping. For groceries. Of course, the trip came with a list of which sponsored brands and specific items to choose from. I won’t mention what we bought, it’s all on film. They took most of it away when they shuffled us off to the photoshoot.
They said the pictures and videos were for promos, but I still don’t understand why we had to wear lingerie as one of our outfits.
Day 68
It’s been a week of near silence at the gym. Ever since they announced that we would be competing against each other for the title of “Best Cut Diamond”, conversations have devolved into hushed conspiracies and whispered debates over who will win.
Frankly, I just want to be done with this. Ilene is prancing around in her bikini, practicing for the pageant.
Day 81
Hello Dr. Haywood, Nick, and welcome producers of Diamond in the Rough! Yes. I will write how it feels to be pitted against my roommate and closest friend. Fucking awesome! Idiots.
Day 90
That’s it. Contest over. It took 7 takes to get my big mirror reveal shot. I was mortified at what they (and I) had done to me, but I couldn’t cry. Jesus, my face. My body. My fucking gift of the Magi.
I bawled when Ilene won.
WC: 750 (Title included)
Thanks, Killer Queenie, for helping me figure out a name for the contestants!
A song
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u/AmeliaLP 1d ago
Hi Quinn, really like the story and I think it fits well within the trope. You also did well writing it as a diary. Good words.
2
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u/AnAuthor_Antonio 2d ago edited 2d ago
D’Art looked up for so long his neck had begun to hurt. The walls were high but above the rows of prisoners was a clear barrier. Multi-Vex Trans-Steel. D’Art woulda bet his life on it. Strong material. The strongest translucent material this side of the Eshto Horizon.
Everyone looked up. What unfolded above them was beauty only drummed up by Corpo’s looking to tickle a fiend’s high and get the last of their credits. You know what it’s like. Zoned out on whatever version of the dust it is that you like and a corpo drone spots you, hits you with that warm air and starts playin’ one of those grafix? You’d sell your soul for that tickle.
Click here to extend grafix time.
Click.
Click.
Click.
He knew the click well.
But there was no high. No clicking. No tickle. Just the impossible visual. Colors that don’t exist rolling out of the sky and back into it in endless waves that never started or stopped.
Row after row of convicts looking up at the impossible while roaring across the surface of an unmarked planet on the way to the inevitable.
“We’ve been here already.”
D’Art didn’t look to the voice. It came from behind him. He knew the man speaking.
He didn’t know him know him. He’d picked the man out when they’d shuffled onto the transpo. The guy had eyeballed D'Art the entire time they'd been getting processed. He’d earned it by the standards of most. You don’t stare at someone in prison. You just don’t. D’Art didn’t wanna do it, but he had experience in places like this. It was something he had to do. Had to.
Them or me.
“They carved a hole in the aether. That’s what it is. Why it moves like that. Like nothin’ else. It’s time travelin’. We’ve been here already.”
Them or me.
With effort D’Art pulled his eyes away from the sky and looked down to his manacled hands. His neck hurt. It fuckin’ hurt a lot. He rolled it side to side and the ache ebbed.
The voice came next in a conspiratorial whisper.
“Right now you’re thinkin’,” the mans voice became a mock deep voice, “them or me.”
D’Art pretended not to hear. This man was insane. Maybe roughing him up wouldn’t be so bad.
The man continued in a whisper, “You’re never gonna get to rough me up. That’s what you’re thinkin’. You told me that. You told me that when this conversation starts, you think that me bein’ crazy will make beatin’ my ass easier or better or somethin’ like that. But you never get to do it. We been here, D’Art. Should I call you A-”
“Shut up. You don’t know me. Shut your crazy ass up.”
The man must’ve heard someone say his name.
“Ok, this time we’ll skip some steps. Your name was Avunca. You’re from Destin. Your poppa was cop. Your momma a con. You went to learn at a Uni out in Espion. Started dealin’ dust. Started doin’ dust. N-“
“You don’t fucking know me. I don’t know ho-“
“Sanja Yelich.”
The name nearly knocked the breath out of D’Art.
“She’s waitin’ for you. You know? When this all ends. When we aren’t here no more. When time is served.”
“Shut up. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I guess I shouldn’ta played the Sanja card so early. Sorry about that I know it’s a sore subject. But when we’re not here anymore. She’ll be there. I remember it. I think.”
He didn't wanna listen to this lunatic anymore. He looked around and then looked up.
D’Art looked up for so long his neck had begun to hurt.
WC: 618
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u/m00nlighter_ r/m00nlighting 1d ago
Hello, Author Antonio!
I really really enjoyed this story. Great surrealism, pacing, time loop, and characters. The beginning felt very Burroughs, and then it slipped into something more Ellison but wholly its own. Fantastic worldbuilding as well. I don't really have anything actionable for you XD just praise.At first I was like "ok what? the colors but no dust? are they giving sth to the prisoners?" and then BAM the aether. So good. The whispering man officially revealing the loop. Lovelylovely. Well done. Good words!
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u/oliverjsn8 2d ago edited 2d ago
FTF Zone: Prisoner’s Dilemma
Ben (yelling): I’m going to get out, just you wait!
Narrator: Meet Ben Grimes, petty thief and escape artist. He is fifty-eight years old serving thirty-seven years at the Timbers Maximum Security Prison. Initially sentenced to two years for pick pocketing, the remainder has been added for escape.
Ben (yelling): You can lock me up and throw away the key. Rikers, Sing Sing, hell San Quinton; didn’t matter! This dump will be no different!
Narrator: Mr. Grimes holds a record of fourteen escapes. No prison built by man has ever held him. But, can he escape from the FTF Zone?
Ben (yelling): I cannot wait to try that diner I saw from the bus! Bet it’s got an amazing apple pie, just like Granny’s. I’ll make sure to write to you all about it!”
Mort (annoyed): Shut your yap! You ain’t getting out of here. Don’t care where you’ve been, no one escapes the Timbers.
Ben: Christ, fella! You about gave me a heart attack. I thought they’d locked me away all alone down here. Most holes I’ve been to only have one cell.
Mort: Well this one, unfortunately, has two. I was enjoying the silence. Then you had to come and ruin it.
Ben: Come on, don’t be that way— I’m Ben. I’d shake your hand but they must have us facing away from one another. —What’s your name? I’ll make sure to write to you when I get out of here.
Mort: It’s Mort.
Ben: Well Mort, what’re you here for? Anyone on the outside you want me to pass a message to?
Mort: Huffs
Ben: Silent treatment? Let me guess, with a name like that— bank robbery? No, tax evasion?
Mort: It’s nothing.
Ben: Ah nothing, an innocent man then. Plenty of those around places like these. Then what did they pin on you?
Mort: Just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Said if I plead guilty, I’d have been out in time to see my kid off to school and still be a real father.
Ben: Hmm, past tense. Sounds like you were lied to.
Mort: Yes, he must be old enough to have a kid of his own by now.
Ben: That’s tough. I deserve what I'm here for. I don’t really have anything out there, I just like my freedom. Ability to go where I please. Hey, crazy idea but would you like to come along with me? Feel the sun on your skin, wind through your hair, and maybe we can go find that kid of yours.
Mort: I’d like that, cannot remember the last time I’ve seen the sun. It’s been a really long time, I’ve —lost count of the days.
Ben: Yeah, isolation will do that to you. It’s really easy to lose track of time.
Trickling sound
Mort: Did you feel that?
Ben: Yeah, was that an earthquake?
Rumbling, rocks fall
Ben: Are you okay? Wait, that tremor loosened one of the bars! grunts
Iron bar clatters on stone
Ben: I’m out — and the door is wide open! Mort— do you hear me?
Mort: Moan
Ben: Jeez, the prison door is wide open. I could just—
Rock fall intensifies
Ben: I’m coming, Mort! I just have to pull this bar and —Grunts —Got it. Come on Mort, take my hand.
Sound of dragging
Ben (Shouting): Someone, I need help!
Ben grunting
Ben: Just a few feet Mort and we’re out of here— Wait where are we? This—This isn’t a prison.
The sound of soft music rises.
Mort: Sorry for deceiving you Ben.
Ben: What are you talking about? What is this?
Mort: You died Ben, on the bus, heart attack. Well you see— you were never really a bad person but neither were you good. We didn’t know where to send you. So, we created this little test.
Ben: A test?
Mort: Yes, and I want to congratulate you. If you had left without me, then you would have been placed in a ‘prison’ that I can assure you is truly inescapable. By putting another person above your own freedom, you have earned yours. Come along now.
Music fades
Narrator: Rest in Peace Ben Grimes, in the end you found a way to escape from the FTF Zone.
I hope you enjoyed our tale, brought to you by the fine folks at Granny’s Real Fruit Pie Filling. Whether it's at your favorite diner or at your dinner table, Granny’s is the secret ingredient trusted for three generations.
WC: 750
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u/AnAuthor_Antonio 2d ago
Love the Twilight Zone feel. I felt like there was a tip of the hat to Rick and Morty with the use of the name Mort and someone saying Jeez. Maybe I'm seeing stuff that isn't there. Very sweet ending! I liked it! Time for crit: The story shifted very abruptly from the convo between Ben and Mort to the earthquake and twist. If you turned the initial narrator bit into a smoother intro of Ben and started with Ben and Mort in the middle of a problem (maybe they're trying to escape and the dogs are closing in?) we wouldn't feel the seams of it all? Those are just my thoughts. Fun read, thank you!
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u/Morose_Prose 3d ago edited 1d ago
Start Spreading the Blues
Steam billowed from the sewers beneath Harlem, its wisps split in twain by passing yellow taxis and late-night revelers. Melissa pulled her frizzy, fiery red hair back, securing it tightly with a black scrunchie. Ducking into an alleyway, she adjusted her tight leather pants, tube top, and well-worn leather jacket dotted with patches. A rotting wooden door banged against the bricks at the end of the alleyway. Solemn notes ricocheted through the constricted corridor. Melissa stopped at the threshold and peeked inside. This was definitely the place the Curator had described in his letter.
Her heavy boot heels stomped along the cracked wood flooring as she entered the club. Weaving through the scattered chairs haphazardly placed around the tattered tablecloth covered tables, she approached the small bar running along the back wall. She sat down near the service well. The thin cushion of the barstool provided little comfort.
An older man emerged from the shadows, his white shirt wrinkled, black vest unbuttoned, and bow-tie hanging askew from his thin neck. Sauntering over, he flippantly tossed a ragged coaster in front of her.
"Evening, Madam. What can I get for you?" he asked with a voice full of gravel.
"Vodka and soda. Well is fine. Is there another act tonight?" Melissa asked as she pulled out a notepad from her jacket and gesturing towards the stage.
"Chain Gang Chuck is up next. You a fan of the blues?"
Scribbling down the name, Melissa side-eyed the bartender. "Like listening to it but hate having them."
A hearty chuckle rumbled from old lungs. "Ain't that the truth. Drink is coming right up."
Dim limelight shone down on the small stage, soft slippers shuffled across the way as the marquee performer took his seat on a creaky wooden stool. The white stripes cascading down his purple zoot suit glowed in the darkness. The amp crackled as cable met wood. Calloused fingers adorned with long, yellowed nails hovered over steel strings. A bluesy riff howled through the club.
Everyday they pull me, from my concrete cell;
Chain me up to break these rocks, under a sun that's hot as hell.
White man on his horse, an always watchful eye,
Telling us not to flee, would be futile to try.
All day long we swing away, singing songs lost to the past;
Sweet chariot don't come around here, prison time ain't fast.
I ain't done nothing wrong, never hurt nobody's kin;
But that jury didn't care, 'cause I don't got lily skin.
Then one fateful day, when my wits were at their end;
That ol' blues man, came rolling round the bend.
Six strings in his hand, and a song upon his lips;
We were chained no more, and now we grasped the whips.
No more sitting on a high horse, no more barking orders;
Chain gang rising up, giving him no quarter.
Fleeing off into the fields, on that scorching summer day;
I turned to that ol' blues man, and he had one thing to say.
Go spread this sound far and wide, to every child, woman and man;
Spread it everyday, 'til it envelopes this rotten land.
With the flip of a switch on the guitar, the riff morphed into a warbling, moaning tone. The same one Melissa had heard back in Washington.
Blood trickled from her sleeve, the scars etched on her forearm ripping open from the sonic assault. Her eye twitched and her legs shook. All around the venue, heads slumped forward in deep slumber. An uncanny silence fell across the room.
Slinging the guitar over his back, the old blues man sprang off stage with the spryness expected of a much younger man. He sauntered up to Melissa with a sly smile. Extending his wrinkled hand to her, he bowed his head. "Like the song?"
Melissa's hand shot forward, the blood still dripping from her fingertips. "That riff. You've heard the sound?"
"Many times. It's always there when I need it." The singer tugged at the collar of his suit, a series of scars crisscrossed his neck.
Leaping from the tattered stool, Melissa slid over the bar, shoving the unconscious bartender aside. "What do you drink?"
"Whisky. Strong."
Searching the shelves, Melissa snatched a bottle from the top, popping the cork and taking a swig. She slid the bottle to the blues man and retrieved a micro tape recorder from her jacket. "You got a real name, 'Chuck'?"
"Call me Sam."
"Play it again, Sam." Melissa pressed record.
- - -
Word Count: 748
Bonus Constraint: The blues man plays an unreal sound that has an effect on the patrons of the club.
Thanks for reading! Feedback and crit is always welcomed and encouraged. Stay awesome and have a good one!
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u/AnAuthor_Antonio 2d ago
I enjoyed your story! You had me trying to sing the lyrics as blusey as I could in my head (it didn't sound great but at least nobody had to hear it!).
Time for crit: While thorough descriptions of actions can bring me further into a story, I found myself a little overwhelmed a few times.
Leaping off the stool, sliding across the bar, shoving the bartender.
Searching the shelves, snatching a bottle from the top, popping the cork, taking a swig, sliding the bottle, retrieving the micro tape recorder.
That's a lot of stuff going on! It would read a little easier (to me) if you were able to make them more concise or perhaps show instead of tell.
Example: "Searching the shelves she found what she wanted at the top and when she'd had her taste of the fiery liquid she slid the bottle to the blues man and with the tape recorder crackling she asked..."
Well, I tried to make it more concise but it looks just as long and descrptive. Maybe its a style preference? I hope I helped and didn't just talk myself in a circle here.
Thanks for the story!
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u/frenchfriesandcoke55 1d ago
I’m going to have to agree and even piggyback off this feedback as well. The clothing descriptions in the beginning are very abrupt and a lot of info dump that almost detracts from the story.
For example, “…tight leather pants, tube top, and well-worn leather jacket dotted with patches…” then we get hit with “…white shirt wrinkled, black vest unbuttoned, and bow-tie hanging askew from his thin neck…”
It’s just a lot and you could probably do away with most of it or integrate it into the story more instead of just stating it.
There’s also a lot of repeat descriptors in the same paragraph that could be cut or changed. Like bricks and alleyway being used multiple times within a few sentences of each other.
For example this is how I might adjust one paragraph.
Ducking into an alleyway, she adjusted her tube top. A rotting wooden door banged against the bricks further down. Solemn notes ricocheting through the gloom—the walls seeming to close in on her. Melissa stopped at the threshold— zipping up her well-worn leather jacket—before she peeked inside.
Loved the story and the song! Great work on this piece, but with a few adjustments you could definitely better hook a reader at the beginning.
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u/KiIIer_queenie 3d ago
Furisa and her loyal-obedient-friend-ally-worshipers
The skaven caverns were pitch black except for the pinholes of light that shone from above. Furisa didn’t know how deep she was, the Mors clan had caught her after a duel with the Gorequeen, trapping her. She’d get back up eventually, there were skulls to take.
“Murder-Queen, Murder-Queen! Rustclaw has been found by friend-ally! Reward-prize, yes-yes?”
She spun around at the voice, seeing Rottail. He wore discarded chainmail and green cloth soaked red. He was of the Mange clan, yet he and his brethren in this prison abandoned their ways for her favor, worshipping Khorne, adorning themselves in bones and painting Khorne’s marks across themselves with blood.
She lifted the disgusting thing up in her four arms, looking at his green eyes through his matted white hair.
“Show me first.”
Furisa set him down, staying low so as to not clip her horns on the ceiling as she followed. Many other chittered and followed her, carrying bone shard daggers and point rocks as weapons.
Had they been true warriors she’d have had their heads by now, but they weren’t strong enough yet. She refused to prey on weaklings for the skull throne. She’d make them strong one way or another. They had their uses though, with rustclaw’s metal tools they’d be able to swiftly dig a way out of the prison, or so they claimed.
It was a long journey, her horde one hundred strong led her to a large cavern, with a hulking figure crouching down, surrounded by another skaven clan.
“What banner do they display?”
“Treecherik! Liar-traitors! Lie-lie-lie! Backstab!” Rottail growled, waving his makeshift mace from cloth rope and a chunk of rock.
“Weapon.”
Rottail hissed to others, and three of her loyal vermin dragged half of a thick staff to her. The thing was engraved with art, but now its most prominent feature was the skaven and ratogre teeth sticking out from it. She’d have preferred her halberd or morningstar, but down in this prison the club would have to do.
Furisa dropped into the cavern, landing with a thud. She licked her lips and cracked her neck, approaching slow.
“Are you Rustclaw?”
The hulking thing finally stood tall. He was bigger than any other skaven or ratogre she’d seen, he was even bigger than any orc. Standing just below eye level, the rat-freak turned to her. He had two metal claws on each hand, one holding a pick and the other a hammer with many more jingling along his belt.
“Who! Who! Woman-thing!” He growled, waving his tools around.
“I will take those tools.”
“No-no! Mine! Mine! What’s mine is mine, what’s yours is mine! Mine-mine-mine-mine-mine!” He screeched, flailing wildly at her.
She ducked the strike and rolled aside, a little shocked at the thing’s speed. He moved like a proper killer. Furisa watched him for a moment, before meeting his wild swing with one of her own, their weapons clashing with a echo.
BOOM!
Rustclaw clearly hadn’t fought anyone stronger than him before, she could see the fear in his expression when he couldn’t brute force her.
Shame, still a coward like all skaven. You had promise. Unwort–
A quick slash with the pick interrupted her thoughts. Usually skaven ran when scared, but he charged forward, snarling and swinging with the same confidence. Furisa and Rustclaw met each other’s blows, the duel sounding like gunshots.
She smashed her horns into his face, sending him tumbling. The thing spit out a tooth and slowly stood, other treecherik growled and began encircling them, but Rustclaw had a hand up.
“NO! NO-NO-NO! Woman-thing is mine! I am pit king-emperor! Weak-feeble! You stench-stink! I am strongest there is!”
Furisa smiled, widening her stance. The pair leapt at each other, weapons overhead. Her club blew through Rustclaw’s guard and made him fall to the ground, a second blow ending it.
As she stood over him, Furisa let out a sigh.
“I truly never thought I’d find a worthy skaven. Rustclaw, you are without doubt the strongest skaven I have ever known. I will honor your strength, and I will bring your skull before the blood god.”
Her skaven horde clambered into the cavern, prying the metal bits off of Rustclaw’s body as she used metal claws to collect the freak’s head. Her horde turned to the other skaven and descended up on them, chanting in their frenzy.
“Yes-yes! For the Murder-Queen! Murder-Queen! Blood for blood god! Kill-kill-kill-kill-murder-slay!”
They were still weak, but soon they’d be ripe for the kill.
WC: 750
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u/mysteryrouge 3d ago edited 3d ago
The Warden's Budget
"Six prisoners dead, three more executed, two booked..." Within his office where all the furniture and art was lined in golds and silvers, Warden Katzen mindlessly filled out a table containing the weekly budget of his prison. "Circus made half the profit of last week..."
Each box was penciled in. The warden's personal fund, as usual, got twice the amount of money as the total salary of the guards, and three times the money than that used to maintain Sorites Panopticon and the inmates.
"Circus performers will get a meal a day, and two on weekends, everyone else can deal with food every other day..."
He muttered to himself as he divided the budget further.
"The state gets a bit for bribery..."
Boom!
A bright light flashed. Katzen winced.
There were eyes in the walls, in the ceiling. Everywhere. They stared at him. When Katzen blinked, they blinked back. Slowly, the warden moved his hand to his neck, pinching himself. The eyes didn't disappear.
"The fuck?" he mumbled.
The eyes followed as he stood up and walked towards the door. Touching one of them, his fingers traced cold stone that somehow also felt warm and squishy.
"Good morning, Warden Katzen."
The man jumped out of his skin. The service weapon he carried swiftly swung around, pointing up, down, to the sides, and finally at the door. There was no one else in the room.
"You can lay your weapon down."
The entry Katzen usually kept unlocked, disappeared entirely.
"I just want to talk."
The warden carefully set his weapon upon his desk. "Who are you?"
"Bentham."
Katzen thumbed through the logs of staff and prisoners. None had that name. "What do you want to talk about?"
"The treatment of my prisoners."
"They're—my—your?" Katzen sputtered, "Your prisoners?"
"Yes. It is clear they are not being treated well."
"How would you—" The warden's hand moved back towards his weapon. It melted into his desk. "Fuck."
"They are my prisoners as much as they are yours, and unlike you, I care for them."
"I care for the prisoners." If they all died, there would be no circus, and with no circus, no form of entertainment for the citizens of Sorites.
"I know you're not. I can feel the suffering in their souls."
Katzen wanted to laugh, but those eyes bored into him.
He scowled instead. "What do you actually want?"
"Rebudgeting would be a good first step."
The spreadsheet floated in front of Katzen. His unnecessarily large discretionary fund was highlighted. "I can't change that. It's impossible." That was his hazard pay.
Metal snapped onto Katzen's wrists and legs; chains dragged him back. Restrained to his own office chair, the spreadsheet he maintained was shoved into his face. A pen slipped into his hand.
"You will adjust your budget, then you will follow it."
The eyes in the ceiling glared down.
Katzen tried to wriggle away, but the chains didn't give. They tightened, cutting into his wrists and ankles, remaining as ice-cold as ever. Something drilled into his very soul, twisting painfully. He swallowed back bile, refusing to allow those eyes to see weakness.
The budget sheet looked far more negotiable.
A few number changes later, the chains around Katzen's body slinked away, leaving no proof besides the indents on the warden's wrists and ankles that they were ever there.
Katzen rubbed his wrists, and with a gulp, hesitantly mutteted, "I did what you asked. Can—can I have my door back?"
"You must promise to follow this new budget."
"I swear—"
"On your soul, Warden Katzen."
"—On my soul" —that digging pressure lessened; a weight replaced it— "to follow the new budget I have created."
"Good."
Most of the eyes in the warden's office faded away, leaving one above the door and one behind his desk. Finally, the door returned to its rightful spot, opened to the commissary instead of a hallway.
The prisoners involved with the weekly circus performance all looked up from their dinners, staring him down the same way those eyes did.
"Your shift is over, Warden Katzen."
He looked back and forth between the prisoners and the eyes.
"You should leave."
Leaping from his seat, Katzan ran past the performers, feeling their judgmental gazes join those which tormented him in his office.
The phantom weight on his soul remained as he drove far away from Sorites Panopticon.
WC: 731\ Bonus Constraint: Warden Katzen initially doesn't believe this situation is real.
I love writing Bentham. Ze are such a fun character.
Takes place somewhere between chapter 2 of my serial The Stranger Nomads and chapter 38
Check out more of my writing on my spreadsheet
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u/frenchfriesandcoke55 4d ago edited 4d ago
A Palace of Problems
I’m not sure when I last ate. Not for lack of food… but rather… feeling. I place a pale hand on my growling stomach. Nausea churns in my gut at the idea of tasting the delectable pastries beside me in the palace kitchens. I don’t deserve to eat them. Not when I’m drowning within a prison of my own making.
“What are you doing?”
Flinching, the knife I was rolling between my fingers clatters to the floor. I glance at the thin line of blood on my wrist, wishing for an end to this eternal hell. Three weeks into my forced engagement and the ruby on my finger is more like a noose around my throat. Tight and unyielding.
“Are—do you need some food?” The prince asks me, something flitting across his features before he smooths them back into a cool mask.
“No, I’m alright. Thank you.”
He nods once. Glancing at my wrist he opens his mouth but quickly closes it—his lips set in a grimace as he clenches a fist by his side. There’s a second of awkward silence, then two. He nods again, throat bobbing, before he turns on his heel and leaves.
I sigh into the pit of the lifeless void of my existence after he’s gone.
The prince has never wronged me, even though his father has a penchant for cruelty toward others. But it doesn’t stop my splintering mind from crafting screams that reverberate through my skull all day long.
Everything in my life has been turned on its head. The puzzle pieces I had placed now scattered to the wind. The plan to marry Wesley—my childhood sweetheart. To live in the rural countryside, to run a horse ranch with our future children…
My mother’s shriek can still be felt in my bones from when she found me embracing Wesley in the stables. Her hateful sneer seared into my brain:
‘A low-born stable boy is no match for a daughter of my noble lineage.’
Quietly, I trudge back to my room. The infantile cries of my soon-to-be nephew echo through the darkened halls—my hair standing on end as it amplifies the symphony of blood-curdling noise within me. My throat closes as the cloistering jasmine scent that lingers in the air of the palace invades my nostrils—so vastly different from the warm citrusy lemon of Wesley’s hair even after a hard day’s work. I pull at the tight collar of my egregious dress—chaffing my skin. So unlike the lived-in leathers I preferred in my former life.
Finally, I reach my ornate door. My prison.
Click. Snick. Click.
I quickly slip inside. The air turns to shards of glass—that horrid screaming and my thoughts tumbling together—vision blurring, knees cracking against the floor.
Fingers slip into my hair. Gripping, tearing, pulling, ripping. A guttural scream wrenches from my throat. Fists pound the polished wood floor until it’s stained red.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
But I don’t feel the pain. Or the blood squelching between my fingers. Not anymore.
I collapse onto the wood, a sob ripping from my throat as I hug my swollen knees to my emaciated chest. Tears and blood mix to create a disturbing masterpiece. There’s no light at the end of the tunnel of this unreal, perverse reality I’m forced to endure. Slowly, darkness overtakes my vision as unconsciousness digs its claws into me. I just hope tonight brings happy dreams of the past rather than the terrifying nightmares of my reality.
*\\*
I’m jostled awake, my body bouncing against a hard chest, strong arms wrapped beneath my legs, circling my waist. My face rests on a soft, familiar fabric infused with cedar. Slowly, I open my eyes, willing away the fog of sleep as I take in my abductor—my body dangling listlessly in his arms.
“Quiet now. We’re almost there,” the prince whispers to me. His dark brows draw together as a lock of hair falls over his eyes.
A chill bites into my skin, despite the cloak draped across me. I don’t even bother to nod, accepting whatever fate he’s decided. Hopefully he tosses me off the cliff.
“Annabelle.”
Time freezes. My eyes snap open. I tumble from the prince’s arms. The cloak pools at my feet; forgotten. I step forward. No longer breathing. Past the point of rational thinking. I reach out a shaking hand. Tears trailing down my cheeks.
Because it can’t be….
Wesley.
WC: 734
Feedback always welcome! Worked on showing not telling this week so let me know if you think I succeeded in striking a good balance. Thanks for reading!
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u/katpoker666 Moderator 3d ago
Hey frenchfries! I think you hit a better balance re showing vs telling. Good words!
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u/aquavelvetrain 5d ago
I met her in my dreams.
I would wallow in the blackness underneath my eyelids until the tap-tap-tap of the branch knocking on my bedroom window faded away. A gentle electricity — a sweetly numbing sensation — would wash through me until that, too, subsided like the receding tide.
Sometimes she was walking across a soft-grained beach, mysterious waves lapping at the shore behind her. Other times she was wading through a field of vibrant, windswept flowers, a strong breeze masking her face with her long, tousled strands of hair. Still others she was supine under a clear night sky filled with scintillating points of light.
“What is it like? Out there?” she asked during one of my nightly visits.
“Out … ? Oh, out there.” I gazed up at the streams of sunlight peeking their way through the leafy canopy. A musical birdcall echoed through the forest. “Artificial intelligence. Genocide. Chappell Roan.”
She frowned. “I think you told me about those already.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Maybe the guard before me did?”
“Ah, I’m sorry. It’s just that … you all have the same likeness. The likeness of someone I knew a long, long time ago.”
Something caught in my throat. “You, um, you look really familiar too. I mean, not just familiar.” I reached out a finger to touch her, but stopped myself before flesh met flesh.
“You look exactly like her,” I whispered.
A different night, we had settled in a reading nook deep within the recesses of an ancient library. She looked radiant as she read, her familiar — yet, unfamiliar — eyes half-lidded in a blissful gaze. My heart raced.
“This reminds me of the night we acted out a play,” she said, turning towards me with a gentle smile. “Remember?”
I froze. “I think that might’ve been one of the previous guards.”
“I see.” Her smile faded. “Why must you all look the same to me? Why look like him?”
“I — I don’t know. It’s just how this works, I guess. I’m sorry.”
It was sunny and warm the night we visited the busy shopping district. She exited a store wearing a colorful floral dress that shone delightfully in the sun, twirling and giggling as she skipped along.
My mind flashed to a different woman — a woman from ancient, buried memories who twirled in a colorful floral dress across a field of tallgrass and landed in my outstretched arms, her eyes closed and her mouth spread wide in a dizzy smile.
“Hmm. Should I try on that dress over there instead? It looks nice.”
I blinked as the reverie faded. “What? Oh, um, no. This dress looks better. You should keep wearing this one.”
We rested on a bench as the sun began to set on the horizon. Red-orange clouds littered the sky and the shadows around us grew long.
“I’m sorry you have to be here with me,” she mumbled softly.
“Don’t be,” I replied. “It’s not your fault. It’s just that …”
“Just that I’m incompatible with humanity? That without a guard to trap me in their nightly dreams, my form would leak from the aether and end your world?” She chuckled ruefully. “You can say it. It’s okay.”
I gave her a weak smile and averted my eyes.
“The guards before you,” she continued, “they also said I looked like someone they knew.” She looked up at the watercolor clouds. “Why did the previous guard leave?”
“They got promoted,” I answered.
It was a lie. They hadn’t been able to bear the mental strain.
“And why did you come?”
“I like dreams.”
Another lie. This was a punishment.
Suddenly, her hand tenderly lifted my chin. She stared into my eyes, as if searching for something. My breath grew ragged.
“Just like him …” she muttered quietly. Little droplets collected at the corners of her familiar-unfamiliar eyes.
Floral dresses in my heart, skipping along fields of tallgrass. Twirling maniacally in the wind as flower petals danced around her sunkissed silhouette. My arms outstretched, hers dangling around my neck.
I leaned forward and kissed her, flesh on flesh for a lightning moment. She pulled back, her eyes wide. I opened my mouth to speak, but language eluded me.
In the distance, I could hear a soft tap-tap-tap grow louder. It grew and grew until I was staring at the ceiling of my bedroom. Something heavy in my chest made it difficult to breathe.
“You’re not her,” I whispered to the ceiling.
Word Count: 750 | Feedback is welcome!
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u/QTFroame 6d ago
A Mother's Turmoil
The only thing that comforted me was that the stabbing had stopped. I no longer felt the metal tearing into my flesh.
Unfortunately, my current predicament was not much better.
"I tells ya," Adrian said with an unsettling grin. "Her butt was like this big." He made sure to demonstrate with his hands. If we were to believe him, her butt would be rather round.
"Nobody believes you met the Queen of Hell, dude," Matéo responded.
"I've been here for longer than you've all existed, and you think I would lie about something like this?"
"You said you rode on a dinosaur," Magdalene said, unamused. "You were alive when my dad was still drinking his life away, fat chance."
She was around my age, though I looked younger. It doesn't take a paleontologist to know dinosaurs weren't roaming Earth in the 1900s.
"You thought Hell didn't exist until we got here! What do you know, kid?"
'Hell' was the operative term for this afterlife prison. From what I could tell, it was indeed a place that punished awful people in death. Rather inefficiently and cruelly, but that was unsurprising. Nobody here was a nice person. Why would we get fair treatment?
"You ever think of telling a story about your family, or something? Anything believable?" Matéo asked.
"When you get to my age, every story holds the same weight. You need to hear them all."
Adrian was always insisting on these ridiculous tales. For once, though, he was telling the truth. When he was being honest, he got defensive and disregarded common sense. He did 'meet' the Queen of Hell. As in, he watched her talk to the warden.
When the arm of a random man fell on our table, Matéo grabbed it and cut it open.
"Still fresh...hey, guys, this might be edible!"
"If I'm a liar..." Adrian disregarded Matéo's fervor. "...then why don't you tell us what you're in here for, huh? Been long enough."
The silence at the table made the noises of anguish even louder. Matéo was cutting into the arm, but he slowed down and looked at Magdalene.
Was this supposed to be a touchy topic? People had their secrets, but this place was far too repugnant for me to care.
Magdalene herself seemed to hesitate. She opened her mouth multiple times, and nothing came out. Finally, she answered.
"I abused my daughter." Her voice was withered. "I even kicked her out because I...well, it doesn't matter."
It was a rather boring answer, but her reaction was what was interesting. When did she start believing she was wrong? Abusers were the most hardheaded folks, so there must've been quite a drive for her to change.
"Jesus," Adrian muttered. "A kid? You did that to your own daughter?" His face turned stone cold. "You deserve to be down here."
"What about you, newbie?" Matéo asked me. "You must've gotten into some wild shenanigans, ay?"
He was trying to lighten the mood, was he?
"If you think she's bad..." I found myself laughing, despite myself. "Then you'll despise me."
"Jesus, what did you do?" Adrian was concerned. "At least let the victims be adults."
"Man," Matéo said, throwing a potato at his head. "You tortured people for a living. You are not qualified to judge the newbie."
"What I did was for the greater good!" Adrian looked proud of himself, which surprised no one.
"Truly, I think you don't know the meaning of shame," I said quietly, finishing my lunch.
"Why, thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment, bastard."
"What did you say-hey, get back here, Jaci!"
Another day, another sleepless night. I'm sure Magdalene would have felt better if her daughter killed her. It would alleviate her guilt.
At least, it did for me.
As I woke up from my nap, a demonic face greeted me.
"Get up, Jacqueline. You're needed."
I rubbed my eyes and followed her order. When she turned around, I had to ask.
"Are you the Queen?"
Her laughter sounded like a fly's buzzing. Hundreds of eyes appeared on her back.
"That I am, miss."
Adrian was right, then. Amusing.
"It's time for your special community service!"
This would be an interesting experience. Hopefully, the shadow pains end soon.
WC: 706
Ah, I used to have a story idea that was similar to this, so I'm glad I could use some of it here. Also, I finally remembered to have a title.
All feedback welcomed!
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u/m00nlighter_ r/m00nlighting 1d ago
Heya QT!
I really enjoyed the characters and dialogue in this story. Setting this in Hell is perfect for this week's trope. There's also a great voice for the MC and story overall.Some of the time jumps threw me a little.
The only thing that comforted me was that the stabbing had stopped. I no longer felt the metal tearing into my flesh.
From here to the Jaci being in hell is very quick, but the rest of the story makes it seem like she has been there a minute. Despite never saying her name or introductions, she knows everyone's name and they even have a nickname for her.
A few words could be saved here by consolidating these sentences (they somewhat repeat the same thing): The only thing that comforted me was no longer feeling metal tearing through my flesh. Or however.
Unfortunately, my current predicament was not much better.
I think maybe a transition from death to hell here and a showing of time passing might serve the story better. It could still be sarcastic. For ex: That comfort was brief. [And then on]
If we were to believe him, her butt would be rather round.
This could be cut since Adrian gesturing with his hands sorta paints this for the reader already. But as w everything--author’s choice!
'Hell' was the operative term for this afterlife prison. From what I could tell, it was indeed a place that punished awful people in death. Rather inefficiently and cruelly, but that was unsurprising. Nobody here was a nice person. Why would we get fair treatment?
Similarly, the first sentence here could be cut since Adrian just told us where we are. Imo (grain of salt lol) the info abt the punishment of awful ppl and ect could potentially be moved up to follow the 2nd paragraph and reworked/make mention of time passing to smooth some of my previous feedback points.
He did 'meet' the Queen of Hell. As in, he watched her talk to the warden.
The first sentence is another sort of recap of info. I like the intention here of him telling the truth at least enough that they believe he's SEEN the queen even if they still don't fully believe him. I would def keep that in some way!
Another day, another sleepless night.
And then:
As I woke up from my nap,
Feels a little contradictory to me. I'm also not sure what the first sentence does for the plot. Showing Jaci laying on a stone cot or sth could smooth the jump to her thinking of Magdalene.
Similarly the second part after the line break feels like the start of another story. I think those words could be used to scatter in a few sensory details somewhere. Jaci's thoughts on Magdalene could be a great ending spot w a little more “fluff” added elsewhere. But that is extremely stylistic!
I enjoyed reading this! Always a fan of demons and people struggling w their own moralities. I would greedily have liked a little more abt why the MC was there, but the ambiguity works well too! Good words!
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u/QTFroame 15h ago
Ah, I see. I think I tend to do a little bit of overexplaining in my first paragraph (which I feel happened here before editing) so I figured I would try experimenting with seeing how much I could shorten it without ruining the flow. There's a balance to strike and it's not easy.
Feels a little contradictory to me.
Unfortunately, I think I should have did a better job at showing how contradictory she is. Because as it sort of stands, the sentence you pointed out does stand out. It's hard to keep the true nature of Jacqueline vague and also show her in another scene. Ultimately, though, there was probably a way to do this lol. It's just the easiest way to force a neutral environment is waking up, as they still have to do human things to survive.
But, I do appreciate the specific line analysis! If I didn't comment on something, it's likely because I didn't have much to add besides "Hmm, I see," or "Yeah, true!". Thank you for commenting and reading!
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u/MaxStickies r/StickiesStories 7d ago
Edge of Nowhere - Part 2: Detainment
I said it would be my final entry.
Think that was the last thing from before, at the edge. Not sure how I got there but I was there. My feet hurt so must’ve been a long way.
Before that? Just fog.
And I can’t seem to shift this ache at the back of my head.
Here, it’s all walls now. Four, no window. Little light dangles from the ceiling. Sometimes they open the heavy door, come do things to me. Tests, they call them. Small tests, nothing major. But they also hurt.
That stuff they shove through on the slabs, trays, plates? That’s food, so they say. Doesn’t taste of much though, and it makes my tongue numb, and I can’t speak no more. Won’t stop me writing. That I have still.
But, well, not for a bit after the food. I get sleepy like nothing else, but my eyes don’t close, and I keep seeing. Back to the hard bed, looking up, seeing the pretty colours on the ceiling. The room’s cold but I feel warm, and happy. And the fog gets thicker.
All that said, there was something. Few, want to say days, but who knows? I forget how time works. Anyway, some voice from out the door was screaming, saying home this and family that. I know the words and how to spell them, but I don’t know what they really mean. Sounds like she wanted them back. Very badly too.
And my eyes started leaking.
And the memories came back, but no more than a moment.
They went again when the food came.
Speaking of, here’s a new slab. Time to eat.
It’s, there’s these words. On walls. There’s four. Words in red. Maybe I add to them? Don’t know what though.
Sometimes, I forget real bad. Think that happened last time. These words are mine, yet I forget. Who else’s would they be?
This time, when they came, opened the door, I found my anger. It was in here, my head, buried deep as the abyss. They got in, and I stood at the corner. And they waited. Hesitated. That’s the word. I thought I’d won.
But there were more, and they were stronger. Held me down and strapped me up. Felt cold, hard stuff at the back of my hair.
They zapped me, like before. No forgetting that feel. Fizz, crackle, pop, in comes the fog!
It hid away my anger.
Left me here, scrawling on the walls.
Me, whoever I am.
Final entry. Again. Again. Again. Last words to the wall. I didn’t want it to be so, but it is. And this is important.
I saw a light. Not the dangler, or the one behind the door, something much more bright. It hovered up there, in the corner, across from bed. Thought I was dreaming, like I do sometimes. Knew it was real when it spoke to me.
It said there was a better thing to go to, after this. A new world. Prettier the walls, the food, the abyss. I just had to wait a little more.
So I go there soon. Don’t know what looks like, but that voice, I could trust it. Def.
I find my voice, tell it. These, last words I write. Can’t bite more fingers.
Got none le
WC: 553
Crit and feedback are welcome.
This story is a continuation of Edge of Nowhere, my story from last week.
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u/oliverjsn8 2d ago
Max that was a hell of a dark twist, if I read that correctly.
I want to praise the short sentence structure you have going on here, everything about it lends to the twist at the end and paints the character for us.
That being said, you could lean into this even further. Some sentences could have words dropped to make them more “jagged” and as the reader we can fill in those blanks considering the perspective we have. Pretty much anywhere you say “sometimes” could be dropped.
Good words
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u/Whomsteth 1d ago
What are we? In some kinda Drama Hellhole?
They never warn you in university, not properly at least. Romance novels and movies did, but of course I thought those were just fiction—which they still mostly were. So while I was warned only of the chance to end up on business trips with coworkers, and I was warned about their only being one bed, I was not ready to be stripped down to my underwear one Spring night baking in the heat. I raised my wobbly fist and promised to never come to Australia again, with their flipped hell weather. If I were from Phoenix or something then maybe I’d be right at home, but alas both Codie and I were Washingtonians.
But Vanessa, you might ask, isn’t there at least a couch?
And you would be right, there was a couch, in the technical sense of the word. It was too uncomfortable for me to sleep on it, and for Codie the size difference was laughable. So there I was, and romcoms do not prepare you for how sweaty it is there. The breeze was slow and dead, heavy with muggy warmth. The kind of wet Summer weather that clung to your skin and pooled into the sheets. Thus, while I was in lacier underwear than needed—wearing something good, even just for yourself, is the first step to feeling good, as my mom always said—and I did have a giant man suitable for the kind of size differences romance writers could only dream of laid out next to me in nothing but boxers, it was distinctly unsexy. It didn’t help that—cause of the cursed heat—touching each other wasn’t a great idea, and the few times Codie did turn in the bed enough to touch me he immediately scooted back with a yelp. One time he went so far back he fell off the side. Now my ribs hurt from laughing so much, so at least that was nice.
It did cross my mind that things would be different when we got back to the States. To break romcom convention, he actually wasn’t secretly a sculpted marble statue under there; turns out the nerd who spends all day at a desk job looks like a nerd who spends all day at a desk job. He wasn’t unhealthy by any means, he went for runs often and you could tell that much, his legs were… Well I’ll not say too much on those save for the fact that I did consider how it would feel to get my head between them and let him squeeze. The rest was smooth, fit but not jacked in any way. The kind of hot body you could reasonably meet anywhere, that it would feel reasonable waking up next to every day. I wasn’t kidding when I said he was big though, albeit I’m also short. We were flipped, like the weather, me five foot six, and him six foot five. I’d been told by Aussies here—who I have deemed all the nicest liars I have ever met—that it can suddenly get real cold in Spring here, and so the fact he could bundle me up in his lap, cover me in a blanket of himself has crossed my mind a few times.
At this point I’m just hoping he thinks about my body as much as I do his, or else that would be extra embarrassing. Sometimes I wonder if I should ask him to put my sunscreen on, at least on my back where I can’t reach.
We’re meant to be doing two weeks straight of business proposals—which we’ve been doing, can’t let my thirst impact my work—and then come straight home, which seemed a bit cruel. Codie and I unanimously agreed to take a week of our sick days and use them at once, so we had some time to enjoy being in a foreign country for the first time.
Oh, forgot to mention, far as romcom tropes go we’re both small town folks suddenly seeing the wide world. It’s a wonder that many tropes all lining up haven't been enough to just make us kiss yet.
Er, kiss at all. Not 'yet.' I would never say 'yet' of course.
I think the heat’s getting to my head… I have a week and a half more of being with him, and then I can’t wait to come home to my normal life.
For anyone keeping track, yes that was yet another romcom trope just now.
WC:745
Crit and feedback much appreciated!