The dogs lay panting in the heat, the long hair of their bellies thick with sand. Verity Prudence carried over a ladle of water to cool them. “Don’t.” Faith Mercy put up a hand. “It’ll freeze before it dries.” With great care, Verity returned the ladle to its barrel and replaced the leather cover, fitting it snug against the wood. Father Nehemiah continued his invocations while the camel drivers primed the mechanism that would open the first gate. “They say you’ve walked in paradise longer than anyone else,” said Verity, after a pause. “That you’ve beheld our god.” “They lie,” Faith replied. “This place is no paradise, and what you seek is no god.” “Shhhh!” Brother Mehujael shot her a panicked look, then glanced back at Father Nehemiah. “Let him find some other guide if he doesn’t like it!” Faith snapped. “I’ll bring you to the beast, but I’ll not kneel before it myself.” There was an uncomfortable silence. It was Verity who broke it: “Then you’ve seen Him?” “Never from closer than the
“I shall now make the first ever trip through the device,” announced Jeremy Jerickson. “Only to the employee break room, but trust me: it’s more impressive than it sounds.” There was a flutter of laughter from the small crowd assembled. Jeremy hit the button, waited while the glowing blue energy field coalesced in front of him, then stepped through. There was a loud pop. He found himself in a bright, cloudy landscape. In front of him were a pair of vast pearlescent gates, with an old bearded man in a robe standing behind a podium nearby. “Uh-oh,” said Jeremy, as realisation dawned. Saint Peter looked up from the book in front of him. His eyes widened. “Uh-oh!” “Wait,” said Jeremy. “Why are you so worried?” There was a loud pop. “Tadaaa!” announced Jeremy Jerickson, holding aloft his favourite mug. Then he looked around. “Uh-oh.” Jeremy Jerickson stared at Jeremy Jerickson. “That’s why,” sighed Saint Peter, rubbing his temples. Jeremy reached out a finger and cautiously poked it into
I Forced a Bot To Watch 1,000 Hours of Cop Films by DamonWakes, literature
Literature
I Forced a Bot To Watch 1,000 Hours of Cop Films
Jimmy Fistnipples walks into the chief’s office like a badass. He is so much a badass that his nipples are fists. In case you were wondering. “Jimmy Fistnipples,” says the chief, slamming his palms on the desk so hard they sprout coconuts. “Why is it that whenever I put you on a case, you are doing the property damage? Stop that at once!” Jimmy Fistnipples’ cigarette lights a cigarette. Smoking is not allowed indoors, but Jimmy’s cigarette doesn’t care: it is the seventies, so it is allowed. “error:” says Jimmy Fistnipples, “fistnipples_dialogue_model.txt not found in /home/damon/Documents/GPT3-cop-project” “I don’t care if it gets results. It’s against regulations!” The chief slams his palms against the desk again. One of their pots cracks. “If you do same next time, I’ll have to ask you to turn your badge into your gun.” Jimmy Fistnipples says nothing. He is played by Clint Eastwood, who is played by a CGI Mila Kunis motion captured by Andy Serkis, who was duct taped to the actual
“Has Harry told you about tulpas yet?” “That Spanish thing?” Ryan had seen a restaurant in town. “I dunno if it’s Spanish, but it’s like…” Anton leaned in closer “…an imaginary friend! Like he’s gonna think about this anime girlfriend really hard—he’s way into anime—and that’ll make her real. It’s way sad!” “Yeah, sounds weird.” It did sound sad, but Ryan hadn’t actually heard Harry say any of this. He wasn’t even positive he knew who Harry was, except that he strongly suspected he was the fat guy with the Bleach t-shirt. “You here for pre-drinks?” asked Anton. “No, I’m…” Ryan had been thinking of heading down to the club later, but since it was 4pm and Anton already had a Strongbow he got the feeling this might be one of those days they never made it out of the communal kitchen. “Was there a torch in here?” “Don’t think so.” Ryan spotted it by the microwave and picked it up. “What do you want with that anyway?” “Gotta grab a book for ‘Literature in Translation,’ but all the
FFM 2017, July 31 - And He Danced by Wolfrug, literature
Literature
FFM 2017, July 31 - And He Danced
The dynamophonic music reverberated through the factory hall, the sound it produced so unlike anything Verney had every heard before. It made him think of the rhythmic thump of the mechanical loom. The pneumatic hiss of a washer. The chugga-chugga of a great locomotive. It was the sound of industry, a new kind of music, that the Revolutionaries, the Gunpowder Plotters, the Unionists and Socialists, listened to.
In the east wing of the factory, next to the old furnace, loomed the Telharmonium itself - the thumping, wheezing, singing monstrosity that was producing the cacophony in the hall. The furnace had been repurposed to feed the beast. Ve
Flash Fiction Month 2021: Golden Mug Awards! by Flash-Fic-Month, journal
Flash Fiction Month 2021: Golden Mug Awards!
You'd almost given up hope, but here it is at last... These last couple of months have broken our hearts and maimed our limbs, but at last the (slightly worse for wear) Hydra have crawled back from the brink to deliver unto you the final FFM 2021 announcements. After great delay, and many hours of toil and judgement, we are delighted to bring you winners of the SECOND annual Golden Mug Awards!! (On account of Eclipse, this is best viewed on a computer; we can't guarantee the behavior of formatting gremlins in any other format. ) After last year's success with the inaugural Golden Mug Awards (or GMA's for the cool kids) we wanted to go big, and go bold! We asked the community for suggestions, and stocked the category shelves to the brim, and well... honestly we all probably got a little carried away. :giggle: But we have no regrets! We're going to start things off with the returning categories from last year, and then we'll dive into the new story/genre specific categories.
FFM21.29 - Take Shelter by The-Inkling, literature
Literature
FFM21.29 - Take Shelter
The rain was relentless, heavy sheets of water sweeping across the city in a grey deluge that showed no sign of letting up. The gutters and storm drains had long since overflowed, broken streams of water pouring from every rooftop, and waterspout onto the cobbled streets below. Lightning broke the sky in jagged arcs, thunder rattling the glass in the windows before subsiding with a low animal growl. In older parts of the city where the ground had subsided pedestrians had to wade through ankle-deep water, their black umbrellas swooping across the street like a murmuration of swallows as people ran for shelter on higher ground. Amrita waited beneath the overhang of an old alms-house, water dripping from the brim of her black hat as her fingers nervously turned the small object in her waistcoat pocket; over and over, round and round, as she waited and watched. If she looked north Amrita could just make out the bulk of the Telegraph Hub, squatting above the city like some bloated
This sword in my hands, the edge of my self. Would that cutting myself upon it would allow their safety—why, sweet sky and rain, why can the teeth of the world not leave these people alone—would that a cut, any cut, could grant me the power to protect them all. So I kneel, in the storm that turns to shards of ice. The gods of the world give so little. My blood only buys so much time. Why is it—that the world must always find a victim—someone to push off the cliff—someone to burn—someone to bury and fertilize the soil upon which they grow their fields—the foundation of all society, the ones pushed away. For the crimes of their ancestors, they must not be permitted to live. Never mind that the only crime their ancestors ever committed was to bring them here. To cross a border with sweat and blood. The sharks always smell blood. But this world is not the water—is not the great wilds—is not beasts who in all their seeming cruelty seek only to survive— Truly, to be human is worse
FFM 2021 Challenge Winners! by Flash-Fic-Month, journal
FFM 2021 Challenge Winners!
At last we are here to reveal the challenge winners of Flash Fiction Month 2021! To be eligible for the community-funded prize pool, writers needed to have completed all 31 days and all 14 challenges. Each week we asked you to choose your best and brightest challenge stories. These stories were submitted to various rounds of judging, where they poked and prodded, and their little story hearts were weighed on Anubis' scales to discover if they were +/- the weight of a feather. You know, all the standard stuff. For the thirteenth year running Flash Fiction Month is proud to reveal four overall winners based on the total challenge scores for the entirety of the month! The numbers have been tallied, and the tallies have been numbered, and now they have become sentient and started singing the praises of various writers. It's all a bit alarming to be honest. (On account of Eclipse, this is best viewed on a computer; we can't guarantee the behavior of formatting gremlins in any other
FFM 2021 Day 27: Paper Scars by WizardandGalaxy, literature
Literature
FFM 2021 Day 27: Paper Scars
Lily’s hands catch on The Ephemeral’s essence, pulling it between her fingers and up her wrist. Her skin tingles and pricks. “Must you go?” They stare without eyes, chilling her down to her bones, then respond in that singing, buzzing screech. Meaning settles in her chest, several moments later. She sighs. “Will I at least see you again?” They tilt their facsimile of a head and give another warbling reply. One of uncertainty. The beginnings of blood pool in Lily’s ears. She bites her lip, then tips forward and buries her face in the shape of them. Everything prickles, as though they were a cloud of skittish paper butterflies, or the barest start of snowfall. The Ephemeral hums, the softest sound she’s ever heard them make. And then they are gone, and she sits alone in her bedroom, with nothing but cuts along her skin and the ever growing dark.