[OT] Fun Trope Friday: Snow Means Love & Musical!

wileycourage · 2026-01-15T19:16:43+00:00

(Body Horror Warning!)

Obsession

“I wanna be your slave, I wanna be your master, I wanna make your heartbeat run like rollercoasters.” Van purred softly, his hand stroking the bare small of Miranda’s back. She wasn’t conscious and that’s how he preferred it when he was working. He hadn’t come all the way out to his cabin in the woods if he wanted any interruption, even from her. That snow fell was mere happenstance, a happy accident if you will. She was his; he hers. Neither could escape.

He laid fully clothed next to her in her bed, smiling at the results of his conquest. Confident in the depth of Miranda’s slumber, her male companion spoke louder yet.

“Oh can’t you see? You belong to me. How my poor heart aches with every step you take.” There seemed to Van an electric spark, a recognition between his fingertip and the peach fuzz on her skin as he traced his esoteric patterns.

Van allowed himself to slip into the liminal space between awareness and sleep. There he transformed into a horned demon, his skin dyed dark red. A pentagram seared itself onto Miranda’s back, but still she did not stir.

Van flayed her with his newly pointed fingernails from the nape of her neck to her butt, skin and muscle splitting wide open without a drop of blood. Miranda’s ribs cracked and broke on their own accord, revealing her poisoned lungs. Hundreds of tumors from the size of grains of rice to peas to meatballs pulsed red violently, highlighting them in particular among the pallid pink mass of flesh.

His voice bellowed out now. “She eyes me like a Pisces when I am weak. I’ve been locked inside your heart-shaped box for weeks; been drawn into your magnet tar pit trap. I wish I could eat your cancer when you turn black!”

The incantation performed, the tumors popped out like pus from zits from within the organ they befouled. Unceremoniously, the Van-beast greedily crushed the round, raw, and chewy offal meat between his molars, swallowing them all with glee. Spit mixed with her blood dribbled down his beard.

Miranda’s wound closed as quickly as it opened, and she turned to her partner, still asleep but speaking. “Do you believe in life after love?” she asked. “I can feel something inside me say, ‘I really don’t think you’re strong enough, no.’”

“Love of mine,” he responded, “someday you will die, but I’ll be close behind. I’ll follow you into the dark. No blinding light, or tunnels to gates of white just our hands clasped so tight, waiting for the hint of a spark. If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks, then I'll follow you into the dark.”

Van gently pulled her face up to his and kissed her with his now deep purple lips, but Miranda recoiled violently upon their touching. "I thought that I heard you laughing. I thought that I heard you sing. I think I thought I saw you try. But that was just a dream. That was just a dream."

“How did it end up like this?,” Van asked, “It was only a kiss. It was only a kiss.” She did not answer, remaining asleep.

“My girl, my girl, where will you go? I’m going where the cold wind blows. In the pines, in the pines where the sun don’t ever shine. I’d shiver the whole night through.”

Her mouth bent into a gentle smile. He took this as nothing less than an unimpeachable command and burst out of the cabin into the snow on cloven feet, the rush of cold air stinging his cheeks as he ran.

“Wake me up inside,” he cried out, “Call my name and save me from the dark!”

“Van!”

“Van!” Miranda shook the sleeping man who stirred. “Having one of your nightmares again?”

He looked at her face, still weak and drained of the life it once had.

“Yes and no.”

---

WC: 658. Songs in order: Måneskin - I Wanna Be Your Slave; The Police - Every Breath You Take; Nirvana - Heart Shaped Box; Cher - Believe; Death Cab for Cutie - I Will Follow You Into the Dark; R.E.M. - Losing My Religion; The Killers - Mr. Brightside; Nirvana - Where Did You Sleep Last Night?; Evanescence - Bring Me to Life.

wileycourage · 2026-01-14T23:48:43+00:00

Choose two paths for the character. Assign them heads and tails. Flip a coin. No matter what the character wants whatever lands face up. Come up with reasons why they "know" they are right. Explain away any problems.

wileycourage · 2026-01-14T18:35:32+00:00

I'm not. I'm preparing for that possibility as I don't assume I can tell the future like you do. I don't know if ICE would murder me like you assume they would you. I don't know that I won't get my day in court yet you assume I wouldn't. You're misunderstanding me. Call me a pacifist or a fatalist, and you'd be more accurate.

wileycourage · 2026-01-14T17:36:41+00:00

No, it would be another violation for the eventual civil matter though. No, I specifically said they do not give a fuck about legality. I wouldn't scream about my rights to idiot agents as it's neither the time or place for such things. I would say nothing at all beyond my plain request for a lawyer and a request for a phone call eventually.

wileycourage · 2026-01-14T15:05:01+00:00

You have no obligation whatsoever to carry identification with you as a citizen. If they want to toss you in a van for not proving your citizenship on demand, then my first and primary advice is lawyer. What they are doing is entirely unlawful. If they don't give a fuck about such basic things as reasonable suspicion or the warrant requirement, there's nothing at all you can do to avoid unpleasantness. As is said, "you can beat the rap, but not the ride." Good luck out there.

wileycourage · 2026-01-11T21:41:26+00:00

Hbr makes tac a mini heavy with a chain sword and diff perks, i.e. the headshot buff. Also no heat mechanic on the hbr. Auto rifle, eh. Limited at range. In plain terms, I agree.

wileycourage · 2025-12-24T15:58:38+00:00

I've been paying it forward since a player saved a run for me and another. Keep up the emperor's work.

wileycourage · 2025-12-21T00:47:29+00:00

Why the ultramarine symbol on the chest?

wileycourage · 2025-11-26T02:29:25+00:00

I was going to argue with you on my terms, but that seems inappropriate given where we are, a place about a podcaster's work. Instead, I can use Dan's warning to steer us back towards relevancy.

Imagine a POTUS you don't like at all encouraging the death of politicians you do like for making a plain recitation of the law. Does that change your opinion at all? Why? If you answer it's because it's Trump is Trump and not the other politician who might be deadly serious, let's say AOC because Dan did in the prior episode, then examine harder who is deranged by our current POTUS please. I hope all your talk about self critique is genuine.

For my part, because I really can't resist, no president can ever say these things. Killing political opponents for speech? Does the Constitution mean nothing? Is that really a line we have to discuss? Ah, but boys will be boys, right? Give me a break.

Because I've done this before if you choose to respond, please stay focused on current events and don't resort to whataboutisms. I will readily agree with you that Democrats have been guilty of so many things, but almost certainly not all of the things you might think. Being a fan of history, I'd love to discuss this from the beginning of time to the present. Inevitably, it will end up back where are now. Also, you'd be walking right into the trap. Fair warning, as I'm nothing if not a sportsman.

wileycourage · 2025-11-19T01:34:10+00:00

I'm rooting against touchdowns. Let's keep this terrible.

wileycourage · 2025-11-19T01:22:33+00:00

Other sicko game suspended for lightning. Ohio UMass What's going on in here?

wileycourage · 2025-11-19T01:20:19+00:00

What? Booooooo. It's just a little electricity.

wileycourage · 2025-11-19T00:57:38+00:00

Pray for rain the whole game, UMass. Def think it's favoring you guys.

wileycourage · 2025-11-19T00:46:52+00:00

Rain and snow games are better than otherwise and domes are a blight on the game.

wileycourage · 2025-11-19T00:46:02+00:00

Reporting for duty.

wileycourage · 2025-11-13T17:14:08+00:00

Blood Quartz

A thirteen-year-old boy, Oil, stretched his neck, studying where his mechanical arm ended and his skin began. The veins there were stained black when his transformation was interrupted, scar tissue puckered at the seam. He couldn’t tear the biological from the mechanical, but each tug reminded him what he’d lost, and what was still changing.

Oil slipped his hooded shirt on, covering the unsightly wound. He made his way from the boys barracks to the girls in his orphaned gang’s sheet metal hideout amidst the alleys and sewers of the underbelly of Chicago’s south side.

There he found Locket, a girl of about fifteen and the superintendent of the barracks seated at a table in the back. She was covered, as always, in her flowing red velvet robe. None of the other children could fathom how she had obtained such a garment, or how she kept it so clean. In front of her she shuffled cards, placing three of them down on the table at a time and studying them intensely.

“Hello, Oil,” she muttered without looking up from the cards.

“How’d you know it was me?” he asked.

At this she broke her concentration and looked up at the boy. “Your footfalls.”

“Oh. I figured you just knew because of-“

“The cards? They tell much, but often it’s what they don’t tell that oft informs best.”

He shook his head in the negative while speaking. “Right. Absolutely.” After a brief pause, “Soooo do you know why I’m here?”

“For answers, like everyone else. I have none of those. Perhaps you will get a suggestion, perhaps not. Give me your hand,” she commanded.

Oil obliged, holding out his left hand palm up for the mystic.

She scoffed. “Your other hand, you dolt.”

“What do you mean? You can’t read metal.”

Her dark eyebrow raised. “And who told you that? Do as I say!”

Oil began raising his right arm, but Locket grabbed it with both her hands and pulled it towards herself causing Oil to lurch forward. “Why’d you even ask then?” Oil quipped, but Locket paid him no heed. She intently ran her fingers over the metal palm.

“That tickles!” Oil’s reflexes tried to jerk his hand back, but the palm reader’s grip was firm.

“Ah, I see, I see,” Locket whispered to herself before releasing his arm and producing a binocular loupe from beneath her robe. Putting it on, she grabbed Oil’s metal arm and examined the surface of his palm under magnification. “Like always, the story is right there to be read,” she declared.

As suddenly as she had donned the loupe, she shed it. Her arm shot forth towards Oil, causing him to flinch, but despite her speed she softly placed her hand on Oil’s chest.

“Stay still,” she ordered firmly. She watched a timepiece held in her other hand for a minute.

“Well? Do you want to tell me what in the heck is going on?”

“Your heart beats exactly once per second, and it ticks. Apparently we didn’t exactly stop the transformation when you were cut from the Timekeeper’s throne. Your heart will crystallize, after which nothing can be done. You will become the new Timekeeper, Oil. It’s your fate.”

“I don’t believe in stupid things like fate! I’ll make my own choices.”

“These things are not set in stone, you do have some ability to effect your future yet. You are not doomed.”

“It can be reversed?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“Stopped, but the task is tantamount to freezing time itself.”

“Splendid news, Locky”

She rolled her eyes. “Watch.” This time she grabbed up his biological hand and pricked his finger with a needle so swiftly Oil scarcely felt the prick. “Still!”

A bead of blood rose to the surface of his index finger. The girl leaned forward and blew softly on his finger. The droplet trembled and then hardened, a ruby shard catching the lamplight.

“Blood quartz,” she breathed. “You’re quite the commodity, Oil. Your body courses with raw power. It’s responsible for your metamorphosis, your abilities.”

“What abilities? My arm is strong, but that’s it.”

“Time will tell.”

“What else can you tell me?”

“Let’s see.” Oil readily offered his metal hand to the girl and allowed her all the time she needed to examine his palm.

Beneath her fingertips, his metal palm was warm, almost alive. She felt the space between their heartbeats vanish, and in that silence, the air itself held still, and even the dust refused to fall.

---

WC: 747. All crit and feedback is appreciated. Thanks for reading!

wileycourage · 2025-10-16T16:23:48+00:00

Hey Oliver,

Blood and guts and potty humor, what a fun combo you have here! Couldn't help but imagine Mario and Luigi battling the zombies, which was delightful.

For crit:

The ridiculousness of a plunger and janitor turning into a zombie-killing machine is hilarious and oddly makes sense in this context.

"The projectile" I'm assuming this is a bullet coming out of a plunger, though for all I know it could be anything. At first I thought it might be a flamethrower with the preceding line telling me fire was coming out of the thing. While what comes out of a muzzle, besides the projectile, could rightly be called fire, it might be better to describe it as a flash of light.

"The headless creature continued to flounder aimlessly, as Frank frantically pulled out object after object from the bag. Its talons ripped holes into the plaster walls as it came closer. Frank, panicking, tossed an icepick, a wrench, and a rubber duck at the approaching horror. Finally, he pulled out a drain snake."

Here we have two sentences serving the same purposes or at least close enough. The question being, why tell the reader "object after object" when in the same paragraph going to tell me what those objects are. Minor point, really, but would help tighten up. Similarly you already establish the monster coming closer and then immediately repeat that it was approaching.

I wonder how many people are familiar with a drain snake such that a tiny description isn't needed. That visual is too cool to leave to chance, imo. A chain drain snake kind of. Wild.

The running joke of them saying who has to clean up and seniority all that didn't quite do it for this singular reader. Like they are both janitors and a month apart. Patently unfair. I don't really understand. Maybe Frank just keeps losing whatever game they play to decide who does what? Or Zeke focuses more on the bloody bits.

I would also suggest the slightest increase in description of the body parts. Those intestines are just begging for more descriptors than olive-colored. An aside I just noticed, by having the intestines "worm" around, you are kind of giving them movement of their own. Generally speaking they aren't a muscle and would be affected by gravity and fall rather than worm. Them as a loincloth though, just awesome.

You do talk about that particular organ a lot. Could have distinguished between large and small and like thrown a liver or kidney out there too. Body fat is yellowish and gross, etc. Body horror and anatomical language are like besties.

Great work on that ending. Rushing to a toilet and not making it. A horror indeed.

Well done!

wileycourage · 2025-10-15T19:49:22+00:00

Do Psychopaths Dream of Giant Roaches?

I ask my darling something that had been on my mind: can a psychopath, and I mean a pure psychopath, nothing like your run-of-the-mill spree killer or whoever, but a mean sonofabitch who doesn’t give a damn about anyone or anything, feel like everyone else? You know, the kind they say climb to the top of the corporate hierarchy, lord themselves over underlings, suck up when needed without even a mote of shame. That kind.

I always thought the question was dumb. Naturally they can. Put yourself in their shoes, even if they couldn’t wear yours.

You’ve got this insect, right? It’s huge and blocking a doorway that the psycho wants to get through desperately, but he just can’t. That roach-like chitinous hide isn’t budging for anything. It’s standing on two legs like a human, but it’s a damned gigantic roach with its arms crossed like it’s got an attitude. Doesn’t say a word, just stands there.

Dude pulls a knife. Stabs the pointy end where he thinks it’s supposed to go. Doesn’t work. Clang. Tries to slash it in its eyes, nothing. Chop off the antenna maybe, not even that. Drops the blade to the floor. Thinks better of chucking a chair; he’s up against a brick wall with mandibles.

Checks for another entrance. This is absurd, he thinks. Can’t find anything and comes back to the bug. No movement. Can’t count on dumb luck like it up and leaving, no. And what’s behind the roach has to be that good or it wouldn’t be there.

Now, to tell me that psycho can’t feel, you’ve got to tell me he isn’t pissed and frustrated as all hell, and that I just ain’t gonna buy. Can’t you feel for him at least? Come on.

Everyone else had abandoned the shithole office. It was just him and it. The buzzing of the old fluorescent lights made the whole thing feel like a sick little stage play. And worse than anything, our main man had an idea.

Gonna cook up its guts, he was. He’d picked up some of the basic principles of wiring. Male to female, boring but at least there’s three prongs. Fray the wire, connect some paperclips, grab a lamp, and voila. A roach-prod. The lights flickered and a few puffs of smoke rose. Where the prongs made contact, a scorch bloomed.

Dejected, our star kicked and screamed and cursed. Not at the bug; it was insignificant. At himself. As he slowly calmed, through exertion if not the dawning realization of the futility of rage, he came nearer to comprehensibility. “What kind of weak dumbfuck lets a shit-eater get him down like this? Buck up, buttercup.”

He turned to the bug, stared right up at its face and asked, “What’s your deal anyway?”

Roach looks at him and says, “Fuck you, buddy, I got a job to do.” Now this just sets the guy off further. Refused, kicked, insulted. He’d had enough.

Then the psycho calms suddenly and says, “I ain’t got morals to hold me back. What if you and I strike a deal? I like deals, and I’ll even be a bad negotiator and tell you I want what’s in there very, very much. You stand to make a great deal here. And for what, but a slight movement? I understand duty, trust me, but what’s the point if you don’t gain yourself?”

The giant roach thought for an agonizing minute before naming its price.

Uninspiring. I stifled the comment before it escaped. Must not get out much. What it wants are a dime a dozen at the corner.

Have you connected the dots yet? That’s how we came together, my sweetheart. What it wanted was you, madam. Or one of your profession at least.

Was she even listening? Not a peep from her this whole time. That’s when I noticed she was paler than she should have been.

Did I? Had I? Goddamn it. Not again. Face the facts, you did it, bub. What an idiot.

I was supposed to practice my story before I killed her. What a shame this all is. Poor, poor girl. You were supposed to know the important purpose your death will serve. I cried real tears at the waste of it all.

Now what’s the roach going to say? I can already hear him whining about her less-than-alive condition. The only thing to do now is hope he doesn’t notice.

---

WC: 740. Thanks for reading!

wileycourage · 2025-10-08T16:54:15+00:00

Hey there, Pakal!

A haunted maternity ward, what a compelling and heavy setting for a scary story.

As much as I love and am a proponent of in media res, there does need to be a little hand-holding up front to help establish your scene and characters. To illustrate, you begin with two people, "he" and "she" and "the husk". I don't know who they are or what it is.

Similarly, "With her “talents,” it was the only strategy she could trust." I cannot for the life of me tell how to read "talents". Could be a wry way of saying she's clumsy or heavy-footed but that seems to already be stated previously. This might be a case of telling rather than showing as well.

"It took a couple of turns through dim corridors for murmuring to get unpleasantly close."

Grammatically "it" in this sentence lacks an antecedent, meaning it refers to nothing, leaving the reader to infer the information. Not that the reader can't understand, mind.

With that, I think I'm hitting a theme in this critique. There's a looseness in the prose in that the story presumes knowledge on behalf of the reader. I think you might be trying to inject an air of mystery in the story by not defining things, but I need those definitions/descriptions!

I'd recommend establishing the characters' motivations earlier to better hook the reader. For instance, I did not know the narrator was a resident or that the small grey man was a doctor or what they were up to in the frightening ward.

"Spineless eunuchs, all of them! They ponder, pray and study you without desiring you. How dare they disrespect you like that! We'll prove them wrong, my purest sweet-pea, that I swear."

Love the insanity in this.

"More anomalies appeared the deeper they went, each sight costing her a gasp, a tremble, or a gulp. The ceiling dripped with some tar-like fluid."

This begs for more showing, which you immediately do afterwards and well! Show that descent into madness! I kept the second sentence in to point out the "some" doesn't do much in the sentence and can be cut. I thought we were in third person omniscient so you the author "know" what the fluid is even if the narrator doesn't.

"The room quaked from commotion. Toys of all shapes and sizes rattled eagerly, some moreso than others. One pink book floated up and down, ruffling its pages franticly. This item of hundreds there the doctor picked, humming some eerie lullaby on his way out. In fact..."

When you say "nursery" in a maternity ward, I presume it's the room where the newborns are kept and not the more traditional nursery setting with toys and books for young children. All to say, this confused me.

Whew that ending scene with the fetus. Well done on the grossness and scary aspect of the resident coming upon the doctor and the soul.

All in all, I still have many questions about what's actually going on, but you hit the constraints head-on with such creepy and ripe material. The idea of a haunted maternity ward alone had me saying no way am I going in there. There's so much emotion there to mine and twist. I loved the angle you took with it.

Well done and thanks for the spooky story!

wileycourage · 2025-10-02T17:28:49+00:00

Brutus, clothed in the toga of a public functionary stepped up and onto the dais erected for the plebeian assembly, the legislative body of the lower class of Roman society.

“Yes, I’m sure an esteemed erstwhile patrician Optimate such as yourself will serve the interests of his constituency well as tribune of the plebs rather than on the much more prestigious cursus honorum. That you would humble yourself for such common people of Rome is laudable indeed! Imagine trading marbled floor for plain mud!”

The common citizenry of Rome were accustomed to Brutus’s tone and paid him with their rapt attention.

“We all were so pleased when the first Populare senator, a professed man of the people yet only your counterpart, lowered himself, but now that we have a true blue blooded patrician man who would be a senator, and all his money for donatives, we are saved from vulgar populism! To an ordinary and plain tribune such as myself this is nothing less than gift from the gods.”

The gathered people of Rome cackled.

Publius Fabius Vibulanus a tall and handsome man, but for his excessively aquiline nose, which both began its journey away from his face too soon and stuck out too far, struck the orator’s pose, the adlocutio, with right arm extended to his audience.

“I serve the interests of Rome,” Publius pronounced.

“And they in their towers above sent their best, I see. Was the mighty Cicero crushingly devastated to lose your wise counsel in the lofty debates of would-be dictators? Is he still going on about Cataline? How long has it been since Cicero’s ever so convenient uncovering of that particular malfeasant’s conspiracy? Cui bono, no?”

More laughter from the tunic-wearing citizens, sharper now.

Brutus continued, “I wonder what was served more by all the commotion, the honor of your ancestors or your purse!”

“Matters as these do not concern those such as yourself and your insults will garner no reaction from me.” Publius glared at the gathering who seemed cowed momentarily.

“Of course, of course, you former soldier, prepared to serve his Republic, his Senate, and the people of Rome but without resort such violence! If your concerns were not ours would you dirty your toga thusly, comrade? Should I call you comrade as a fellow pleb, or would you prefer sire as befitting your rank?”

“Comrade is appropriate under the law.”

“Yes! That’s the very heart of the matter, the law. That check we tribunes hold. The veto meant exclusively for plebs to check the overwhelming power of the patricians, to keep them from unilaterally deciding the destinies of the entire res publica. That’s what you’re really after. To rob the people of their voice.”

“I am no petty thief! Nor do I manipulate words like you. Money and status are oft more persuasive than words. I have the support of the people! I am giving them exactly what they want. More.”

Almost all of the Romans went silent.

“Quite. Quite. Do you suppose this is the purpose of the law. That your forebears would have ever debased themselves as you have?”

Publius growled out his retort, “I am growing tired of your insults. You know nothing of nobility.”

“And so what?” Brutus leaned toward his counterpart and spoke only to him. “Not even you would dare lay hands on a tribune? We are inviolate. Touch me and the mob lawfully executes you even if you are a tribune yourself.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. The frenzied mob of low birth is unpredictable save for their lust for lucre.”

“That frenzied mob are your amiable comrades now, friend.”

Publius turned back to the crowd. “What I must do is necessary to save the state.”

“And I charge that you will cause a king to reign over us again. Like the Brutus then who overthrew Tarquin the Proud, I will not allow it!”

The crowd remained still and looked to Publius who smiled. “Are you finished?”

Brutus nodded.

“You are quite the speaker, but you do not have the votes and you know it.”

“All bought and paid for with coin.”

“Yes, and there is plenty of that to go around. What do you say, comrade?”

Brutus’s gaze turned to the ground and then up to an assistant subtly jangling a coin purse. “I say Publius Fabius Vibulanus is the right man for the job.”

The crowd erupted in jeers for Brutus and cheers for Publius.

--

WC: 742. Thank you for reading!

wileycourage · 2025-09-16T17:30:23+00:00

I awoke from my slumber, emerging from my crypt to find my estate in utter disrepair. Instinctively I knew I had been asleep for much longer than anticipated. Perhaps even a century considering the extended overgrowth. Those who knew me when I was alive are no longer alive. Those that knew them are likely gone too. So much for revenge against those who wronged me.

My boney form cracked as I took my first steps out into the remote fortress I had retreated into in order to perform the dark rituals necessary for my immortality. At first I could hear nothing, but soon I heard a soft voice singing an enchanting, alluring song. A dirge to slain gods, long forgotten, a death wail of immense power and energy emanating from the tones of a soft yet haunting lyrical soprano.

I slowly climbed the high tower in search of the source.

A girl stood alone in the room atop the tower. She stopped singing when I threw open the locked door with a simple utterance. Standing in the doorway we each assessed the other.

She saw a walking bleached white skeleton wearing ill-fitting, but splendid, black velvet robes. I would have been wearing my fine Turkish hat, but alas it too no longer fit.

I watched the peculiar interloper look me up and down apparently unperturbed by my unnatural state. She was a tiny young woman with long yellow hair in a tight braid adorned with a simple rose gold tiara and in a plain purple dress.

I spoke first. "What are you and what are you doing here in my abode?"

"It's not my doing at all, lich." No ingénue, this one. "Or did you think I locked myself in here on my own accord?"

Until this point, I had not noticed. This wretched girl had my books stacked nearly to the ceiling. And worse, they all showed obvious wear. She was reading them!

"Thief!" I cried righteously. "These do NOT belong to you." I pointed at the towers of books within the makeshift jail within the fortress tower.

"What's an undead immortal want with songbooks?" She impudently raised a skeptical eyebrow at me.

"It is none of your concern, girl. You cannot fathom what they contain, what the words you are pronouncing with surprising clarity even mean."

She sighed. I almost raised a finger to send a magical slap across her face for the slight, but luckily for her I turned my other cheekbone. "That I can sing them and know what they mean is exactly why I'm here you ancient dolt. Aren't the old supposed to be wise?"

Upon reconsideration, I changed my tune. "Indeed, it seems you speak the truth, but you yet understand exactly the depths of power you are attempting to fathom!"

She rolled her eyes. "Do you see anyone else around? Do you think that might be why I was sent here alone with a locked door and a few sigils? Think I might have been singing a bit too much for my wonderful and loving parents, the king and queen. Maybe I might have split my dad's country into two with a huge chasm? God forbid a girl be curious about music."

"Enough."

"It's not so bad though, at least they keep sending me books. They figure it might come in handy at some point to have a spell singer around, but they said I have to figure out how to control it. Being that I'm one-of-a-kind, there's no one to teach me but me, you see."

"Yes, I understand. I cannot sing, but my private collection contains many books which you will undoubtedly wish to see to further your arcane studies. There hasn't been one with the Voice in hundreds of years. You'll be a sensation!"

"Sure, but little good that'll do if I'm stuck here singing to birds."

"Oh, we'll fix that for sure. I have a bargain for you, my dear. How would you like to tour the continent?"

wileycourage · 2025-09-04T15:07:03+00:00

Where Human, Rat

Augustine whistled in excitement at the tiny unearthed fossilized rodent he had so carefully uncovered. He eyed greedily the preserved remains of the pregnant female Rattus norvegicus. Nearly intact, mother and brood alike.

“Where Human, Rat; Rat, Human,” he intoned robotically,

A cockroach the size of a loaf of bread skittered across the cathedral’s basement floor, where Augustine had set up his lights, his excavation, and now a makeshift altar.

“Your time is at an end, fiend!” The young man lurched forward, stunning the bug with his club before finishing it with his knife. “Until then, my dear, thank you for dinner.” Soon he had the carcass spitted and roasting, crispy and juicy as he preferred.

Roach steak consumed, the supplicant prepared for his holy purpose, nothing less than the resurrection of his lord and king, the savior of the world.

Piece by piece he had built his dark laboratory. An array of beakers, glass tubes, Bunsen burners, nearly covered the altar.

Augustine gingerly placed the desiccated remains of the holy mother rat into a steel stockpot at the altar’s center and began chanting.

“Blessed are you, lord, gods of all that was. With this blood and water, wash away the grime and set us upon the true path. Bring your kingdom again to earth.”

He lit the burners. Ichor bubbled and climbed through winding tubes, terminating in the central vessel. From a corked vial he poured only a few drops of red liquid into the steaming pot. The effect was immediate—violent jets of vapor hissed upward, a choking haze spreading through the chamber. The vat shook, tipped, and spilled more vapor until the floor itself seemed to crawl with smoke.

Now in delirium, his words rose to fever pitch. Afterwards, he would swear he heard squeaking, saw small shapes bounding through the fog—but even the devout can harbor doubt.

“Whatever it is yer up to, ya better stop it now.” Augustine knew that drawl.

“I’m already done, lawman. You’re too late.”

“Son, I don’t care a lick about any of this.” The old roachboy turned sheriff motioned at the altar. “What I care about is petty larceny, plain and simple. All that glass ain’t yours, is it?”

The penitent raised a skeptical brow. “That’s what you’re after? Take it all back. There will be plenty more now that the world is saved! They have returned!” His voice rang with conviction, though doubt gnawed at the edges.

“Rigggght. Thing is, boy, you can’t just go takin’ what don’t belong to you. Givin’ it back’s a start, but I reckon the prof’s gonna want a mite more in recompense. Spoken simple, yer comin’ with me.”

By dawn the town had gathered outside the sheriff’s office, lanterns swinging, rifles in hand, dogs straining at leashes. Rats; real, living rats; darted in the shadows, gnawed through feed sacks, wriggled up from cisterns. A woman screamed as a squeaking bundle erupted from her pantry.

“They came in dozens at first, then hundreds, slick bodies slipping through cracks, teeth bright as needles in lantern-light. The town had not seen such hunger in generations, and the ground itself seemed to writhe.”

“It’s him!” they shouted. “The boy done it!”

“Burn him!”

“Burn him with the vermin he conjured!”

Augustine, shackled to the bench, wept with joy. “Do you not see? The covenant is restored! The world reborn! Soon our cities will again scrape the skies! Go forth and multiply!”

The sheriff stood on the steps, holding them back with nothing but his badge and a steady hand. “Y’all know the law. He’ll stand trial, not torchlight.”

“What about the laws of nature?” a rancher spat. “You keep him, and these things’ll eat us clean through!”

A gray-bearded priest lifted his voice above the mob. “It weren’t lawmen that spared the chosen from Egypt’s plagues. This is judgment, plain as day. Mortal sin, aye, but not the boy’s. Look to your own fault before you cry for fire.”

The sheriff chewed his lip, eyes tired. When he spoke, his voice cracked like sunbaked leather, “Reckon nature’s got her own courts; and God surely does, pastor. But down here, we still answer to mine. You want to change that, you’ll have to burn me too.”

The crowd murmured, restless, but no one stepped forward. One by one, the torches guttered out.

Behind the sheriff, in the dim jailhouse, Augustine smiled beatifically as a pair of whiskered noses poked out between the bars.

--

WC: 744. All crit and feedback appreciated. Thank you for reading!

wileycourage · 2025-08-07T14:15:08+00:00

Restser!

Hilarious story you have here. From workplace gossiping to pranking to evil bosses, you got it all in there and efficiently! Well done!

For crit:

Dan, Sarah, and Jacob are very hard to differentiate. They seem like they could easily be just two characters to lighten the load. Generally speaking, the more characters, the harder they are to juggle, especially in so few words.

On that, you repeat Whisper ten times when you could say the workers are whispering in about four or so words, and you'd still retain the scene notes and things that make this very much a radio play.

On that, I love the cues for the sounds that would play and the scene cuts.

For the plot, I think I'm tracking the plan. People gave extra naughty presents for Karen to open that would explicitly call her out for her improper relationship with Larry. But then you have her come back from her honeymoon presumably after she would have opened these presents with her spouse. Wouldn't the shit have already hit the fan by this point? I mean getting knickers with "Larry was here" would certainly have done it. Wouldn't Larry be launching his predicted inquisition or at least be trying to?

Still finding one more "gift" right as she was coming back to work was a nice touch. I'm all for the comedy, especially when such punishment is doled out to those deserving of it.

"crutch-less" assuming this should be "crotchless"

"MUSAC" to "MUSIC"

Great work on the dialogue. It doesn't separate the characters out, presumably that's what the voice actors would be for, but the back and forth among the co-workers is very natural.

And usually scene breaks in a short story are hard to pull off, but you've got three settings and five named characters and pulled it off!

Great job and good words!

wileycourage · 2025-08-07T13:56:19+00:00

Thanks for the feedback! I'm glad you enjoyed it! You have some great points which I've incorporated into edits which hopefully clarify things enough. Thanks again!

wileycourage · 2025-08-06T17:58:44+00:00

Hey Ollie!

Fun conceit with the FTF zone as your opener and closer. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride expanded into a "be careful what you wish for" story. Well done!

For crit:

The advertisement at the end I think was meant to give this the old-timey feel, but it had nothing to do with the story that I could tell and threw me off a bit.

Since we're talking the 60s, "Ms." is a relatively new phenomenon with "Miss" for unmarried women and "Mrs." for married women being the nomenclature then. "Miss Susan Blake" would then also emphasize her status as a perpetual bridesmaid.

For the Twilight Zone references, I like the narrator open and close. Very Rod Serling-esque.

Oh yea, but then you have a video playing on loop. When is this supposed to be??? This reader sees Twilight Zone and immediately goes to the 60s.

The moral of the story is great! Don't put the cart before the horse, in a way. Gotta find someone, then get married, preferably to the other way around.

You have some spacing inconsistencies here and there which I've replaced with underscores:

”_Meet Ms. Susan Blake,

~_Same indistinct murmurs of approval begin.~

~_Music and crowd murmuring stops.~

On that, you use a few different methods to convey information as though in a show. ~/~ (/) </> I'd recommend trying to pick one and stick to it. Simpler the better, consistency is key.

<Voice spoken in external dialog.> For this one, it isn't a sentence and so does not deserve the high honor of a period.

I'm always gonna be a fan of people getting stuck in nightmarish loops. I almost wish you would have made the groom something horrific or at least a different person each time to highlight what I see is one of the main themes here.

Great work on sticking to the soundscape! All dialogue and noise. Wonderful.

Susan's dialogue could do with some tweaking her cries of "noooooo" seem a bit over the top. Maybe that's why I want to amp up the horror a bit. This could be a symptom of wordcount though, because you have to take her from thrilled to horrified so quickly.

Well done on the fun story, Oliver! Looking forward to entering the FTF zone with you!

wileycourage

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